“Oh, but I can imagine it, Jack. I’m surrounded by people who haven’t even had the opportunity to fight for the things you lost.”
“You don’t understand what I’m saying. I’m not talking about some stranger. I’m talking about myself. About what they did to me. For as long as I can remember, I’ve broken my back to make something of my life, and now that I’m getting somewhere again, a little daddy’s girl like you shows up to give me lessons on morality and—”
Natasha stood without giving Jack time to finish his sentence. “All right, Mr. Beilis. Perhaps we’ll have a chance to continue this conversation some other time . . . when your wounds have healed.”
Jack nodded without paying much attention. He was suddenly lost in thought, remembering the days when hunger was his only companion. Then, he seemed to reconsider. “I’m sorry . . . I don’t know what came over me. Yes. Hopefully, I’ll be back on my feet soon. The rim around the burn seems to be closing and—”
“I didn’t mean your hip. I meant the wounds on your soul.”
For the next few days, there was no sign of Natasha.
At first, Jack thought her absence owed itself to the prickly argument they’d had on the last night she saw him, but then it struck him that she was not the kind of woman to abandon a patient over such a trivial matter. Also, the rumor had spread in the ward that, in the clashes that broke out after the strike, many of the agitators who had been sent to the prison camps had been injured, and Natasha Lobanova had traveled there to assist them. At any rate, Jack worried, because he needed her to discharge him from the hospital.
As for his wound, it was improving a little each day. The pain was no longer constant, and though he limped badly, he’d begun to walk with the help of crutches. He spent the mornings doing rehabilitation exercises and hobbling around the little courtyard garden to which he had access. After lunch, they changed his dressing; then he used the rest of the afternoon to study some of the Bolshevik books they had in the library—he guessed that, the more he knew about his enemies, the easier it would be to profit from them. The last work he’d looked through was entitled “Economics and Politics in the Era of the Dictatorship of the Proletariat,” an essay by Lenin, the father of the October Revolution, which he’d found tremendously unsettling. It advocated the abolition of all private property, which would come into the possession of the state on behalf of all workers.
Jack thought it over for a while, reaching the conclusion that the idea was madness. It might’ve been an improvement on a medieval society like the Russia of old, when the landed gentry treated their workers like slaves, but that certainly wasn’t the situation in the United States. The Depression would end there, and America would once again be a rich country full of opportunity, where any enthusiastic entrepreneur with two cents in his pocket could build an empire with hard work and daring. And clearly, anyone in his right mind would consider it an injustice if the state then came along and snatched everything that enterprising individual had worked for.
He imagined himself returning to America, his pockets full, to open a repair shop that in time he could expand into a chain of stores. It was just a dream, of course, but dreaming was one of the few things a man could do in the Soviet Union.
He also read a worn volume on the idea of equality between men and women, penned by Lenin and entitled The Emancipation of Women, and he was deeply affected by it. It was the first time he had thought about the subject. Women were women, and they seemed happy with their role as mothers and wives. And it wasn’t that he was opposed to women working outside of the home: in the United States, they worked as cleaners, secretaries, telephone operators, teachers . . . and these seemed like occupations right for them. What he had never considered was the possibility that women could work effectively as miners, train drivers, aviators, or hospital directors. Yet in Russia, people like Natasha Lobanova, or the large female contingent doing the same jobs with identical salaries as the male operatives at the Avtozavod, proved that it was possible. Seeing the results, not only did Jack agree with Lenin that women should have the same rights as men, but he was also surprised at how quickly and effectively the Soviets had popularized a set of principles that, despite their obvious fairness, had never been adopted in any other country.
He was aware that any knowledge he could acquire might one day get him out of trouble. He asked for paper and a pencil, and devoted himself to writing notes on all of the topics that captured his attention, including those he took issue with. The list grew, as did his interest in some aspects of the revolution.
The last book that fell into his hands was a transcript of Lenin’s lecture at the Sverdlov University, in which he analyzed the power relations that had shaped the development of societies through history.
He read reluctantly. Jack had never been interested in history: the past was the past. In fact, all he remembered from his time at school was that the United States had been formed on July 4, 1776, and that after the Civil War, slavery had been abolished. However, Lenin’s lecture described situations he’d never considered before, such as the fact that, regardless of the historical era or type of government in question, the people or class in power had always exercised that power for their own benefit.
Though he found his reading stimulating, Natasha’s continued absence worried him.
It wasn’t until a week later that the doctor finally appeared, her blond braids knotted on top of her head and her fatigue visible on her face. The young woman barely returned Jack’s greeting when she removed the bandage from his hip. She just checked that the hole made by the burn was continuing to close. Jack assumed her silence was because of the argument they’d had the last time they saw each other. He apologized for it.
“Don’t worry. It’s not you. I’m just exhausted. The burn’s healing well, and there’re no signs of infection. How are you feeling?”
“Much better. The pain’s almost gone, and I’m walking without crutches now,” he lied.
“I bet you can’t wait to be back on your feet.” Jack let her put her arms around him to finish bandaging his hip. “Good.” She moved away when the dressing was done. “Tomorrow morning I’ll sign you out. I’ll prescribe some exercises that’ll help you regain your strength.”
“Wait. Don’t go yet. I wanted to ask you . . .”
“Yes?”
“It’s about these books.” He showed them to her. “I’ve been reading, and to be fair, some of it makes sense.”
“Now, that is an improvement.”
“Still, there’re some aspects I don’t understand. Lenin says there was a time when kings, emperors, tyrants, bishops, nobles, and dictators conspired to increase their wealth at the expense of their subjects, but he says those days ended with the French Revolution.”
Jack’s words seemed to soothe Natasha, her weary face relaxing. “That’s right. Until then, the people were prisoners of their own ignorance, but Voltaire, Diderot, and D’Alembert created the Encyclopédie, a compendium of knowledge that challenged the political and religious authorities, and which, along with Descartes’s treatises, was the spark that ignited a people sick of poverty and oppression.”
“Yes, that’s what he says. For the first time, the masses united and overthrew the enslavers who’d tyrannized them, and took possession of their own destiny. Yet, how is it, after such a great victory, that the tyrants came to rule the world again?”
“Because of ambition and greed, Jack. Like germs, the exploiters regrouped. They grew, they manipulated, and they flourished; the Industrial Revolution was their ideal breeding ground. And like germs, they infected society in the guise of the bourgeoisie, building factories, monopolies, and banks, the ultimate purpose of which was to seize power and wealth again, while the rest of humanity was enslaved once more. States, even those that called themselves democracies, became the perfect vehicle to support and maintain the obscene balance of power: everything for a few, and nothing for the rest. Sad, isn’t it?”
Jack nodded, only half aware of what he was doing. Natasha’s conviction was so strong that for a moment he felt trapped. He tried to respond. “But if there are no owners, who will provide us with work?”
“Nobody. That’s why a new revolutionary state was needed—to take control of the means of production and share the profits among the workers themselves.”
Jack fell silent. He had no doubt that in some respects Natasha was right. But after witnessing the terrible living conditions of the Soviet people firsthand, he was also certain that no American would have immigrated to the Soviet Union if they had known about the true situation. “Will you be back to do another dressing tonight?” was all he could think to say.
“No. I’ve had a hectic few days, and I need to rest. Dr. Dimitrenko will be covering for me. If there’s anything you need, he’ll be able to—”
“And tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow? But you won’t be here tomorrow.”
“But you’ll need to have dinner, I guess.”
“Are you trying to flirt with me?” She smiled.
“No, of course not!” he joked. “I just wanted to continue this conversation in order to nurture a better understanding between our two great nations.”
“Good heavens, Jack! I’m glad you’re concerned about improving diplomatic relations between our countries.” She smiled again. Then she paused for a moment, as if considering Jack’s invitation, but out of nowhere her smile froze and she stood up. “The truth is I wouldn’t mind having dinner with you and chatting for a while, but I don’t think it’s going to be possible.”
“And why not? You’ll have to eat, and at my house I can make some fabulous food.”
“So, you haven’t heard? I assumed my colleagues would’ve told you.” Her face darkened.
“Heard? Heard what?”
“It shouldn’t have been me who told you, but . . . I’m sorry, Jack. The reason why I’ve discharged you early isn’t because your wound has improved. It’s because tomorrow they’re sending you to a labor camp.”
25
It was the third day of his detention in Sector One of the ispravdom, and Jack still didn’t know why he’d been locked up. All he had been able to find out from one of his jailers was that he was one of 250 political prisoners detained there separately from the 3,500 ordinary inmates who lived in the labor camp. He guessed that he must be considered one of the worst of them, for, since his admittance, he’d been kept in solitary confinement, with no medical attention other than the eye test performed by a male nurse on his arrival.
He stood to walk the three paces that constituted the length of his cell, a shoebox-sized cubicle where, on one of its damp, rotting walls, he could make out the place where they had bricked up a window. The cell’s amenities consisted of a straw mattress, a blanket, and a bucket in which to relieve himself, as well as a bowl of icy water that they handed him every morning along with a few out-of-date newspaper pages.
He sat again to gaze at the cup of chai they’d given him for breakfast. Though it was more barley flour dissolved in dirty water than actual tea, he greedily drank down every last drop. Then he squeezed his stomach, thinking ahead to the usual bowl of balanda that they would give him at midday. He hoped that the vegetable broth would offer more nourishment than the oatmeal and herring that had made him throw up the night before. He remembered Natasha. On the one hand, he found it difficult to believe that she could be in any way involved in his arrest, but at the same time, he couldn’t help being suspicious of the daughter of the man who’d had him incarcerated.
The sound of the lock pulled him from his thoughts. By the time the guard had opened the door, he was standing at attention. As he straightened, his hip seared with pain. Through the door appeared a uniformed guard, who, with all the compassion of an executioner, ordered Jack to follow him. After making him wash in the communal bathroom, the guard led Jack to an open-air courtyard where a group of Russian prisoners waiting to be assigned work wandered around. They looked half starved, and they scratched themselves as if being eaten alive by lice. Jack limped to a corner where he lit a papirosa. A prisoner with a shaved head and dark rings around his eyes approached and asked for a cigarette. Jack examined the man for a moment, then took out the packet they’d allowed him to keep and let him take one.
“Strange getup, my friend!” He patted the shoulder pads on Jack’s jacket. “Foreigner?”
Jack nodded. He wasn’t in the mood for talking, but it was the first person who’d spoken to him, and he thought he might be able to glean some information. “American.”
“I’m Ukrainian. From Odessa. What’re you in here for? The Avtozavod strike?” He sat beside Jack.
“I wish I knew. Where are we? They brought me here at night. All I know is that I am at some kind of a work camp.”
“That’s what they call it, but it’s a slave camp. They arrest people, let them out during the day to clear fields, then lock them up again at night. Until they’re too tired to work. Then they’re sent to rot in Siberia.”
“And what about you, why are you in here?”
“Come on.” He took Jack by the arm. “Let’s get away from the loudspeakers. Listening to the propaganda all day can turn you into a vegetable.”
Jack let himself be led. As they walked to the other side of the courtyard, the man introduced himself as Kuzmin, a miner in the Donbass who had been expelled from the Communist Party for planning counterrevolutionary activities. “That’s what they accuse me of, but in reality all I did was protest against their exploitative methods.”
Jack wasn’t especially interested in Kuzmin’s story, but the man seemed unable to keep quiet. He explained that, in his old job, all the miners had a basic wage that would increase according to how productive they were. The more coal they extracted, the bigger the bonus.
“It seems fair that you earn more for working harder,” Jack conceded. He warmed his lungs with a long draw on his cigarette.
“The problem was that some crazy men worked too hard, and, instead of the seven tons that they were required to extract each day, they extracted almost a hundred tons of coal a day.”
“If they worked like dogs, I don’t see why they shouldn’t be rewarded for it.”
“You don’t understand. The mine’s officials concluded that if some men were capable of digging out a hundred tons, the rest of them should be able to extract at least forty for the same salary. When my workmates and I protested against the increase in the workload with no kind of compensation, we were arrested.”
“Hmm . . . Looking at it like that, they did do the dirty on you. And what’re you doing here, so far from Ukraine?” He thought that Kuzmin might possess some useful information. He offered him another papirosa to keep him talking. When he accepted it, Jack noticed that the man was missing three fingers from one hand.
“I’m awaiting trial.” He kissed the cigarette and put it in his pocket. “My workmates were tried right away, and sent to a prison in Odessa, but they brought me to Gorky. I’m convinced I’m going to be shot.”
“How long does it take before trials are held?”
“As long as those bastards want. There’re people here who’ve been waiting a year, though usually it takes only three or four months. It depends whether your case is with the People’s Court or the OGPU.” Kuzmin noticed that his mention of the secret police alarmed Jack. “It was them? In that case, not good . . .”
“Not good? What do you mean?”
“I mean you won’t even have a trial. No one has authority over the OGPU. No one! You’ll be lucky to get out of here alive.”
“But you don’t even know what they’re accusing me of.”
“Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t talk to you anymore—OGPU prisoners only bring trouble. If you want some advice, when they interrogate you, do not question their laws or methods. In fact, try to take advantage of them. The OGPU officers are like automatons, following Soviet law to the letter. If you can find a
way to make use of their own laws, they won’t touch you until they can consult with Moscow, and in the meantime, you’ll earn a few extra months of life. In the end, they’ll condemn you anyway, but you’re better off spending three months in Gorky plowing fields than breaking rocks in a Siberian gulag. Good luck, and thanks for the cigarettes.”
After Jack spent an hour pacing alone, another guard led him to the infirmary, where a doctor listened to his chest and asked him about his limp. Jack gave the same answers he’d given on arrival. When the doctor was satisfied, he administered some powder to the wound and ordered Jack to wait in an adjoining room. He sat on the only chair in the space until, half an hour later, the door opened and Natasha Lobanova appeared. Seeing her, Jack stood, but she gestured to him to sit down again.
“Natasha, what’re you doing here?”
“Trying not to abandon my patient. How are you?”
“How do you think?” Jack spat at her. “Was it your father?”
“I don’t understand . . .”
“I’m asking you whether it was Sergei who ordered my imprisonment. I don’t know why I’m here, or what I’m accused of, or when they’re going to let me go. A few inmates have told me that if the OGPU detains someone, then he is a condemned man.”
“Honestly, I don’t know the circumstances surrounding your arrest. I never get involved in my father’s business, but I can assure you he’s an honest man, and—”
“He is? Then when you see him, please tell him that, honestly, he has locked up a man whose only crime was to tell the truth.”
“Look, I’m not here to argue with you. I thought you’d appreciate the visit, but if you’d rather I left, I’ll get another doctor to tend to you.”
Jack looked at her. He didn’t know what it was, but there was something about Natasha that he found comforting. He took off his bandage very slowly and sat in silence. She ran her fingers around the rim of the wound, pressing the skin lightly.
The Last Paradise Page 26
