Denouncer

by Levitt, Paul M.

  NICKY: It sounds to me as if you’ve already started working for the Ministry of Religious Affairs.

  KADAV: I certainly have.

  NICKY: Then tell your head commissar to pass the word along. If the summons I received is not withdrawn, I intend to tell what I know about everything. And as the official shredder for the Kremlin, I know a lot.

  KADAV: Nicky, you wouldn’t!

  NICKY: And why not?

  KADAV: It would be uncharitable not to turn the other cheek.

  Nicky exits. The stage is quickly cleared. We are now in Eva Giardina’s flat.

  EVA: Hard feelings, Nicky? Not at all. Our getting divorced was the best thing that ever happened to me. I got a job in the Soviet housing ministry, a job that puts me in a good position to help others. So what brings you here? Tell me. Perhaps I can be of assistance.

  NICKY: I’ve been summoned.

  EVA (laughs): What a sense of humor.

  NICKY: My intention is to head east, but I’ll need a place to stay for a few days and some money.

  EVA (laughs): You always did have a good sense of humor. East! You’d die from the cold and the lack of culture.

  NICKY: You don’t know what I’ve been going through, Eva. I’ve been breaking my neck trying to find someone to help.

  EVA: Speaking of breaking your neck, Nicky, reminds me . . . (laughs immoderately) of that joke you told when our neighbor Isaak Steinberg was summoned. Remember?

  NICKY: No, I must have forgotten.

  EVA: The one about the man who hanged himself on an apple tree? And the woman from next door asked the widow for a graft from the tree because, she said, “You never can tell, but it may bear the same fruit for me.”

  NICKY: Funny. (doesn’t laugh)

  EVA (laughing): It’s hysterical! (pause) You don’t look good, Nicky.

  NICKY: I’ll be all right . . . if I can stay with you and get some ready cash. My flat has some valuables worth selling. With your contacts . . .

  The telephone rings; Eva answers it

  EVA: Yes, Mrs. Tukhachevsky? (pause) Yes, I promise. The flat will be available in two or three days. All we have to do is sell the furniture and knickknacks. Of course I’ll ring you. Good-bye. (hangs up)

  NICKY: I’ll make you a deal. Walking the streets, as I’ve been doing, is no pleasure.

  EVA: No pleasure! (laughs) That’s a good one. (laughs immoderately) It reminds me of the joke you told after Isaak Steinberg’s funeral . . . the one about the widow who was walking behind the bearers at her husband’s funeral and cried out to them: “Don’t go so fast; there’s no need to make a hurry of such pleasure.” (laughs) I never heard anything so funny before. (laughs immoderately) It’s hysterical.

  NICKY: Hysterical is what I am at the moment. I’ve been denounced.

  EVA (still laughing): No need . . . to make a hurry . . . of such a pleasure. (suddenly serious) What’s the deal you want to make?

  NICKY: Give me an advance against the sale of my belongings and you can send the rest to me later.

  EVA: But that’s unethical.

  NICKY: I need the money!

  EVA: When you work for the Ministry of Housing, you can’t afford to let friendship get in the way. If I do this for you, I’d have to do it for everyone.

  NICKY: Come now, Eva, all I’m asking for is a simple favor. You know the flat inside and out. You lived in it for three years. Whatever you think the furnishings are worth, I’ll take. No questions asked.

  EVA: Nicky, I’m doing you a favor by not getting involved. If I sell your possessions secretly, and the ministry finds out, it will only be harder for you.

  The telephone rings. Eva answers it.

  Mrs. Tukhachevsky, I told you. I know every stick of furniture in the flat. You needn’t go out and buy a thing. It has everything you and your husband have been looking for: a leather sitting chair, an inlaid coffee table, a Victorian floor lamp, a Finnish couch. (pause) Unusual? Not at all, Mrs. Tukhachevsky. Circumstances. Uh huh . . . called away. Summoned, you might say. (pause) Dirt cheap. The owner’s in no position to bargain. (pause) Don’t thank me, thank the denouncer. Right. (pause) Well, you could do one thing. Contact the Ministry of Housing and tell them that the previous tenant and I are going over the details at this very moment. Not at all. Good-bye. (hangs up the telephone)

  NICKY: That call?

  EVA: A friend of a friend . . . Mrs. Tukachevksy.

  NICKY: The flat . . . with the leather chair and Finnish couch.

  EVA: It belonged to a former acquaintance of mine.

  NICKY: Former?

  EVA: Deceased . . . you might say.

  NICKY: I ought to shoot you.

  EVA: Wa-a-ait a minute, Nicky. Don’t blame me for what’s happening to you. After all, when Isaak Steinberg was taken away, you didn’t say anything. Not a word. So you can’t very well complain now.

  NICKY: You’re right. I should have helped Isaak. But what about you?

  EVA: What do you mean?

  NICKY: I’m standing here right now. I’m not next door.

  EVA: Believe me, Nicky, if I let you stay here or give you money, it will only make matters worse.

  NICKY: They can’t be any worse.

  EVA: They can, Nicky, believe me: they can. By bringing me into this situation, you could cause the loss of something far more important than your life.

  NICKY: What’s that?

  EVA: My life.

  Someone is knocking on the door and shouting “open up!” Ivan Goniff and others burst into the room as the curtain falls.

  To enthusiastic applause and laughter, the cast took several bows and then cleared the stage of props and scenery. Filatov’s face was ashen, as his two colleagues whispered to him earnestly. Sasha had gone backstage to help strike the set. From his vantage point behind the curtain, he could see the three police officers huddled so closely that their heads nearly touched. Galina had promised to say a few words about the play, and Sasha urged her not to keep the audience waiting, most of whom remained in the room, either to frequent the stalls, or to chat, or to hear Galina. The three secret police officers disengaged and came to the foot of the stage.

  Galina’s public explanation differed only slightly from what she had told Sasha. The play had originally been written in 1933 for the Moscow State Radio, but during rehearsals the censor had shelved it. A member of the Politburo close to Nikolai Bukharin had made the script available to his nephew, whom she failed to identify as Goran Youzhny. She likewise failed to mention that the play had been commissioned by the Leningrad Communist Party. “The playwright,” she said candidly, “was none other than the former director of the Michael School, Avram Brodsky, who at my request adapted it for the stage.”

  The audience quickly glanced around and, no doubt owing to the presence of the OGPU, failed to call for the author. When Sasha emerged from backstage, Filatov summoned him. Confronting the three police officers, he counterfeited a smile. No response. Larissa, broad faced and blond, with pale blue eyes, looked stoically Ukrainian. Basil’s narrow face, sunken cheeks, dark eyes, and yellow teeth, brought to mind a wolf in search of a bone. Certainly, thought Sasha, a former lawyer could afford a dentist.

  “If I’m not mistaken, you owe me a letter,” said Filatov calmly.

  Debating whether to plead overwork, Sasha decided the less said the better and answered laconically, “Correct.”

  “Then why haven’t I received it?”

  “My contacts with Brodsky, which are frequent enough, haven’t turned up any information worth passing along.” Trying to anticipate Filatov’s next question, he added, “He even failed to react to my censorious comments about Radek and the Left Opposition.”

  Filatov shook his head with a jerk, as if trying to dislodge water from an ear after swimming. His expression read, “I’m tired
of waiting.”

  “We can talk now, if you wish,” Sasha politely suggested.

  Pause.

  “This play,” Filatov asked suddenly, “whose idea was it?”

  “The playwright’s.”

  Filatov looked at the floor and then slowly raised his head. “I will listen to an intelligent argument in opposition, but I will not tolerate insolence.”

  At that moment, both Larissa and Basil, their faces blank, were penning notes on similar flip-lid, pocket-size pads, official OGPU issue. Apparently protecting the country required one to relinquish all feeling and transmogrify into stone. Filatov was the exception. Sasha knew, therefore, not to abuse the feelings of this officer, feelings that were all too rare in the secret police.

  “My apologies. I was trying to protect the innocent.”

  Filatov ran his thumb from his lower lip to his chin, a gesture that he had used during their first interrogation. “Name them!”

  “The director, the actors, and the writer.”

  A second later, the policeman in Filatov smartly went to work. He directed Larissa to interview Galina, and Basil to question the actors. As the two officers went their separate ways, Filatov gently touched Sasha’s arm and patiently explained, as if talking to a child, that the tensions between the Leningrad Soviets, the home of the Right Opposition, and the Moscow Soviets had been and still were tense, especially in light of Kirov’s murder.

  Boris lowered his voice and asked, “Did you hear about the assassination attempt on Lukashenko’s life? This morning . . . in Ryazan. It failed.” Then in a normal voice: “No need to protect the identity of the person who selected Brodsky’s play. I’m pretty certain I know.”

  Clever man, this Filatov, mused Sasha. But if he thinks I’ll ask him to share his thoughts, he’ll wait for the rest of his life.

  An unduly long pause on the part of Filatov followed. He was apparently waiting for Sasha to take the bait. When he realized that his ploy hadn’t worked, he remarked rather sharply, “You’ve been denounced yet again. This time for calling our Soviet textbooks biased, and for allowing a wall poster to go undetected for almost a day, a poster in praise of Trotsky. Are you utterly without sense? On these two accounts alone, I could have you jailed.”

  Convinced that Filatov was a consummate actor who wished to render him defenseless, and therefore had just played the part of the outraged but compassionate cop, Sasha decided to try boldness instead of submission, an approach that surprised Filatov.

  “You say you’ll listen to a reasoned argument to explain the production of the play, good.” With more daring than he’d exhibited ever before, Sasha declared that they both knew that if the OGPU hoped to pin anything on Brodsky, they needed Sasha to draw out the ex-director. Had Filatov forgotten how Hamlet used the same technique, a play, to discover the guilt of his uncle? Through the production of the play, Sasha had hoped to achieve a similar effect. Brodsky might reveal himself. But Brodsky had not attended the performance, a miscalculation that Sasha owned up to.

  For the first time in years, Filatov found himself speechless.

  Sasha took it as his cue to continue. “Although, as you saw for yourself, Brodsky was not in the audience, he knew it was to be acted and seemed exceedingly pleased. Now you can draw your own conclusions. Is he serving the Soviets or the Left Opposition? If the latter, then he would want his play to elicit sympathy, not laughter; if the former, he would expect to hear execrations. Did you hear the audience? Laughter. So what do you conclude?” Sasha paused. “Laughter lends itself to contradictory interpretations. The audience may have been tickled or teased to reflect. Which? Who knows? And as for Brodsky, what he thinks is anyone’s guess.”

  The shine on Filatov’s shoes had faded. He kneeled and rubbed them with his handkerchief. In that position, he noticed that Sasha’s footwear was badly worn. Shoes had played an important role in Filatov’s life. He and his brother had shared a pair so that in winter one or the other could attend school. In his closet at home, he had fourteen pairs stored in a neat row. Some people thought that clothes or uniforms or epaulets made the man. Not Filatov. Shoes.

  “I judge from your shoes, Comrade Parsky, that your expenses are so great that they have kept you from a new pair.”

  A knowing smile crept across Sasha’s face. He had given his best shoes to Petr Selivanov when he had left for Ryazan. The poor man had been reduced to putting strips cut from old tires into his torn boots. Once Sasha realized that he and Petr wore the same size, a fact that he found strangely comforting, he gladly parted with his black dress shoes, which he had little or no occasion in Balyk to wear.

  Sasha played on sentiment. “Alya’s pony is costly, but the child’s smile is worth it. Shall we eat?” At one of the food booths, he asked for two plates of blintzes with a generous dab of sour cream.

  Filatov insisted on paying. “Your boots! Remember?”

  Maneuvering the policeman through the milling crowd to a quiet spot, Sasha tried to redirect the conversation to the school. “The students are reluctant to return to cold rooms with inadequate light. What we need is a dormitory. Living with the locals has its disadvantages; the students are constantly subjected to superstition.”

  “Yes, but their having to share the houses of farmers and craftsmen also has a good side. The experience teaches them to value education. They appreciate all the more their good fortune in being enrolled here.”

  “You are an intelligent man, Comrade Filatov. Tell me: Why is it that Soviets think hardship, hunger, abuse, and even beatings are useful prerequisites for a formal education?”

  Savoring a blintz, Filatov replied, “Because there is no better teacher than pain. I once heard Stalin explain that in the Georgian language one of the meanings of ‘beatings’ is to educate.”

  When Larissa and Basil returned, Boris thanked Sasha for the typewritten invitation and told him he expected a “full report” sooner rather than later. He then excused himself and exited with the comment, “I want Larissa and Basil to meet Comrade Brodsky.”

  12

  His last night in Balyk before leaving for Ryazan, Petr Selivanov had made a special meal for the four of them: duck a l’Orange, rice pilaf, steamed asparagus with butter, and, of course, strong black tea. The meal had begun with shots of vodka and Petr’s succinct but heartfelt speech of appreciation for Sasha’s hospitality, which included a pair of shoes. Alya cried, and Petr promised to return, though he never said when. Sasha knew that after the Fortress Plot, Petr would be leaving for Kiev and his new girlfriend, and that he was unlikely to pass this way again. During the course of the meal, he distributed gifts: for Alya a riding crop, for Galina a zircon bracelet, and for Sasha a collection of handwritten poems that had been passed from one person to another (samizdat).

  “One day, the Lord willing, these banned poems will see print, but probably not until Stalin dies, which can’t come soon enough.”

  So blasphemous were Petr’s words that before Galina and Sasha could thank him for their gifts, they instinctively scanned the room, terrified that someone might have heard.

  The next morning, Alya crawled into the attic to say good-bye, but Petr had already left. Sasha had reason to suspect that in the early hours, Petr had quit his attic aerie and crawled into Galina’s bed. Although Petr had taken great care not to make any noise, the wooden ladder leading to the attic loft squeaked. Sasha had pretended not to hear.

  ✷

  As the train clickety-clacked toward Ryazan, Petr mentally pictured priming the dynamite sticks made from nitroglycerin, soaked in diatomaceous earth or powdered seashells, but not sawdust, which was unstable. Two sticks, he thought, would do the job nicely, assuming they were each about 8 inches long and 1.25 inches around, and each weighed about half a pound. He trusted that he would have available to him reliable blasting caps and fuses or electrical cable. An elderly woman, across
the aisle, opened her chestnut-brown rattan picnic basket. Her jaws moved in anticipation of her savory snack. Eyeing Petr’s new shoes, she concluded, though he hungrily smiled at her, he had no need of a handout. When the food porter pushed his wagon through the car, he too noticed Petr’s shoes and nodded approvingly. Petr bought a cup of tea and a roll. Before long, he realized that others in the car were pausing to stare at his shoes, which had become objects worthy of admiration among all these badly shod people. Before the train reached Ryazan, Petr carried his military service bag to the men’s room and slipped into his old boots. On his current mission, he certainly didn’t need to be calling attention to himself.

  A tram took him to within walking distance of Viktor’s flat. But instead of walking directly to the building, an ugly cement slab, one among many, he circled the block to make sure he wasn’t being followed. The front door stood slightly ajar, and the elevator wasn’t working. It was as if time had stood still. Nothing had changed since he last saw Viktor. The hall still reeked from cooking odors and urine. Given the paucity of public toilets, people simply took it upon themselves, when walking down the street and feeling the need to pass water, to duck into a building hallway.

  Petr nervously knocked on Viktor’s fourth-floor flat. The peephole in the door moved and an eye appeared. Viktor mumbled some undistinguishable words, opened the door, and quickly closed it behind Petr. Without speaking, Viktor led his guest into the back room and unlocked the closet. Inside was a wooden crate stamped with German words. Not even pausing to take off his overcoat, Petr kneeled and asked for a claw hammer; then he carefully pried loose the top boards.