Denouncer

by Levitt, Paul M.

  The menu included fish and lamb and wine, with fresh-baked loaves. A special cook had been employed to prepare the dishes. Student monitors served the food. Filatov sat regretting his May Day speech, which he knew missed the mark. He should have ignored it and spoken of Party loyalty and the dangers of dissent. Instead he had talked about the current crisis in Europe and Asia. How many of his listeners even knew of civil wars in those places? Most of Balyk’s citizens couldn’t read. And the speech had been diffuse and pretentious. He wished to call back those stilted, repetitive words.

  We call for a common front of the workers of the world to oppose fascist aggression. We deplore the failure of Great Britain, France, and the United States to stop international fascist brigandage in Spain and China and Austria. The English, French, and Americans cynically lie when they say they cannot check such aggression. All they need do is accept the proposal of the Soviet Union for joint action against the warmongers by all states that are interested in the preservation of peace. The Western countries must reinforce action by measures of economic pressure. Let the fascist bandits be deprived of credit; refuse them the raw materials that are necessary for conducting war; close the channels of trade to them.

  Cease blockading republican Spain. Open the borders and let the Spanish people buy armaments freely. Such action would be enough to make fascism retreat like a whipped dog. We must arm the republicans. The proletarians of France—renowned descendants of the Paris Communards—must demand immediate removal of the blockade from republican Spain. Workers of England must force their ruling classes to end their policy of supporting fascism and of hostility to the land of socialism. Proletarians of the United States must demand a policy that outlaws the fascist violators of universal peace, a policy worthy of the tradition of Lincoln and Washington. Demand immediate removal of the embargo on the export of arms to Spain.

  And so we celebrate this May Day filled with proud consciousness that the magnitude and sublimity of the goals we fight for inspire us, and with the feeling of profoundest solidarity and union with the proletarians of all lands and peoples.

  A conflicted Filatov shook his head. What the government called “unity,” he called “lockstep conformity.” Every village in the Soviet Union had been issued the same speech to be read from the reviewing stand. He was merely a mouthpiece for some apparatchik in Moscow who had been told what to write. Couldn’t they have asked a poet to craft the speech? Probably not. Most of the writers—poets, novelists, and playwrights—had been imprisoned or exiled. Pasternak was still free. Why hadn’t he been asked to write the speech; or was he, too, on his way out? What a country, thought Filatov, such a beautiful country. It was all so sad. And considering the business ahead made him sick.

  “A toast,” said Filatov, reclining at the table and holding up his wine glass, “to Mother Russia, to socialism, and to Stalin.”

  “Hear! Hear!” the diners cried and clinked their glasses.

  As if to steel himself for what was coming next, Filatov swallowed his wine in one gulp, and then twice more filled his glass from the decanter, each time draining it with a toss of his head. He unfolded his linen napkin, blotted his lips, paused, and folded it. The others watched. Had Filatov spread it on his lap or chest, the guests would have followed suit. But since he seemed to have more to say, they sat motionless in their chairs anticipating the major’s explanation for why they had been summoned to this Faustian feast. Filatov knew that everyone among them had sold his soul, in fact, many times over, and that there is no witness so dreadful, no accuser so terrible, as conscience.

  The decisive time had come, the minatory moment when he’d have to accuse wrongdoers and make arrests. He detested these occasions.

  Allow me to say, at the outset, I joined the police not to apprehend people, but to maintain order in these troubled times. Given all the different languages spoken in our vast land, and the many religions, and the myriad views, the Vozhd found it necessary to go back on Lenin’s promise that every nationality would be allowed to observe its own culture. As the Great Leader pointed out, that way lies madness. Similarly, we cannot allow different views of socialism: those of the Social Democrats, of the Mensheviks, of the Constitutionalists, of the Left Opposition, of the Right Opposition. A farrago of political theories is not a country. A mélange is not a government. The Soviet Union rests on a body of incontestable principles, and those who would seek to undermine those principles sow discord and confusion. They are enemies of the people. To keep our glorious revolution from being undone by self-serving factions and oppositionists, we must remain eternally vigilant.

  It was to that purpose I joined the police and dedicated myself. As you all know, police forces throughout the world depend on informants to keep anarchy at bay. Better, of course, to prevent a crime than to punish it. That’s where you, my dear guests, enter the picture. All of you labor in the service of one opinion or another. Harmless opinions the government ignores, reckless ones we try to neutralize. How? By acting before our enemies act. To accomplish this task, we must obtain information that enables us to know what our enemies think and where they intend to strike. Some of you here tonight have earned the gratitude and rewards of working with the Soviet state. Woe to you who persist in the error of your ways. If Stalin is right about how to proceed—and I think he is—then why do some resist? Is it because of culture, religion, foreign money, obstinacy to truth? In our experience, those who oppose us are either mad, in which case we put them in mental institutions, or brigands bent on feathering their own nests. It is they who must be rooted out and . . . dealt with by the courts. Do I make myself clear?

  The twelve guests sat transfixed; they dared not even move their eyes to gauge what others might be thinking. The student monitors had left the serving door ajar and looked like peeping gargoyles, each one peering over the shoulder of another. No one even turned his head to see the heavy rain spattering the windows. No one even moved a fork or a muscle or an eyelid. Some mouths remained shut, others agape. All breathing seemed to have stopped. Filatov inhaled deeply remembering the excitement he felt when walking in the rain through the forest adjoining his village. He could see the white birch and alder and cedar and pines, and hear the squishy sounds of leaves underfoot. When he ran barefoot through the forest, the leaves felt like moist cushions and stuck to his feet. He loved spring rains, the water rolling off his beaked Lenin’s cap, the earth’s attar, the perfumed pine scents, the drops, which in the splintered light resembled crystal earrings, dripping into the undergrowth of ferns and ivy from the overhead canopy of cedars, whose roots turned the local rivers brown.

  “You’re not eating,” said Filatov, breaking the spell. “Eat the bread and lamb. The fish is river trout. Feed your bodies. Drink the wine. It is a good wine, aged, the color of blood.”

  One of the student waiters took the decanter and tried to refill Filatov’s glass. “Allow me, Comrade Major.”

  Putting his hand over the top of the glass, Filatov said, “I will not drink again of this fruit of the vine until the wreckers and enemies of the people identify themselves. It would be better for you not to have been born than to take refuge in silence.” No one moved and no one spoke. Filatov ominously continued, “The hands of the traitors rest on this very table. I repeat: Woe to you.”

  With downcast eyes, the guests began to ask themselves who among them might fit the major’s accusations of violating the covenant, namely, of betraying Soviet rule?

  “I tell you,” repeated Filatov, “that betrayers sit among us.”

  Larissa touched Filatov’s arm and said, “Surely not I?” Basil did the same.

  Then, taking their cue from Larissa, everyone else at the table repeated, “Surely not I.”

  Filatov responded to the chorus of voices with a knowing smile. As if staged, he assured his two aides of their innocence. To which of the guests, then, was the major referring? The sound of silverware ceased.
The eating came to a halt. Quiet reigned.

  “You put me in the unenviable position of having to name names. I would rather not bear this cross, but if I must . . .”

  Devora Berberova spoke so faintly, one had to strain to hear. Some heard her say, “I have loyally reported”; others heard, “comported” or “deported” or “resorted.”

  Not until Filatov responded was her meaning clear. “You have served your country well. We have appreciated all your reports and learned a great deal from them.”

  Sasha immediately began to catalogue mentally all the sources of information that the secretary could have accessed. The files, of course. Rumor, yes. The bulletin board, no doubt. But what else? She hardly left her office and rarely spoke, even to Sasha.

  “I shall pass over not only my two aides,” said Filatov, “but also Citizen Berberova and Comrade Polkovnikov from Moscow.”

  Sasha said, “That leaves eight of us.”

  “I commend your arithmetic,” Filatov replied, sarcastically adding, “Comrade Director Parsky.”

  “Surely not I,” repeated Vera Chernikova. “My students have never complained.”

  Removing a paper from his vest pocket, Filatov conspicuously unfolded it and turned to her. “Have you not been conspiring to replace the director?” asked Filatov.

  Here was a subject to which Devora Berberova might have been privy, thought Sasha. The information had to have come from her, in which case, she would also know Vera’s fellow conspirator, Viktor Harkov (aka Ivan Goncharov). Sasha watched Filatov’s eyes move from Vera to Viktor; but before the major could speak, though he’d rested an arm on the table and raised a forefinger, a habit and harbinger of forthcoming remarks, Viktor said urgently:

  “Surely not I!”

  “Viktor Harkov, you have much to regret and . . .”

  “My name is Goncharov, Ivan Goncharov,” he said, reaching into his shirt pocket and removing his passport. “Here, see for yourself.”

  “A forgery,” said Filatov. “I needn’t look.”

  “Government issue,” declared Viktor.

  “No,” Filatov corrected, “Comrade Dolin issue.”

  Viktor sat speechless, looking first at Filatov and then at Bogdan. His mouth opened and closed like a fish pulled from the sea. He obviously wanted to speak, but instead lowered his head to his chest and nervously fingered his shirt buttons.

  That Filatov knew about the forged passport could mean only one thing: Goran had told him. Or was it Bogdan? The Three Musketeers indeed! Apparently, when the secret police came calling, the honor among thieves disappeared. But after further thought, Sasha wondered if he hadn’t unduly restricted his list. Every person in Balyk knew about Bogdan the forger, though they didn’t know precisely what he was forging. Galina knew about the passport, and Devora Berberova might have overheard Sasha call Viktor by his given name. Depending on how intimate Viktor had become with Vera, he might have told her. Then, too, Brodsky knew about Bogdan’s printing press, and what Brodsky knew Natalia Korsakova was likely to know. Ekaterina Rzhevska, Alya’s tutor, may have heard gossip from any one of the children. Even Polkovnikov, the Moscow agent, might have exposed Viktor, given that the NKVD had files and photographs for everyone. The more he thought about who might have informed, the more Sasha decided the possibilities were virtually endless, particularly in a police state.

  “Your real name is Viktor Harkov,” said Filatov calmly. “So let us not fence with one another. We haven’t all night to drain the cesspool. The truth saves time.”

  To Sasha’s amazement, the major dropped Viktor and moved on to someone else, Avram Brodsky. With Brodsky’s complicated history, divided loyalties, and different patrons, he was a cauldron of conspiracy. Almost anything that Filatov touched upon would be true. But he wasn’t prepared for Brodsky’s answer to his question, “Which side are you on?”

  “All sides. It’s the only way to keep current and to support myself. Which side do I favor? None of them. They are all equally bureaucratic and nepotistic.”

  Filatov shot a glance at Polkovnikov, not knowing how much the Moscow agent knew. For just a second, the major’s calm exterior seemed to crack, but a moment later, he looked as unruffled as ever, asking Brodsky how he could prove his loyalty to the Soviet state.

  “Secret intelligence comes in two forms. One is real information; the second is disinformation. I traffic in both, the first for the preservation of our glorious state, and the other for those who would betray us.”

  At that instant, Sasha realized the difficulty of unmasking a double or triple agent. Unless Filatov had access to the information that Brodsky had transmitted to the Left Opposition, he had no way to disprove Avram’s loyalty. No wonder Filatov’s next question was directed to Natalia Korsakova, Brodsky’s former or maybe even current lover. The Soviets must have known that she was Brodsky’s courier to the Left Opposition. But did the Soviets know whether the information she took from him was important or not? If they didn’t, she was in the clear; but if they had intercepted any of the transmissions and found them to be traitorous, then the game was up.

  Brodsky’s flippancy evaporated. He looked genuinely worried. Could Natalia be trusted? She certainly had reason to turn on Avram. He had impregnated her and then married her off to an imbecile.

  “Citizen Korsakova, you recently traveled by train to Ryazan. Comrade Polkovnikov arrested the man whom you met on the platform. In that man’s possession was falsified information bearing on the relations between the Soviet Union and Germany. The documents could have come from only one person, Avram Brodsky, because it was I who left them with him the last time we met. I specifically warned him they were top secret. We wanted to test him—and you.”

  The gasps in the room were palpable.

  Without looking at Brodsky, Natalia said coolly, “Yes, the documents came from Avram. But he didn’t give them to me. I stole them from him.”

  All eyes were now on Filatov, who patiently replied, “Then Avram must have told you he possessed them.”

  “Not at all,” she said, equally unperturbed. “He was out, I entered the cottage, saw a folder with a government seal, read the contents, and put the papers in my purse. It was that easy. The rest you know.”

  Brodsky stared at her so intensely that the veiny blue worms in his neck and temples threatened to burst their bonds. Sasha couldn’t decide whether Avram was surprised or alarmed. Had Natalia told the truth? Perhaps, as before, she was merely protecting him. Only Brodsky could say. If he didn’t speak up, Natalia would undoubtedly be exiled to some work camp. But he said nothing, and the longer he did, the greater the tension in the room. Exploiting the dramatic effect, Filatov finally spoke:

  “Come now, Natalia, we all know you’re protecting Avram.”

  “I have every reason not to,” she answered.

  “And the same reasons could be educed for aiding him.”

  Filatov gave no indication of how he had learned about Brodsky and Natalia and Benjie. But then the secret police, except for rare occasions, never publicized the source of their information. Perhaps the cottage was bugged. Filatov had also said that Natalia was followed, perhaps not for the first time. Anything was possible in a world where even one’s private life appeared in the archives.

  “You do realize, Natalia Korsakova, what you are condemning yourself to?”

  Courageously she answered, “I’ll be joining Russia’s finest.”

  The rain had increased, and the lights occasionally flickered. The electrical generator needed replacing, which provided the occasion for Sasha to say, “We could use a new power source.”

  Seeing the possible irony here, Filatov remarked, “I trust you are referring to the generator and not the Vozhd.”

  A trickle of laughter briefly lightened the mood, which Filatov and the others took as a signal to continue eating. At one point, the light
s went out, and Sasha wished that in the dark the guests would escape.

  “Citizen Rzhevska,” said Filatov, “you have been tutoring Galina Selivanova’s daughter, correct?”

  “Yes, Major.”

  “We all know that children often unwittingly reveal truths that adults would never utter.”

  “Quite so.”

  “Have you learned anything from Alya that might help us determine whether the director and Galina are harboring a nest of spies?”

  From her cardigan, she removed a piece of paper and then put on her spectacles. “First, Alya’s adoptive father stayed at the house.”

  A shocked Filatov leaped to his feet. “Do you know what you are saying?” Then, making no attempt to hide his consternation, he exclaimed, “You must be mistaken. Petr Selivanov is dead.”

  “Not according to the child. Oh, I do remember her saying at our first tutoring session that her father had died. But then she said he came back. Not so long ago. She was overjoyed.”

  “And you failed to report this information?”

  “I had no way of knowing that you assumed he was dead.”

  Ekaterina Rzhevska continued making her way through the list, mentioning Viktor and Goran’s lab and a few other overnight guests, but Filatov was still fixated on the first name, Petr Selivanov. When his head cleared, he turned to Galina and said:

  “Can you explain this turn of events?”

  Of course the other guests had little or no knowledge of what was being said. They sat looking on as if attending a badly made Russian film. Although they could understand the words, they had no context for them. Shrugging at one another, they stared, hoping for a key to the mystery.