Fear of Mirrors

by Tariq Ali

  ‘For you perhaps, but for its victims? Would you prefer to be despatched by Stalin’s executioners or Hitler’s assassins? Come on. Answer me.’

  ‘There is sometimes a similarity between opposites. It is the weakness, the pathetic philosophy that lies between them, a philosophy that can never decide that of the two opposites is good or evil; it is this that is unacceptable.’

  Better to be the scissors than the paper, Ludwik thought. All this nonsense she was spouting came straight from the new machine-men in Moscow. She had been penetrated by official bureaucratic memoranda. He had heard similar talk in Spain. How deeply the stench had invaded the consciousness of even veteran revolutionaries! He looked straight into Getrude’s eyes. She looked away.

  ‘I know, Gertrude. It’s difficult, but now tell me everything. No need for evasions and half lies. Or have they told you that I’m really an enemy and that you must report back to them after every meeting with me? I thought so. Well, best of luck, my dear friend. I hope you stay alive.’ He rose as if to leave. A half-throttled cry rose from her throat.

  ‘Ludwik!’

  Gertrude had begun to weep. She thought of the past, their shared perils, their harrowing conversations, of how he had saved her life more than once and how important he had been for her. He had not changed at all. A poet-philosopher caught up in dirty business. History had forced them all to make choices. She could not bring herself to break with him.

  Ludwik sat down and patted her hand, though inwardly he was furious with her for capitulating to Moscow. He always took it personally when one of his people, someone he had trained and educated, underwent a moral collapse. Usually he blamed himself.

  ‘I’m truly sorry, Ludwik,’ she spoke, trying to conquer her tears. ‘He never said everything in front of Olga. Once when we were alone, he said all those horrible things about you.’

  ‘Did he say they suspected me of working for the Germans?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Then it’s serious. Now, please don’t panic. Just try and remember everything.’

  For the next two hours he systematically debriefed her. At the end of the session, he smiled. His enemies in Moscow were floundering. They must have been desperate to try and win over Gertrude.

  ‘Did you tell Olga any of this?’

  Gertrude nodded shamefacedly.

  ‘I was so shaken, Ludwik. I had to talk to someone.’

  ‘The first lesson I taught you was to overcome the desire to talk to someone. In our trade, such a weakness is fatal.’

  ‘Olga was outraged. She said: “I trust Ludwik with my life. He is no more a German agent than you or me. This is Stalin’s method and one day it will bring everything to an end.” She was very helpful, Ludwik.’

  ‘In her case, your indiscretion does not matter. I have trusted her with my life more than once, but you were wrong to talk. You should not have talked to Spiegelglass. You should not have talked to Olga. Never do it again.’

  ‘I never will. I do love you, Ludwik.’

  ‘Another mistake.’

  Ludwik’s face took on a grim appearance, the look of a man with a troubled soul. Later that evening he was due to meet Spiegelglass. He arranged to meet Gertrude the following day and walked back slowly to his apartment.

  Why, thought Ludwik, am I too much of a coward to look history in the eye? For over a year I have been oppressed by the same question. How can we live when our dreams are dead? And with them the dreamers. Except Trotsky, who continues to dream in his Mexican exile. Working for Stalin is no longer a serious option. He thinks and behaves like a gangster. He is systematically destroying all possible alternatives to himself. All the new thought processes have debased the old.

  This is the worst year in my life. In many ways, for us, it is worse than under the Tsar. Stalin has already imprisoned and killed more revolutionaries than Nicholas. German comrades who fled from Hitler have been executed by Stalin. Now the GPU* have asked the police in Prague to arrest the German political exile Grilewicz as a Gestapo agent. Grilewicz, a former Social Democrat deputy, is now a dissident Communist and chairman of a committee of intellectuals in Prague set up to challenge the Moscow Trials. Stalin wants him destroyed.

  Who is Spiegelglass?

  _______________

  *The secret police, which was integrated with the NKVD in 1934.

  Twenty-one

  ‘IT IS AN HONOUR to meet a legend, comrade. You have been an inspiration to us from afar for so long that one wondered whether you really existed. One needs steady nerves for our kind of existence and revolutionary zeal by the bucketful. Don’t you agree?’

  They were seated in a crowded restaurant. Ludwik was trying to look into Spiegelglass’s eyes, which were distorted by the thick lenses of his spectacles. Ludwik had been warned by Slutsky and Freddy not to underestimate the monster. Spiegelglass was still in his NKVD† travel gear, which amused Ludwik. German Intelligence would have no difficulty in recognizing his occupation.

  ‘I exist.’

  Ludwik, who knew that Lisa and Felix had left the Soviet Union a few days ago and were now safely in Prague, was not in a cautious mood.

  ‘Tell me something, Spiegelglass,’ Ludwik spoke in his most condescending voice as he replenished his colleague’s glass with wine. ‘How many attempts have there been on Comrade Stalin’s life?’

  Spiegelglass trembled slightly, but without losing his composure. It was Ludwik’s favourite trick question for the machine-men. Spiegelglass was flummoxed.

  ‘Come now, comrade. You have just got here from Moscow. I assume you were briefed by Yezhov. Good. Then I want to know how well you people are guarding our great and beloved leader. Our ship would crash without the great helmsman. Now tell me. How many attempts?’

  ‘None, to my knowledge. Comrade Stalin is at the peak of his popularity.’

  ‘What?’ Ludwik exclaimed in mock anger. ‘I have read internal reports of dozens of executions. Traitors who attempted to murder Stalin and you sit here calmly and tell me that none of this is true. Be careful, Spiegelglass.’

  ‘I think you misunderstood me.’ There was an icy glint in the machine-man’s eyes. ‘I did not say there were no plans. I repeat. There have been no actual attempts.’

  ‘And why did these plotters plan to kill him?’

  ‘Gestapo agents. Trotskyite infiltrators.’

  ‘I see. Did you come here directly from Moscow?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Why are you lying?’

  Spiegelglass paled, but did not avert his eyes.

  ‘You visit London,’ Ludwik’s voice was rising, ‘you tell one of my oldest operators that I am a Gestapo agent. You breach discipline by bursting into one of our safest houses in England and you think our operation is so flimsy that your squalid enterprise will remain secret.’

  Spiegelglass removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. ‘We all do what has to be done. You know that well.’

  ‘Of course. Orders must be carried out and your orders no doubt include the recruitment of White Russian mercenaries. You need them to destroy old Communists. When did you join the Party?’

  ‘Nineteen-twenty-eight.’

  ‘So you still remember the time when Party members could argue with each other. Just before the converts, informers and arrivistes joined the party en masse. The Stalin levy! “New Bolsheviks”, they called themselves as they loaded their guns to kill those who had made the Revolution.’

  Spiegelglass was silent. He knew Ludwik spoke the truth, but he could not fully understand the motives of the man Moscow had told him to eliminate. The condemned man was speaking again.

  ‘What are your orders regarding me, Spiegelglass? Surely if I am a Gestapo agent I should be shot without delay.’

  ‘Please, comrade, try and understand. My orders have come from the very top. All they want is for you to return to Moscow. A simple transfer. Nothing more.’

  ‘I know. Why not transfer me six feet below the ground
here rather than the Lubianka?’

  ‘Comrade, please. I must now ask you formally to introduce me to your network of agents in Europe, particularly, in Germany and Spain.’

  ‘The Fourth Department knows what Moscow needs to know.’

  ‘We need the information to fight fascist barbarism.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I know. Moscow has the information. If Yezhov wants it he should go to Slutsky.’

  ‘You’re very arrogant, Comrade Ludwik.’

  ‘When we started this enterprise, Comrade Spiegelglass, we knew what we were fighting for. The victory of socialism all over the globe. Some of us still believe in that. You and your White Russian cronies are nothing more than a bunch of killers. I have brought for you a little clipping which the Tsarist rag they produce here in Paris, Voz rozhdenye, published after the trial and execution of the Sixteen, Zinoviev and Kamenev among them, last year. Remember the trial? A copy was, as usual, sent to Stalin’s office. Were you shown this in Moscow?’

  Spiegelglass shook his head.

  ‘Then I’ll read it for you:

  We thank thee, Stalin!

  Sixteen scoundrels,

  Sixteen butchers of the fatherland,

  Have been gathered to their forefathers.

  But why only Sixteen,

  Give us forty,

  Give us hundreds,

  Thousands,

  Make a bridge across the Moscow river,

  A bridge without towers and beams

  A bridge of Soviet carrion

  And add thy carcass to the rest!

  With the exception of the last sentence, my dear Comrade Spiegelglass, that is exactly what your boss is doing, is he not?’

  ‘And the Party?’ asked Spiegelglass in a flinty voice. ‘The Party? What of our Party?’

  ‘The Party that made the Revolution is dead. Your leader is busy murdering all of Lenin’s comrades. What you call the Party is a giant bureaucratic machine, built so it can be manipulated by a few people – and even this machine is severely damaged. There were over three hundred thousand arrests in the first four months of this year alone. Did you know that, Spiegelglass? All you new boys think you’re really clever. Others might perish, but you’ll survive. All of you think that but very few survive. I’ve talked for three years now to eager and enthusiastic Stalinists like yourself. Most of them are dead.’

  ‘Why are you still a member, Ludwik?’

  ‘Good question. I thought that a victory in Spain might turn the tide throughout Europe, but Spain is lost. The Red Army stands between Hitler and the conquest of Europe. Yes, the Red Army. Denuded of its most brilliant generals by your great leader, but still a powerful bulwark against fascist advances.’

  ‘What makes you so sure that Stalin won’t do a deal with Hitler to isolate France and Britain?’

  ‘He is trying hard, as we both know, but he will fail. Stalin has never understood the real meaning of fascism.’

  Despite himself, Spiegelglass gave his opponent an admiring look. Ludwik sighed.

  ‘And don’t think they will leave you alive after you’ve done their filthy work. The whole pattern is now very clear. Yagoda gets rid of one set of old Bolsheviks, then is tried himself for being a fascist agent. He’s replaced by Yezhov who wants to kill more mad dogs. But soon Yezhov and his assistants will also be executed. Pray for a war, Spiegelglass. It’s the only thing that might save your skin. Pay the bill. I’m going.’

  Ludwik left and Spiegelglass sat waiting for the waiter to bring him the bill, his eyes shining with excitement. In Moscow they sometimes brought prisoners before him who had been beaten so severely that they could no longer speak. Blood poured down their faces. Spiegelglass was jubilant. The vision had excited him. Fireworks burst inside his head. He began to fly. He wanted to see Ludwik in that position, wanted to hear the swish of the whips, wanted to humiliate the man who had just walked out on him.

  ‘There is no hiding place for him on this planet,’ he told himself.

  _______________

  †The Commissariat of the Interior.

  Twenty-two

  SAO RETURNED TO HIS APARTMENT in the rue Murrillo a poorer man, saddened by the loss of two irreplaceable friends, but also shocked by the knowledge that they had become flesh-peddlers on a gigantic scale. The president’s entourage had given him the name of a policeman who knew who was killing who for treading on toes in the new Russia. Before he left Moscow he had been given the name of the killers. For a couple of thousand dollars, he was told by the same police officer, they could be found and executed. Sao had shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Two more murders won’t solve the problem. Why were my friends killed?’

  At first Sao thought the policeman was trying to evade his question, but this was not the case. He was simply explaining to Sao how Moscow functioned.

  ‘Everything is for sale, Mr Sao. Should I tell you something that will make you laugh? There’s an American film producer in town. He’s got hold of some old KGB uniforms and he’s asked for permission to film in the Lubianka. At first my bosses thought it was political and refused. The American then showed them the script. It was a porno movie. Everyone laughed, but they have been negotiating for three weeks now on the money.’

  The real story finally came out. The killers belonged to a group of free-marketeers, shock-therapists who had built up a gigantic trade in human flesh. They exported Russian prostitutes to Thailand and the Gulf States; Baltic call girls were in great demand in Northern Europe and Romanian boys were at a premium throughout Western Europe.

  Sao’s murdered business partners had a rival enterprise, which was more multicultural in character. They were using the old Vietnamese network and engaging in flesh-exports from all the former Soviet Republics. The contradictions had become explosive and instead of relying on the needs of the market, the Russian entrepreneurs had taken the law into their own hands.

  Sao’s spiritual loss, however, had been more than amply compensated by the profits that had accrued to him as a middleman in three immensely lucrative deals involving Russia, China and Iran. All of these had involved the sale and purchase of missiles. Sao’s share, which had come to nearly two million dollars, lay safely in a Lausanne bank.

  He had come in to find a note from Marie-Louise, his divorced wife, informing him that she had taken the children to her parents’ house in Brittany. He was instructed not to linger in Paris, but to join them as soon as he had recovered from jet lag. Sao had rung her, spoken to the children and promised to be there within a few days. Even though they were divorced, relations remained friendly, not least because Sao’s father-in-law, once a senior officer in French Military Intelligence, had been instrumental in helping Sao gain a foothold in the arms trade.

  A week later he still could not tear himself away from Paris. He had started going to his old bachelor haunts in search of old Vietnamese friends, but had been singularly unsuccessful. Instead he sat silently in an old Vietnamese restaurant and chatted to the waiters.

  He had tried ringing Vlady on several occasions, but never found him at home. Sao was sorely tempted to hop on a plane and fly to Berlin, but he felt duty-bound to go to his family Brittany. Just before leaving for the station he tried Vlady again. This time he was lucky.

  ‘Greetings, my friend.’

  ‘Sao! Where are you?’

  ‘Back home. I have the files you wanted, Vlady. They did not come cheap, as you know. I think it’s what you need. I have them here. I wanted to come to Berlin, but Marie-Louise and the children are waiting for me in Brittany.’

  ‘No hurry. I was thinking of coming to Paris next month, and –’

  ‘Good idea. Spend Christmas with us. My father is coming from Hue. He has always wanted to meet you. Is that settled?’

  ‘I’m writing it in my diary.’

  ‘Vlady?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Remember our early days in Dresden?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Once in
my ultra-nationalist mood I was telling you about the Truong sisters and how they led a resistance in 40 AD and expelled the Chinese aggressors. I remember you laughed and said: “You Vietnamese always go on about the wretched Truong sisters. Why don’t you ever talk of the year that followed, when the Chinese came back?”’

  Vlady laughed at the other end and interrupted his friend. ‘And why do you cover up the fact that two years later the sisters threw themselves into a river and perished? I remember at first how shocked you were and then, suddenly, you started laughing. Anyway, why did you start talking about all that now?’

  ‘I was thinking about you and the Truong sisters a few days ago, when I was on my own, eating in a Vietnamese place, and I found myself laughing.’

  There was something in Sao’s tone that alerted Vlady that his old friend was not his usual ebullient self.

  ‘Sao? Is something wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know, Vlady. I’m a bit tired of being so readily adaptable, so mentally receptive. I no longer enjoy being a wandering Vietnamese.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I’ve made enough money here. I could return to Hue or Hanoi and live the rest of life in peace and comfort. Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course. What stops you?’

  ‘The children.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not deceiving yourself? You want to return and you don’t want to return. After Paris, could you really live in Hanoi? Be honest with yourself.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. But I don’t want to be buried here, Vlady. I want to return to my ancestors.’

  ‘Ah! Now I understand. You want to go back to the Truong sisters. But they buried themselves in a river.’

  ‘Why are you laughing at your old friend, Vlady? You cannot understand me because you people who live at home do not know what it is like.’

  ‘How wrong you are, Sao. I am a totally rootless phenomenon. Born in France, I think. Early childhood in Russia. Transplanted to the DDR when I was eight. And now the DDR has gone. Am I a German, a Russian, a non-Jewish Jew or what? You have no such problems. I don’t know what you’re complaining about. If I were you I’d spend half the year in Vietnam and the rest in Europe. Don’t pretend you’re a great family man, Sao. You’re never in Paris.’