Mysecond life began in a German prison camp and went on for a long timeas I was moved from one camp to the next. By then, I was in Siberia. I lived undermany identities. The last one was Stepan Bragin. This was my second life, andthe longest one. It lasted for thirty-two years.
Mythird life began on May 1, 1979, the day I married Yelichuri Yulan, thedaughter of an Urguma tribal chief, my Nadia. I had been released from thecamps six months earlier and was living out an epilogue to my second life. Butwe fell in love and, as I said, we got married. So I found myself, at age fifty-six,beginning a third life. It was my best life. It was also the shortest. It ended theday she died — April 4, 1983.
So those were my three lives. I have no wish for a fourth. I have no bitternessabout my fate. Four years of happiness is more than most people can claim. AndI have learned that a minute of happiness, true happiness, wipes away a year ofpain. So, to my amazement, as my time with Nadia passed, the bitterness thathad accumulated over my long, second life melted away like an ice cube left outin the sun.
So, you ask, why write these memoirs? It is not vanity, and it is not out of adesire that my story be told. In fact, it is my wish that the contents of these diariesbe kept secret, and that when my promise to Nadia is fulfilled, the person inpossession of these recollections burn them and then cast the ashes over my grave.Let the relatives of the man who was called Donald Turnhill believe he died in aplane crash all those years ago. In a way, he did.
I am putting my story to words now because I carry a terrible secret. This secretis the crux of my life — indeed, it is the whole logic of my life. I leave behind thisjournal in order that this secret not perish with my death. What I desire from thisjournal is only that it help fulfill the final wish of my beloved Nadia, whose namein Russian means “hope,” and who was my hope. It is this: that my bodily remainsbe buried in the place of my birth, the United States of America, so that we maybe joined in eternity. This is her belief, and my sacred vow to her before her death.If I fail in my quest then it is my hope that this journal can be used to fulfill thevow that, in life, I left undone.
What follows are my recollections from the three lives of Stepan Bragin.
In the dacha in Petrovka, Tarasov stopped and looked at the faces of Victor, Oksana and Katherine. They stared at him as though under a spell.
Tarasov pursed his lips. “So, for the next week, sitting on the very boulder where Bragin had given his memoirs to Chief Yulan, I read aloud the story of the three lives of Stepan Bragin.”
The room was quiet.
“What did it say?” asked Oksana. It was the first she had spoken since Tarasov had come into the house. With her question, Katherine felt the icy mood in the room thaw.
Tarasov must have felt it too, because he smiled appreciatively. He reached into his pocket and pulled out two leather-bound books. He dropped them on the coffee table.
“See for yourself.”
48
The Borovitsky Gate was a thirty-foot-high archway hollowed into one of the Kremlin’s twenty red-star-topped towers. It served as the staff-only entrance to the seventeenth-century fortress turned twentieth-century office complex that was the seat of power for the Soviet Union.
Victor Perov stood at the gate while the guard checked his pass. It was 3:00 P.M., a few hours after Konstantin Tarasov finished his story of his six months with the Urguma Eskimos. Victor waited, going over in his mind once again what he was going to say. At last, the guard waved him through, and Victor started along the driveway to the grounds. The yellow Hall of Palaces came into view and he turned toward it. He was met by another guard, who, like the first, wore the gray-and-white uniform of the elite Kremlin Guard.
“Who are you visiting?”
“Minister Yevgenia Perova.”
The guard phoned Yevgenia’s office. Her secretary gave approval, and the guard asked Victor to walk through a metal detector. He gave Victor a white VISITOR pass, which Victor pinned to his shirt pocket.
The guard said, “Second floor, end of the — ”
“I know the way.”
But Victor didn’t go to Yevgenia’s office. Instead, he followed the long hallway past her office, then climbed the twisting Catherine the Great staircase. At the top, he turned left and followed the wide corridor. As he walked, he read the door plates that bore the household names of the members of the Soviet Politburo. He stopped at the last one on the hall:
Podolok, Anatoly Mikhailovich
Party Secretary for Ideology
He went in.
The receptionist regarded Victor distrustfully. “You mean you don’t have an appointment?”
“No.”
“How did you even getin here?” she asked, eyeing the VISITOR pass. “Perhaps I should call security — ”
“Comrade Podolok will see me.”
“Is that so?”
“I guarantee it.”
“Who shall I tell him is here?”
“Donald Mortimer Turnhill.”
She got up and, with a quick warning knock, went through the door to Podolok’s inner sanctum. She came out a few seconds later.
“You may go in,” she said.
Podolok was on his feet looking at Victor with a mixture of alarm and curiosity. He stayed behind his desk, leaning on it for support. Podolok looked so frail that a bad cold might kill him. He was not what Victor had expected from the man he now knew was his mortal enemy.
“Your mother sent you?” asked Podolok.
“Yevgenia doesn’t know I’m here.”
“You gave a name to my secretary — ”
“Donald Turnhill.”
Podolok winced. “What do you know of this name?”
Victor told him.
“I assume you can prove this.”
“I have his diaries.”
Podolok’s lip turned up distastefully, and he sat down. He opened a cigarette case on his desk and tapped an imported cigarette against his bony palm. He jammed it into a long, ivory holder and then lit it. He took a deep drag as though it were an asthmatic’s inhaler nozzle. Victor remained on his feet.
Victor said, “Before you think about arresting me or turning me over to your hatchet lady, Yevgenia Perova . . .”
Podolok raised his eyebrows at that.
“. . . you should know that Turnhill himself requested that his story not be made public. And I have every intention of respecting his wish.”
Podolok regarded Victor with new interest. He motioned for Victor to sit down.
“I prefer to stand,” Victor said.
“Suit yourself,” Podolok shrugged. “So he wrote it all down, did he? Of course he would. Who would have thought that son-of-a-bitch would live all these years?”
“Turnhill wrote that General Vlasov found him after he bailed out of his plane over Czechoslovakia.”
Podolok nodded and blew smoke out his nose. “It was chaos, you cannot imagine. General Andrei Vlasov was as charismatic a Russian as you’re ever going to meet. That’s something they don’t tell you in the history books. He recruited me out of a German prison camp, so he meant freedom for me, but there was more to it than that. Vlasov laid it out so clearly — all the blunders Stalin was making, the execution of most of the top officers during the purges, thetenners they were handing out just for being captured . . . I mean, a lot of us boys were more afraid of Stalin than Hitler. The most patriotic thing we could do was form a temporary alliance with Hitler — at least, that’s the way Vlasov put it. Besides, he assured us the Germans were going to win.” Podolok smiled. “Anyway, one day in the fall of ’44 Vlasov was moving our regiment west outside Prague: No one trusted us on the Eastern Front. We were humping it through a forest and there he was, this American, his parachute all hung up in a tree like a goddamn kite.” Podolok shook his head. “It took us a half-hour to get him down. I should have shot him then.”
“But you put him in a German POW camp instead.”
Podolok nodded. “That was Vlasov’s cal
l. He said the Americans were our friends, even if they were allied with the Red Army, which was supposed to be our enemy. It was crazy. But Vlasov had his own ideas about friends and enemies, as we all know. Anyway, Vlasov asked me to march the American to the nearest POW camp. It took about two days. At the time, it didn’t seem a particularly important matter. I rather enjoyed it, actually. He was a nice kid. A bit simple.”
“How did you escape? The Americans turned over the Vlasov division to Stalin in 1944. They were executed for treason.”
“Like I said, it was chaos. I had deserted General Vlasov a few hours before the Americans got him. So there I was, a Russian, wandering around behind enemy lines. Time was running out for me, I knew. I remembered about Donald Turnhill, and went to Stalag 33. The Russians were just a day away from overtaking it; I could hear their artillery. The commandant had his own worries, so he didn’t try to stop me from seeing Turnhill. I pulled a gun on him and confiscated his uniform and his dogtags. I gave him my clothes. When the Russians finally caught up with me, I just pretended to be American. After that it was easy to blend back into a Soviet regiment.”
“And you fixed it so Turnhill went to Siberia.”
“He was supposed to be executed with the rest of the vlasovites, and to this day I don’t know what went wrong. Perhaps the Germans double-crossed me. In any event, there wasn’t much doubt about where he would wind up. He was in a German POW camp for Red Army soldiers, and he had my uniform — I knew the Russians wouldn’t believe him. They’d think his feeble Russian was some stunt to spare himself atenner. Later, after the war, when there was a big fuss about a missing vlasovite, I got kind of worried. I looked for the American then, but there were too many camps, too many fifty-eighters. Eventually, it all died down. Everyone who knew anything was dead.”
“Executed by Stalin. How convenient.”
Podolok shrugged.
Victor said, “So you fought beside the Red Army to Berlin and returned to Moscow a decorated war hero.”
“I earned those medals.”
“You would have a hard time convincing the procurator general about that,” said Victor. “‘Vlasovite’ means ‘scum’ on the streets. I hear the drunks in the subway use the word when they talk about rats.”
Podolok jammed his cigarette into the ashtray. “What do you want? I assume that’s what this is about — blackmail. Like mother, like son.”
Victor frowned. “I have the diaries. What has Yevgenia got on you?”
“Bragin’s dying confession to your brother. The son-of-a-bitch told him everything.”
Victor gasped. That was it! The reason for Anton’s incarceration! His brother knew the truth about the stub-nose man. Victor thought about the decision Yevgenia had faced that night in Leningrad — her son’s life in exchange for her ministry post — and the choice she had made. The room grew hot, and the walls seemed to press in around him.
Podolok must have read the look on Victor’s face. “Your mother signed Anton’s commitment order herself. She never hesitated.” Podolok sneered. “She’s something else, your mother, the polished product of sixty years of communism. The Iron Perova! She’s practically an argument against Lenin.”
Victor closed his eyes. The betrayal was complete. In setting out to save his brother, Victor had been prepared to confront the rot of his own system. But to find itwithin his own family? It was too much. Yet, realistically, how could his family have escaped cleanly? His mother was a product of communism as much as its emissary. The world had gone gray for Victor, and he could no longer tell the victims from the criminals. Were there no rules?
Suddenly, he thought of something Father Andrei had said. One afternoon several months back, Victor had summoned up the courage to ask the priest about the source of his bewildering self-assurance.
“Is it faith?” Victor asked.
Father Andrei smiled. “Faith in what? Your mother’s faith in communism is genuine, but does it bring her peace?” He shook his head, and his deep-set eyes glowed intensely. “You are a scientist, Victor, so you seek certainty. But there is no certainty in the world but the certainty of our own hearts.”
Victor wondered what certainty, if any, lay in his own heart. On that day in Father Andrei’s study, he had been unprepared to seek the answer. But now, with the truth about his mother laid bare before him, Victor was at last ready to set aside everything he had once believed and peer into the murky confusion of his own heart. It was the most terrifying thing he had ever attempted. At first, he saw nothing, just a muddy cloud like the scene from his nightmares. But then gradually his vision began to clear. His eyes filled with tears at what he saw. Looking back at him were the faces of the people he loved — Anton, Oksana, Grisha . . .
And Katherine.
Victor took a deep breath. Father Andrei was right: It was time to trust his own heart.
Podolok had been watching Victor thoughtfully for signs of weakness. Victor wiped away his tears and met the old eyes steadily.
“First, I want my brother Anton Perov released from Little Rock Special Psychiatric Hospital and flown to the border post on the Norwegian border.”
“Norway?” asked Podolok, surprised. “Why there?”
“It’s a NATO country. You wouldn’t dare fire across the border. And you can get Anton there more easily than anywhere in Eastern Europe.”
Podolok nodded.
“Second, I want safe passage to the same border post for myself, Oksana Filipova and her son Grisha. It’s a restricted zone, so we’ll need special passes.”
“Is that all?”
“I want you to contact the Norwegian embassy and tell them to have a physician standing by to treat Anton. You can describe his condition. You know it better than I do.”
Podolok’s face was placid, impossible to read.
“There are a few other matters,” said Victor. “They are small. I will tell them to you at the border.”
“And what, may I ask, is the plan?”
“In two days, at precisely five o’clock, your helicopter will land at the border post. You will have Anton with you. Oksana, Grisha and I will be waiting in a jeep. If you touch down one minute before five o’clock the deal is off, and I give the diaries to the KGB. After everyone is across the border, I will give you further instructions.”
“And why should I trust you? Once you are all safely in Norway, what guarantee do I have, even if I have the diaries, that you won’t reveal everything anyway?”
“You will have a hostage.”
“Who?”
“Me. I’m staying in the Soviet Union.”
Yevgenia Perova was at her desk when Podolok came through her office door and slipped into her guest chair. She was emotionless as he told her about his visit from Victor.
“I told him to stay out of this,” she said softly. She spoke as though some course of action were now ordained.
“You realize that if Anton defects there is nothing I can do to protect you in the Central Committee.”
Yevgenia nodded.
“You’ll be ruined. For the son of a Central Committee member to defect — ”
“I understand,” she said irritably. “What did you have in mind?”
“A simple double-cross. We grab the diaries and arrest them on the spot. They chose a poor location. We can control everything.”
Yevgenia nodded. “Agreed. But nothing is to happen to Victor, you understand?”
“Belov’s team will go up there tomorrow morning to lay the trap. He shouldn’t have a problem. After all, it’s his old command.”
“And you?”
“I’m flying to Little Rock tonight to get Anton. From there, we’ll fly to Murmansk. Then on to the border by Navy helicopter.”
“I’m going with you.”
Podolok blew a gust of air through his nose. “I figured as much.”
On the fourth floor of KGB headquarters, the intercom on KGB Director Oleg Shatalin’s desk buzzed. He rammed the CALL button.
“I said no phone calls,” he barked.
“I’m sorry, comrade director. This is important.”
“Who is it?”
“She says her name is Katherine Sears.”
49
The fifty-two-mile border between Norway and the Soviet Union was bridged at a single point located 130 miles north of the Arctic Circle. The Soviets imaginatively called the point A-1. It was the only place on earth where a person could walk directly from the Soviet Union into a NATO country (excluding the Bering ice bridge, which melts each summer). The nearest village was Nikel, a little, knock-about place for border guards, power station workers, and the occasional sportsman with connections sufficient to wrangle a coveted visa for the heavily patrolled area.
Two days after his meeting with Anatoly Podolok, Victor, Oksana and Grisha arrived by train in Nikel. It was the end of a busy thirty-nine hours.
They had spent the first half-day packing. Oksana filled six enormous canvas bags with a significant portion of her worldly possessions. Victor watched her grimly for a long time. When she put a warped frying pan into Bag Number Four he suggested delicately that perhaps all of these things weren’t needed.
“We don’t know what they’ll have in America,” she snapped.
Victor didn’t argue. Oksana was leaving her job, her friends, her country and her parents without so much as a good-bye. True, she was to be reunited with her husband, but that was also a source of worry. What kind of shape would Anton be in? He had looked bad when they had seen him through the telescope two months earlier. Since then, his drug therapy had continued. So Victor didn’t argue with her about the frying pan, or the plastic ashtray, or even the eleven rolls of toilet paper.
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