Hearing Hewitt, Jack remembered that Viktor Smirnov wanted to drive to the grand opening of the firing range in his repaired Buick Master Six. He guessed Elizabeth would accompany the official, and his heart thumped. Even if his hip hampered him, he hoped that if he worked day and night, and if Joe Brown lent him a hand, he’d be able to fix the car.
He told Hewitt he could count on him for the event.
On the way back to the factory, it occurred to him that perhaps he really should learn to fire a revolver.
Jack was surprised to learn that the opening of a Soviet firing range could be livelier than an American rodeo. The inauguration of the new facilities had attracted hundreds of people who milled around the open field, enjoying themselves as if at a fair. Yet, in place of midway attractions, there was a collection of cabins arranged in a row, as well as dozens of targets scattered in front of them. Jack soon found Wilbur Hewitt, who, carrying a rifle, was engaged in an animated conversation with Viktor Smirnov near a table loaded with assorted canapés. Elizabeth was with them. When Jack approached, Viktor greeted him as if they were old friends. “Jack! I was just talking about you. I was telling the Hewitts that this morning, when I left the house, I found the Buick with the keys in the ignition. It runs like a dream! You have magic hands.”
“He sure does!” Elizabeth broke in, and with a conspiratorial smile she held out her hand for Jack to kiss.
Jack tried to play along. After complimenting the young woman, he turned to Viktor. “I’m glad you’re satisfied. Even so, I’d like to keep on top of its maintenance. As you know, it’s a delicate vehicle that requires constant attention,” said Jack, hoping to prolong the favorable relationship he’d established with the Soviet official.
“Ha ha! Don’t worry, you’ve earned the right to keep that house,” Viktor replied, as if he’d read Jack’s thoughts. “Now, let’s have some fun.” He picked up the rifle that rested at his feet and showed it to the others with pride. “It’s a modified Mosin-Nagant Model 1891/30. It has a range of nearly two miles and can fire ten rounds a minute. It belonged to my father. In my family, we all shoot.” He aimed the gun at a target. “Do you?”
“Afraid not. I confess that the closest I’ve been to a firearm was at a fairground.” Jack chose not to mention the times the Soviets had pointed their weapons at him.
“Then we’ll have to put that right,” said Viktor, before wolfing down another canapé and leading the others to one of the firing cabins to show them his skills.
After a dozen volleys, as he’d agreed with Hewitt, Jack pretended to suddenly feel unwell, blaming it on the aftereffects of his accident. The Avtozavod’s general manager rushed to help him. Smirnov accepted Jack’s apology without paying much attention, and he continued to demonstrate his excellent marksmanship to Elizabeth while Jack and Hewitt withdrew. Once they were at a safe distance, Hewitt unfolded a copy of the Pravda to feign reading.
“Jack, this is going from bad to worse. I’ve spoken to the bosses in Dearborn, but all they offered were words, while folks here are still disappearing. I’m afraid it’ll be our turn any moment now.”
“But what could the Soviets have against you?”
“I mentioned it at the hospital. I suspect they want to blame me for the sabotage. Unlike the utopian Communists who dream of equality among all human beings, Sergei’s a pragmatist. He pursues his objectives like a bear hunts its prey. He doesn’t just think. He acts. And I believe he’s set his sights on us Americans.”
“But why? We’re the ones helping them build the Avtozavod. Without us—”
“You’ve got it all wrong, kid! We’re no more valuable than an old newspaper to the Soviets. We’ve been useful to them while they learned; now they’re ready to pursue their goals on their own.”
“But even if that were the case, why would they want to annihilate us? We can still help them.”
“Jack, Jack! You still think the Soviets act according to your logic, but your logic isn’t theirs. You need to open your eyes, kid. For them, the American workers have become unwelcome guests. The Americans complain. They ask to be paid what was agreed rather than the measly sum they receive after tax. They insist on decent food, decent clothes . . . Some of them even demand their passports back so they can return to the United States. Do you think they’ll allow it? That they’ll let a handful of disillusioned workers go and shout about the lies of Communism in their home countries? No, son, they won’t. They’ll silence them however they have to because, for them, the end justifies the means.”
“All right. So the means consists of exterminating the dissident Americans, and blaming you for the sabotage. And the end?”
“I told you at the hospital. The end will be millions of dollars. The money they’ll save when they justify canceling the payments owed for the construction of the Avtozavod.”
“Simply by pinning it on you?”
“Damn it, Jack! We’re not talking about the sale of a patch of land! The agreement reached between Henry Ford and Stalin included clauses on the technical support that the American executives had to provide and massive penalties for failing to fulfill the contract.”
“But if the accusation’s false, surely Henry Ford will complain.”
“Wake up, will you! For Stalin, the Avtozavod’s a personal matter. They’ve overthrown an empire; do you really think a lawsuit will scare them? They’ll fabricate false evidence to accuse us all and get what they want! They started eliminating workers they branded counterrevolutionaries to create a hotbed of unrest that would justify their subsequent outrages. And not because they want to safeguard their actions in an eventual lawsuit, which I doubt they give a damn about, but to give them an aura of legitimacy in the eyes of foreign powers that they don’t yet have diplomatic relations with.”
“I see. But what do I have to do with any of this?”
“You have to help us get out of Russia. Help me and my niece. I have the money, and you have the contacts. I’ll pay whatever you ask.”
“But why me? Can’t you just leave the country? You’re an important executive. Henry Ford will help you.”
“Ha! Old Henry’s a sly fox! He wouldn’t get me out of here if I were pointing a gun at his son’s head.”
“But if you tell him about Sergei’s plans . . .”
“That would be my death sentence! As soon as Ford suspects that the Soviets are plotting to break the agreement, he’ll make me the fall guy. Don’t you see? If he blames a single person for the sabotage, and not the organization, my guilt would be his salvation.”
“Then take your passports and escape under your own steam.”
“What passports? They took ours, just like they took yours. That’s exactly why we need you! Do you really think Sergei would allow us to just run away?” He discreetly gestured at two men shooting at a nearby cabin. “They’re watching us day and night. That’s why I wanted to meet you here. When they’re not following me, they’re on my niece’s tail, like bloodhounds.”
Jack tried to think of a solution that wouldn’t compromise him. He already had too much trouble for his liking. “You could go to the embassy. The Soviets say it’s opening next month.”
“The embassy and Ford are the same hyenas with different smiles. Do you think they’ll lift a finger to save someone whose arrest will prevent them from losing millions of dollars?” He let the newspaper drop, defeated.
Jack looked at him in silence. Hewitt had lost all but a hint of his arrogance. “And you don’t have friends you can call on?”
“Who the hell am I going to ask for help, Jack? My subordinates? They’re all scared out of their wits. None of them will make the slightest effort for me.”
“I don’t know. Maybe Smirnov can help you.” He gestured at the Soviet official. “He seems besotted with Elizabeth, he has plenty of money, and contacts, and from what I hear, he despises Sergei.”
“I don’t trust him. He works for Sergei. For the OGPU.”
Jack tried to
think. For a moment, he considered revealing to Hewitt how he was being blackmailed by Sergei. But helping the industrialist could only bring him more problems. “And what if you proved that the person behind the conspiracy is Sergei himself?”
“Prove it to whom? He’s the boss. Anyway, do you think it would do any good? The Soviets protect one another. Even if I had proof, they’d fabricate new evidence to cover up their plot.”
“So, what’s your plan?”
“I wish I had one! All I can think of is for you to obtain false passports for me and Elizabeth.”
“Do you know how dangerous that would be for me? And anyway, what makes you think I could get them?”
“Look, Jack. Let’s lay our cards on the table. I’m not asking you for charity. I’m offering you money in exchange for your help. Mountains of money. I could pay you more than you’ve ever dreamed of earning. If you want, I’ll even fund your escape to America with us.”
Jack fell silent. Mountains of money . . . his dream, within reach. He could flee Russia, and start a new life in which—
A volley of gunfire tore Jack from his fantasy. He turned pale. Since they’d set sail from New York, not a day had gone by without his dreaming of returning, but Hewitt’s proposal was absurd. Though he knew he might regret it, he looked at the industrialist with determination. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hewitt, but it’s too dangerous.”
He stood and limped off toward the exit, leaving the industrialist as wounded as if Jack had placed the targets that the Soviets were firing at over his heart.
27
Through November, the arguments between the Americans who supported the Soviet regime and the disillusioned ones who wanted to return to the United States but were unable to do so intensified to the extent that the American village was divided into two opposing camps. Jack tried to keep out of it, but when Harry Daniels’s son refused to sell pork ribs to Paul Farmer, who in response struck him on the head with a bottle, he had no choice but to intervene.
“We can’t go home, and on top of that, this bastard’s laughing at us!” bellowed the Daniels boy, his face bloody. Jack held him back as best he could. His hip smarted—Jim Daniels had bumped into him accidentally when Jack had tried to separate them.
“Goddamned bloodsucker! That’ll teach you for sitting by while we all go hungry!” Paul Farmer yelled.
Jack managed to get the young Daniels to retreat to the latrines near the village store where the argument had broken out. When Jim promised him he’d keep his distance, he limped back to the youngster’s assailant. “You think you can go around doing that to a fellow American?” he challenged him. Jack was a full head taller than Paul Farmer, but Paul’s arms were two fibrous trunks.
“My son was born here, and his Russian mother has the same right to eat a hot meal as the pikers that want to go back to the United States.”
“The same right, huh?” He threw the pack of meat he’d taken from Jim Daniels at Paul. “There. Now get out of here! And if I see you waving a bottle around again, I’ll ram it down your throat!”
Paul snatched up the package and clenched his jaw. His defiance lasted a few seconds, long enough to make sure that there were ribs wrapped in the newspaper. Then he turned around and marched off, cursing. Jack returned to the latrines to assist the Daniels boy, who was sitting near a door. When he reached him, he saw a gash on the young man’s forehead that would no doubt leave a scar for the rest of his days. He took out a handkerchief and tried to stanch the bleeding.
“Are you crazy? Do you think we can afford to get into fights?” Jack reproached him.
“It was him! The bastard was crowing about belonging to the party. He said we should either become Russians or rot in a labor camp,” he argued.
“And do you think you’ll achieve anything by getting their backs up?” yelled Jack, exasperated.
“At least I can have the pleasure of leaving him without any ribs.” He looked at Jack’s empty hands. “Where are they? Please tell me you didn’t give them to him.”
“Go home and have your mother look at that cut.” He helped him get up.
“Don’t worry, Jack. I’m fine. I’ll pick the glass out and get back to work.”
“That won’t be necessary, Jim.”
“Seriously, boss, it’s just a scratch. I’ll clean up and—”
“I said it won’t be necessary. I’m sorry, kid, but you’re fired.”
He didn’t regret it. He knew that, sooner or later, some Soviet would show up in the village asking for an explanation, and Jim would be in trouble. He wasn’t wrong: Walter now considered himself every inch the Soviet, and that afternoon he visited Jack, demanding an apology. Jack remained impassive. He assured Walter that he knew nothing about the reason behind the confrontation between the Daniels boy and Paul Farmer, and that, in any case, everything had been resolved. “All I did was separate them. You should ask them.”
“Come on, Jack! The entire village knows you’re running the food. The Soviets are starting to fume.”
“Really? Then let them fume. Like I say, all I did was stop a fight.”
“Maybe you’d be more interested if you knew that I’m fuming, too.” Walter gave Jack a recriminating look through the lenses of his metallic glasses.
“Well, blow me down. You’re fuming? You, who since joining the party, have been on double rations?”
“Look, Jack. I just came to warn you. There are more and more confrontations among the Americans, and the OGPU won’t allow a little—”
“Cut the crap, Walter! Let’s get things clear, shall we?” He got to his feet with the help of a crutch. “First off, I don’t know in what capacity you’ve shown up here, asking for an explanation. Are you here as an old friend who wants to help, or as a new Soviet who can’t stand someone else making more money than he does?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“I’d love to.” Jack’s tone hardened.
“Then listen up: I’ve been named head of security for the American camp, and I’m not going to allow anyone in my village—”
“Oh! Your village! Maybe I should bow.”
“You can be as sarcastic as you want, but better I come than the Black Crows. Damn it. All I want is for everyone in this village to live in harmony. And the way things are, with troublemakers and saboteurs all around, the last thing we need is to start fighting among ourselves.”
“Among ourselves? The first thing you and Sue did was leave the village.”
“Well, if you want some advice, you should do the same and move to the city. Then you’ll stop making people envious, living in a palace when all the other workers are cramped together in rooms the size of wardrobes.”
“I see! And who’ll pay for that? You, or the guys who’ve provided those new spectacles and that uniform?”
“It’s just a suggestion.” He pushed his glasses up his nose with his index finger.
“Great. Then let me give you another: you’d do well to look out for your fellow countrymen more, and less for the Soviets. Since you became an OGPU deputy, it seems to have been smooth sailing for you, but for the Americans being prevented from going home, or the ones disappearing, or the ones dying of hunger because of the miserable rations the Soviets allow them, this is no paradise.”
“All right, Jack. So you want to get things clear. Then let’s do that, because all these calamities don’t seem to have prevented you from turning a buck! Who are you to set yourself up as the champion of the people, when you only remember them when it’s time to make money?”
Jack could see that the conversation was only going to lead to a quarrel that he neither wanted nor needed. Like the rest of the Americans at the Avtozavod, Walter probably thought Jack’s money all came from the contraband, which must have been what made him very angry. However, he couldn’t let on that his income came directly from Hewitt, and that it was his pay in exchange for the dangerous mission entrusted to him, or that Sergei Loban himself knew of his commercial act
ivities, as he preferred to call them, and consented to them.
At the same time, and though it pained him to admit it, Walter’s accusation was to some extent right. As much as he tried to dress up his black-market dealings as a public service, the fact was that he was profiting from his fellow Americans’ needs. And perhaps Walter was also right that he would be wise to leave the American village. He could afford it, and if he struck a deal with Ivan Zarko’s nephew, the move wouldn’t stop him from continuing his business in the village store.
He guessed that if he humored Walter, his friend would be pleased. “Maybe . . . ,” he croaked, as if struggling to get the words out. “Maybe I should think about it. I don’t know . . . Maybe moving isn’t such a bad idea,” he finally said.
“Trust me, it’s the right thing to do,” Walter replied with the satisfied expression of someone who’d defeated his adversary. “Let me know when everything’s done. We’ll all be better for it, you’ll see.”
Two days later, Walter himself helped Jack into the car that would take him to the Avtozavod. Once settled in the backseat, Jack looked out of the window. The day had started wet. The driver cranked up the car, and Jack wrapped himself up in his jacket. “Thanks for coming to get me, Walter. Sergei summoned me urgently. The other day I knocked my wound, and I can barely walk.”
“It’s no big deal. It was on my way. Have you thought about what you’re going to do with your things?” He showed no interest in Jack’s hip. “I mean all the stuff you’ve collected at your house—the heater, the samovar, the billiard table . . . Are you going to sell it or take it with you? When I told Sue you were moving to the city, she thought you might have too much stuff.”
The Last Paradise Page 28
