by Ted Allbeury
In the next six months the Nazi hordes took city after city. Brest-Litovsk, Kiev, Kharkov, Rostov and Smolensk. And in mid-October the Soviet Government left Moscow in what looked like the last few days before the Nazis took the city. In North Africa Rommel had taken over the Afrika Korps. Joseph Kennedy, the United States Ambassador to Britain, counselled his government to abandon the British to their fate.
Then in December 1941 two things happened. It was obvious that the Germans were not able to take Moscow against its grim defence. And at the end of the first week the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and the United States was reluctantly in the war.
It was in December that the British allowed the Soviet Union to set up a liaison unit in London. Members of the Red Army gave speeches to workers in munitions factories, negotiators pleaded for more and more supplies of medicines, medical equipment and arms, and propagandists urged an Allied invasion of France. Inevitably there were members of the Soviet liaison unit whose objectives were subversive.
A separate entity was the Soviet Military Mission. And it was the mission that came under the closest scrutiny of the British intelligence services. The mission consisted of representatives of the Soviet Army, Navy and Airforce and they were responsible for exchanging information about their mutual Axis enemies. Orders of Battle, captured documents and military intelligence. The exchanges were so cautious and the two sides so suspicious of each other that little of real help came from the meetings for either side. The fact that the Soviets were willing to maintain the mission in London despite its ineffectiveness was the basis for the British suspicion that some members of the mission had more covert functions. There were seven members of the mission who were suspected of being NKVD officers. The files on the suspects were passed to Joe Shapiro.
Each file had photographs of the suspect and brief details of his movements and contacts during his time in London. It was the file marked Abromov, Nikolai, that had Shapiro’s attention. Not the report itself which had nothing of any real significance. Contacts with journalists, minor politicians and visits to art galleries. It was the photographs that made him stop. Photographs of Abromov with various people. Some identified, some not. But it was the Russian’s face that stayed in his mind. He had seen him somewhere before. His mind went back over his counter-revolutionary groups in Berlin. There was a connection with Berlin. He was almost certain that it was Berlin.
Shapiro decided that he should find some excuse for meeting the man casually, with other people rather than alone, so that his intent was not obvious. It was a week before there was a suitable occasion. An informal get-together so that the mission could meet some of the Eighth Army officers who had started the defeat of Rommel in the desert. The reception was in one of the conference rooms at the War Office, and Shapiro had gone with Johnson and two of Johnson’s colleagues from his old regiment.
The high-ceilinged, panelled room with ornate chandeliers was crowded when they arrived, with much laughter and the usual rounds of toasts already livening things up as the various victories of the two allies were being celebrated in vodka and whisky, one by one. After fifteen minutes slowly circulating among the groups of people Shapiro had not seen the man named Nikolai Abromov. He was thinking of leaving when he saw him. They saw each other in the same moment and neither of them could believe what he saw. Shapiro was in battledress with Intelligence Corps’ green-based major’s crowns on his shoulder straps and the man going under the name of Abromov was wearing his duty green uniform, jacket, breeches and black boots with a full colonel’s three stars on his shoulder bands. But they had both seen the recognition in the other’s eyes.
Shapiro nodded towards the door and the Russian acknowledged the indication. In the empty corridor they stood facing one another.
Shapiro took the proffered hand. “Nice to see you, Zag.”
Zagorsky smiled. “Nice to see you too, young Josef.” He paused. “Can we talk?”
“Of course. Let’s go to my place. It’s not too far away.”
As Shapiro brewed them some tea Zagorsky looked around the room. The white walls bare of any kind of relief or decoration except for three shelves of books. Books in Russian, French, German and English but almost every one covering the history of Russia, from the days of the Tsars to the first year of the war.
When they were sitting in the only two chairs in the room Shapiro said quietly, “Who talks first?”
Zagorsky smiled. “It might as well be me. Or you’ll think I’ve risen from the dead.”
Shapiro said softly, “And I believe you could if you wanted to enough. When I saw you being almost carried out of that courtroom I thought it was all over for you. What the hell happened?”
Zagorsky said, “Your Russian is really excellent, how did you get that good?”
“They sent me to university. Anyway, tell me what happened.”
“What did you think had happened?”
“I only heard rumours. Rumours that you had been shot the same day, rumours that you were in Siberia in a labour-camp. The usual rumours one hears in these cases.”
“They were going to shoot me. The next day. And then, late that night Dzerzhinski sent for me. He saw me himself. He had the transcript of my trial in front of him, including my rather emotional outburst in court.
“He said that he had been impressed by my work at Ve-Cheka and because he himself was originally a Pole he was aware of the harassment of Poles by certain Soviets. He said too that the military judge had been angered by being dragged into what was essentially political harassment and had spoken to him angrily.
“He said that he could offer me a way out. If I agreed to going underground as a Cheka officer my sentence would be struck out. The record would be wiped clean.”
“Did you accept?”
Zagorsky smiled. “Of course I did. I told him to let the trial and the verdict stand. It would provide me with perfect cover. Like you, everybody would assume that I was dead.” He laughed. “You couldn’t have better cover than that.”
“Can I ask you what you’ve been doing since then?”
“You can ask, but that uniform you’re wearing means that the answers will be cautious.”
“Tell me what you can.”
“I went down to Samarkand and ran a network of illegals into Iran and Afghanistan. Then like you I went to university to improve my foreign languages. Mainly my English.” He smiled. “And now I’m here.”
“Spying on us.”
“Collecting information let us say. And what about you? How is the family?”
For long moments Shapiro looked at Zagorsky and then said softly, “Are you kidding?”
The Russian looked genuinely surprised. “I don’t understand.”
“You mean you never asked what had happened to us?”
“I went straight down to Samarkand the next day. I was there for two years. A lot had changed by the time I got back to Moscow. A lot of people were no longer there. One didn’t ask what had happened to them or where they’d gone.”
“What was the last you heard of me?”
“As I remember it you were in Warsaw with your wife and child. A son wasn’t it?”
“Yes. It was a son. When you were put on trial we were in court. They forced us to go. My wife, Anna, was Polish and she was very upset. Not only about you but what the Polish Bolsheviks were planning to do in Poland. We escaped to Berlin. I got a job in a bar. Washing-up at first and later on as a barman.
“I came back one night and found that my wife had been murdered. Garotted. And they stamped a red star on her wrist. They took my small son away. I don’t know what happened to him.”
For several minutes Zagorsky just sat there and Shapiro could see that he was genuinely shocked. Then the Russian took a deep breath.
“Saying I’m sorry won’t help, Josef. Nevertheless I am sorry. I can’t bear to think about it happening. It sickens me.”
“All for the good of the Party, comrade?”
Zago
rsky shook his head. “I won’t attempt to make excuses. There are no excuses that would satisfy me. And there are none that would satisfy you.” He paused and sighed. “And that’s why you’re wearing that uniform.”
“I never needed a uniform, Zag. It’s my life’s work to fight you people.”
“We’re not all murderers, Josef. You know better than that.”
“You’re all part of it. You know it goes on but you never raise a voice to stop it. You may not be a murderer, Zag. But you’re an accessory to murder. And in my book the one is as evil as the other.”
“Do you include yourself in that? You must have known a lot of what was going on when you and Anna were working for me.”
“I don’t excuse myself but I take comfort from the fact that I was very young, I thought it would change and when it didn’t I escaped.” He paused. “I’d rather be a coward than a murderer, Zag.”
“When did this happen in Berlin?”
“About twenty years ago.”
“And you’ve hated Russians for nearly twenty years.”
“No. I loved the Russians. I just hate Bolsheviks.”
“Including me?”
“No. You didn’t have any part in murdering my wife. They were ready to murder you if it had suited them. I’m just sorry for you.”
“Is there any way—short of treason—that I can try and make up for that terrible thing?”
“Yeah, come over to us and work against them.”
“I said short of treason.”
“Are you married Zag?”
“No. I don’t live the kind of life that goes with marriage.”
“How long are you staying in London with the mission?”
“I was posted here permanently. But I shall put in for a transfer now.”
“Why?”
“It would be pointless for me to stay. You know too much about me and I wouldn’t relish working against you.”
“Can I ask you something personal?”
“Of course.”
“Did you ever really believe in the Bolsheviks? Especially way back when we were on that boat?”
Zagorsky closed his eyes, his face turned up towards the ceiling as he thought. Then he opened his eyes and looked at Shapiro.
“It’s a tough question to answer, Josef. I need to search my heart. On the boat I think the answer has to be ‘yes.’ I believed in Communism, especially Lenin’s version of it. Not Trotsky’s and not Stalin’s—although he wasn’t all that important in those days. So Communism I believed in, but Bolshevism I wasn’t sure about. Let’s say I gave it the benefit of the doubt. There were harsh things to be done to organise the country. At least the Bolsheviks were determined enough and ruthless enough to do what was necessary.”
“How long did you go on believing in them?”
“Until my trial. I knew then that one didn’t have to be guilty of anything beyond the greed and envy of rivals to lose one’s freedom or one’s life. After the deal was done with Dzerzhinski I just switched off my mind so far as politics were concerned. I made my work, my life.” He shrugged. “Maybe not my life—more an existence.” He sighed. “Not a hero’s story, my friend. But the truth.”
It was too near the pattern of Shapiro’s own life for him not to recognise its truth. He looked at Zagorsky’s gaunt face and was sorry for him.
“Are you going to tell them of our meeting?”
“Of our meeting, yes. Your name, no. What we have talked about, no. You were a friendly officer who invited me home for a drink, and following our orders to make contacts with any friendly Englishman, I went to your home. I don’t know where it was. You talked on and on about Montgomery and I talked on and on about Timoshenko.”
“So how do you get them to withdraw you?”
“That’s no problem. I volunteer for more active duties. The mission is a privileged posting with a long, long waiting list. And the war won’t last much longer. Two years perhaps and then we’ll all have to pay the bill.”
“What bill is that?”
“The cost of the sacrifices, the price of victory. The Soviet Union having flexed its muscles and found that they work will be ready to advance on the world.”
“Which part of the world?”
Zagorsky stood up slowly, “Where can I get a taxi?”
“On the corner.” He paused. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Zagorsky picked up his white gloves and his cap and as he stood at the door he said quietly, “You know the answer, Josef, as well as I do. Not a part of the world. Just the world.”
36
When the war in Europe ended Shapiro was posted to 21 Army Group at its HQ in Bad Oynhausen. It was only a few months since the Soviet Union and Britain had been genuine allies, but by the end of 1945 the Red Army was deploying overwhelming forces of infantry and armoured divisions on their side of the Occupation Zone border.
Shapiro’s first task was to set up line-crossing operations into the Russian Zone of occupied Germany. Each line-crossing unit was run by a British intelligence officer but the line-crossers were Germans or German-speaking displaced persons. Where possible the crossers were sent to areas that they already knew well. The local hatred of the Red Army’s ruthless occupation made it easy to recruit local informants who could supply information on almost any aspect of the occupying forces.
It was in the summer of 1947 when Shapiro got a telephone call from the CO of 70 Field Security Unit in Hildesheim. Line-crossers worked both sides of the zone borders but the Russians had more difficulty in recruiting volunteers from a hostile population. From time to time Field Security Units picked up a line-crosser working for the Russians in the British Zone. A Russian line-crosser had been caught by a detachment of 70 FSU in Göttingen.
“Why are you calling me, Captain?”
“This chap we picked up refuses to talk except to you.”
“To me? Did he know my name?”
“Yes. He gave your name, your rank and he knew that you were at 21 AG headquarters in Bad Oynhausen.”
“Did he say why he wanted to talk to me?”
“No, sir.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. He won’t talk.”
“How do you know he’s working for the other side?”
“He was with a fellow who admitted under interrogation that he was a line-crosser. They both had the same type of forged papers.”
“What’s he like?”
“Mid-twenties, well-built, educated. We think he speaks English as well as German.”
“OK. I’ll come down in a couple of days. Where are you holding him?”
“In the local prison in Hildesheim.”
“OK. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”
It was a pleasant drive down to Hildesheim in the confiscated Mercedes. The old town itself was still largely rubble. For some strange reason or blunder the quiet medieval town had been almost completely wiped out by the US Air Force in the last few weeks of the war. Centuries-old buildings had been reduced to rubble and dust in less than an hour.
70 Field Security’s HQ was in a large house on the edge of the town and when Shapiro had been shown around he was offered a room where he could talk to the prisoner from the jail.
An hour later a young man was shown into the room by a sergeant who took off the handcuffs and left. Shapiro sat on the edge of the camp bed looking at the young man.
“What’s your name, young man?” he said in German.
“My field name is Lemke,” the young man said and to Shapiro’s surprise he spoke in Russian.
“Why do you want to speak to me?”
“I was told to speak to you.”
“By whom?”
“A man whose real name is Zagorsky. He uses other names but he told me to tell you his real name.”
There was a long pause before Shapiro spoke.
“Do you work for him?”
“No. He contacted me about a month ago. He gave me orders to
cross the border in this area and to ask to speak to you.”
“You’d better tell me what it’s all about.”
“He told me to tell you that it was payment of a debt.”
“A debt. What debt?”
“I don’t know. He said to tell you about my family and you would understand.”
Shapiro pointed at a chair. “Sit down.” When the young man was sitting down Shapiro said, “OK. Tell me about your family.”
“I never knew about my family. All I can tell you is what Zagorsky told me.”
“Go on.”
“My mother was Polish, my father was English. They married in Moscow but went to work for the Party in Warsaw. Something happened and they fled to Berlin. My mother died a short time after and I was taken away by strangers. I was only two or three years old. I was put in an orphanage near Leningrad.” The young man shrugged. “That’s what he told me to tell you.”
Shapiro sat looking at his son, but all he could think of was Anna. He wished that he could tell her that the boy was safe. Tell her that his hair was as black as hers, his eyes as blue as his father’s and his fingers long and slender. And she would say that the boy’s firm mouth and strong jaw were all his. It had been twenty-four years since the small boy had been taken away and in his mind’s eye he had never changed. Despite the lapse of time he had always thought of his son as a small child in a woollen jersey and leggings and a red knitted hat with a white bobble on top of it. He had no doubt that the young man sitting there was his son. He felt relief to know that he was alive and well but he felt no sudden surge of love and affection. There were things that had to be done. And he would do them, but time and life had ground away his capacity to feel an upsurge of emotion. He should be calling for champagne, telling the world that his long-lost son was found, flinging his arms about those strong young shoulders. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Maybe in time he could feel that way and do those things. But right now, despite the heavy thumping of his heart, he felt no such emotion.
“Did Zagorsky say anything more to you?”