by Marek Halter
“What do you mean?” asked Wood.
“Birobidzhan isn’t just any old state of the Soviet Union, sir. It’s a Jewish state, the first Jewish state since biblical times. It even predates the creation of Israel a couple of years back. It’s one of Stalin’s smartest moves, it has to be said.”
“Can you explain what you mean by that, Mr. O’Neal?” McCarthy inquired, raising an eyebrow.
The Irishman gave a satisfied smirk. Of course he could explain. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. He had no need of his papers now; he was in his element.
“In billiards, it’s known as a three-cushion shot, sir. As you know, even before the Revolution in 1917, the communists had lost track of the number of Jews living in their country. You could even go so far as to say that communism is a Jewish business, right up to the top, the Kremlin. By the end of the 1920s, there were more Jews than non-Jews in the politburo and among the spouses of the highest-ranking officials. Some of them were beginning to feel uneasy about it. Then someone in Stalin’s inner circle had a brilliant idea, old President Kalinin, I believe.
“The Jews hadn’t had a country they could call their own for centuries. There were Jews everywhere, from Germany to the Soviet Union, right across Europe, but they didn’t have a nation of their own. Why not give them one? It was a smart move. Not only would it prove to the rest of the world that the Bolsheviks were a generous bunch, it would also sort out the ‘Jewish problem,’ without resorting to the usual strong-arm tactics, pogroms and that kind of thing, I mean. Of course, that was all the Jews themselves were asking for. They’d wanted their own country for long enough! That left only one problem. Where could they put the new country on the map of the USSR? That’s where Uncle Joe was really clever.”
O’Neal worked in a pause. It was bad acting. His delivery was fast and his mannerisms slow. He mispronounced and garbled his words. Shirley and her colleague were having trouble keeping up with him, even though their fingers were flying across the keyboards of their stenotype machines. Six feet away from him, Marina sat motionless, her head bowed. She kept her hands on the table in front of her. It was impossible to tell whether she was listening.
“The Jews floated the idea of a settlement in the Crimea or the Ukraine. Large numbers of them had been living in those regions for ten or twelve generations, but the Crimea and the Ukraine were rich. With their pleasant climate, picturesque countryside, and sunshine, they had far too much going for them for Stalin to hand either of them over to the Jews. Not to mention the fact that the Bolsheviks hated the Ukraine, regarding it as ‘peasant country’ that Lenin had been determined to bring to its knees. They had to think of somewhere else. Stalin had been chewing it over for two or three years when the Japanese provided him with a solution. In 1931, they invaded Manchuria and set up camp in Harbin. Actually, to be precise, they camped out on the Amur River. They could come across the Soviet border whenever they pleased. Whatever else Stalin might be, he’s not the sort to miss a trick. He understood the risks instantly. Looking at the map, he saw the vast empty expanse of Manchuria stretching out in front of the Japanese: Birobidzhan. That was all it took to convince him.
“In 1932, Birobidzhan became a Jewish autonomous region. It was done. The Jews might not have been exactly ecstatic at the prospect of going and burying themselves in the far reaches of Siberia, but it wasn’t a concentration camp, after all, and Uncle Joe was giving them a country. They weren’t going to turn their noses up at it! And, well, a whole little world of schools, factories, kolkhozy, and barracks popped up in that forgotten corner. Nobody knows what the actual figures are, but our sources estimate that between twenty and thirty thousand Jews emigrated there, taking their synagogues and their Yiddish with them. I ought to point out that the Jews weren’t the only ones to go there. Others joined them. Full-blooded Russians who found its distance from Moscow reassuring, I suppose. And, in the end, as you know, the Japs decided they would rather attack Pearl Harbor than Uncle Joe. The Birobidzhan affair may well have played a part in their decision. … ”
There was a brief silence, as if the Irishman were leaving time for the calamity of Pearl Harbor to sink in. Senator Mundt made a quick sign of the cross. When the Irishman began to speak again, Nixon held up his hand to interrupt him, but O’Neal stood his ground.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Representative, but there’s another detail that I think may interest you. The colony in Birobidzhan was quite a success with Jews from outside the Soviet Union. Actually, it was quite popular here in the United States at the beginning of the war.”
“How was that?”
“You have to remember, sir, that it was US policy to support Stalin at the time. President Roosevelt was very generous with the Russians, but it wasn’t enough for Stalin. The Soviets campaigned hard for their project, presenting Birobidzhan as a state with open doors. Jews from anywhere in the world were welcome to go and live there. They didn’t have to be communists. At least, that’s what the Russians claimed. The Jews themselves rallied around and tried to whip up a bit of support here and there. For example, the Agro-Joint provided all kinds of farming equipment—”
“The Agro-Joint?”
“The American Jewish Joint Agricultural Corp, sir. They also collected money.”
“You mean American Jews actually emigrated to the Bolshevik steppe?” Nixon asked, amazed.
“A few hundred did, yes, sir. Back then, public sentiment was fairly positive, even here in the United States. With the Nazis in power in Germany, I mean … A Soviet Jew, an actor, Solomon Mikhoels, came here on tour, targeting Hollywood and New York, giving talks about the Jewish Antifascist Committee, just the kind of committee that the Soviets love. This Mikhoels character was a big hit. Every talk he gave was packed, and could raise forty or fifty million dollars.”
A murmur ran around the congressmen, as much at the mention of the sum as at the name Mikhoels. Cohn and Wood turned to look at Marina while O’Neal added, “That was what Stalin was hoping the Jewish Committee would do, bring in as many dollars as possible. You could say they did pretty well.”
McCarthy shifted about uncomfortably in his chair.
“In your opinion, did they only come over here for the money?”
The Irishman pursed his lips doubtfully. His eyes darted over to us as if he were wondering whether we could be trusted with his secrets.
Wood jumped in, “Are you able to answer Senator McCarthy, Mr. O’Neal?”
The Irishman reverted to his smug tone.
“Well, we’ve always thought that the Jewish antifascist tour was a front to distract us while they set up a network of spies, Jewish spies of course, loyal supporters of the cause who wanted to make Uncle Joe as strong as Uncle Sam, if you catch my drift. … ”
“Could you be a bit more specific?”
“Not much more, sir. You’ll have to request the OSS documents in writing. What I can tell you for sure is that the actor, Mikhoels, the Committee chairman, provided cover for those accompanying him. We know that they were all NKVD agents. Mikhoels gave talks and collected money, while they saw to other business. Mind you, Stalin isn’t thanking them for it. He’s bumping them off one by one. … ”
“Is Mikhoels dead?” Marina cried, making the Irishman jump. She had risen to face him. O’Neal looked at her scornfully, curling his lip. He obviously thought that her display of consternation was an act. Marina stepped forward, but the guards placed a hand on each of her shoulders. She repeated, “Is Mikhoels dead?”
Cohn and Wood exchanged glances.
“You may answer the witness, Mr. O’Neal,” said Cohn.
The Irishman shrugged his shoulders.
“If you don’t already know, miss, Solomon Mikhoels died in autumn 1948. According to official reports, he was run over by a truck on his way to Minsk Station. Our sources are pretty sure it was a cover-up. The man he was with at the time, a journalist by the name of Vladimir Golubov, was also killed in the incident. What’s mo
re, as far as we know, all the members of the Committee were exterminated or sent to freeze in some corner of Siberia.”
Marina sat back down, livid. I heard her whisper, “Lioussia!” The others must have too. For a moment, the Committee members looked embarrassed. It was so clearly a heartfelt reaction, and surely they hadn’t already forgotten what she had told them the previous day about the Committee’s stormy beginnings.
O’Neal cracked a grin at McCarthy and Nixon.
“To be frank, Stalin has taken out quite a few prominent Jews in the past two years. The whole Birobidzhan affair doesn’t seem to have afforded them much protection, all things considered.”
“Mr. O’Neal,” McCarthy interjected, “are you aware of an OSS mission in Birobidzhan during the war?”
The change that came over the Irishman’s face was comic to watch. His smug air vanished, his voice altered. He started to hesitate over his answers, weigh up his words.
“I can confirm that there was one.”
“What were the conditions?”
“Well, Uncle Joe wasn’t the only one ever to have a good idea, was he? Since he had opened some doors with the whole business of Jewish immigration and his contribution to the war effort against the Nazis, it would have been crazy not to use them to our advantage.”
“By sending agents over there, you mean?” asked Senator Mundt with a slick attitude, his eyes widening.
The Irishman paused, screwing up his lips.
“The aim was to find out a bit more about Birobidzhan, and particularly what the Japs were up to on the other side of the Amur River, sir. We had troops fighting out in the Pacific, if you recall. The OSS had gathered intelligence on a chemical weapons factory in Harbin, a Manchurian town two cable lengths away from Birobidzhan. It was a good base for our operation. … ”
Marina had lifted her head. She was listening to every word. The sadness had gone from her eyes. What now burned in them was more like anger.
Wood asked, “Was Agent Apron on that mission?”
O’Neal shook his head.
“I’m not authorized to tell you any more, sir. I had warned Chief Investigator Cohn.”
He took a fat envelope out of his briefcase and showed it to Wood.
“Only authorized personnel are allowed to read these documents.”
He jerked his chin in the direction of the stenotypists and me, before once again assuming the superior air of someone who knows more than anyone else.
“I have permission to leave them in your hands, sir.”
McCarthy punctuated every sentence with a small nod. I began to wonder whether the pair had practiced that little act together. If they had, they hadn’t reckoned on Marina Andreyeva Gousseiev. She spoiled their show with a snigger, eying the Irishman with contempt.
“You’re pretending it’s a secret because you don’t know anything. You don’t know anything about Birobidzhan either. And Michael wasn’t just a spy, he was a real doctor and everyone liked him. He saved people’s lives, whether they were Jewish or not. He was happy there and had no desire whatsoever to come back to the US.”
Wood didn’t give O’Neal a chance to reply.
“Well, perhaps it’s about time you told us how you met Agent Apron, miss.”
Birobidzhan
January 1943
THE DRAMA BEGAN THE day before they were due to arrive, when they were only six hundred verst away from Birobidzhan. Shortly before nightfall, the train stopped at a village in the grip of an icy paralysis. Under some wooden awnings, a red sign behind a veil of frost read:
EKATERINOSLAVKA
AMUR OBLAST
The station, lit by a single bulb, was empty. There were no passengers waiting on the platform, not one heavily laden traveler looking out for the train. Leaning against a meager pile of logs, an old man was dozing beside a brazier. His smooth, tanned skin and slanted eyes were just visible between the flaps of his chapka hat pulled down over his ears. A cauldron of soup was steaming on the glowing embers.
The train drew to a halt with a squeal of brakes. About thirty soldiers armed with rifles, their faces all muffled up in felt scarves, emerged from the shadows. The red stars on their chapka hats gleamed. They positioned themselves in front of the passenger car doors. A lieutenant with a frostbitten face blustered orders. Car by car, starting from the rear of the train, the soldiers gave some of the women leave to go and fetch wood and fill their pots with soup. For the first time since they had left Moscow, it didn’t turn into a stampede. The Jews’ car had to wait until last. Marina didn’t get off. Instead she piled up the fresh supply of a dozen logs by the stove while the children swarmed around the can of soup that one of the women had managed to get ahold of.
Once the last door had been slammed shut, the soldiers slung their rifle straps over their shoulders. Stamping their boots in the snow, they made their way along the platform. Up ahead, some railroad workers were filling up the locomotive’s fuel and water tank. The gentle puffing of the boiler lent a rhythm to the wait. Time dragged on. For no apparent reason, the train remained in the station. It was soon night.
A bulb lit up under the awnings. The Asian had long since vanished with his empty cauldron. The last embers of his brazier died in the snow.
Growing increasingly impatient, people started to ask questions. Anxiety soon led to irritation. All along the convoy, women flung open the doors and vented their anger on the soldiers. Shrill with anger, their voices cut through the icy air. What was going on? Why wasn’t the train leaving? Who had made the decision not to allow the passengers to get out and stretch their legs? How much longer were they going to stay there?
The soldiers didn’t reply, their faces hidden behind their scarves. They shook their heads and motioned to the women to go back inside their cars. Some of them reached for their rifles. One young woman lost her temper. Jumping down onto the platform, she grabbed the sleeve of the nearest soldier, a boy, barely twenty years old. His eyebrows were glittering with frost and his face looked lifeless in the dim light. With the palm of his hand, he pushed the woman back, hard. She slipped and let out a scream as she fell back onto the ground. The soldier pointed the barrel of his gun at her chest. She stopped screaming. He loaded the rifle. The click of greased metal echoed under the awnings. The other soldiers had stopped stamping their boots and were watching from a distance. The women in the Jews’ carriage had opened the door a crack, but they were all keeping out of the dispute. At a jerk of the soldier’s rifle, the woman scrambled to her feet. One of her fellow passengers got off the train and went over to her. She took the woman’s arm and pulled her back to the step of the passenger car. The soldier didn’t lower his weapon. His eyeballs had turned as white as his eyebrows. The women climbed back in. Doors slammed shut all along the train and a new kind of silence fell.
It wasn’t the first time that the train had stopped at a station for what seemed like forever. Usually, though, everyone knew why. It was either because the water for the tank had frozen, there was no wood or coal left, or the drivers had rushed their drinks and were waiting for the effect of the vodka to wear off. These were all common occurrences on such a journey, but this time it was different. Never before had the soldiers kept the passengers cooped up like prisoners. And what were these soldiers doing way out in the far eastern corner of Siberia when the Red Army was engaged in head-to-head combat with the Germans in Stalingrad and on the Volga?
They didn’t have an answer to those questions yet.
After an hour or two, a whistle tore through the night, but it was only to signal to the frozen soldiers that they were relieved from duty. Within minutes, the second patrol might have been mistaken for the first. The soldiers stamped their boots outside the cars, only more energetically.
The waiting resumed. In the Jews’ car, nobody spoke above a whisper. The children were now too frightened to play or bicker. Their eyes kept darting to the windows. They were the only windows on the whole train that hadn’t been covered
with felt curtains to keep out the cold, but what was the point of trying to look out of those panes? The ice and darkness had made them as murky as bottomless pits.
Since they had left Omsk, not a day had gone by without some gesture or little incident that had brought Marina closer to those tense, fidgety strangers. One minute they were full of life, laughing and chattering away noisily, the next they were in the doldrums and nothing—not even the children—could get a smile out of them.
In their dealings with her, they were just as capable of treating her like one of the family as showing her an exaggerated respect that bordered on mocking. They hadn’t complained about making room for her in the overcrowded car, an old grain wagon crudely converted by the addition of some rickety wooden seating. Its four square windows let in a little light, but the frost and ice obscured the view out. The wooden panels gave off the acrid odor of rooms that were never aired, reeking of sweat, soot, and slop pails. The stench hit you as soon as you walked in, but you soon got used to it.
Despite the little stove, the farther east they went, the colder it got. The women were quick to notice that Marina would wear all of her sweaters, one on top of the other, and curl up inside her coat at night. One of them untied her big bundle and fished out a rainbow-colored woolen blanket. She held it out to Marina.
“Matoné, matoné … ”
Smiling, she nodded encouragingly. Marina hesitated. The old man, who spoke a few words of Russian and seemed to be the head of the family, signaled to her to take it.
“Matoné, gift. She says gift. Must accept.”
Before Marina could protest, a little girl came forward. Taking the blanket from the woman, who must have been her mother, she threw it over Marina’s shoulders, repeating the Russian word her grandfather had used.