Denouncer

by Levitt, Paul M.

  Galina looked pale, but as always she controlled her emotions. “I learned of his survival only recently. He turned up here in Balyk and then left for Ryazan.”

  “Did the Moscow office know of this, Comrade Polkovnikov?”

  “Nothing. The tension in Ryazan between the mayor, Vladimir Lukashenko, and the local secret police has undermined our lines of communication. My deepest apologies.”

  Filatov pulled his napkin loose from his collar, squeezed it into a ball, tossed it on the table, and started to pace. Had the room been larger he might have ignored the small storage chest in the corner that held some old framed pictures, dating back to the last century. On his opening the lid, one in particular caught his attention: a painting of an eyeball surrounded by a square and a compass. In the allegorical background was King Solomon’s temple. He knew that the painting symbolized Freemasonry, depicting the wisdom and tools of the medieval stonemason. The Freemasons regarded themselves as speculative masons, building not real structures but philosophical and moral ones: “Brotherly Love, Relief, and Truth” or, in France, “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.” Trotsky had been a Freemason, also Marx and Lenin.

  He studied the picture and saw staring back at him the eye of political heresy. In 1922, the Freemasons had been forbidden to practice their mumbo jumbo, which they called a system of morality veiled in allegory and illustrated by symbols. Communism had done away with religion. Why had this picture not been burned in a bonfire of the old superstitions? What other pictures and persons had escaped detection? The eyes of the law must be ever vigilant. His lucubrations led him to wonder who had died, if not Petr Selivanov, and might Petr be the killer? He would personally have to contact the Ryazan NKVD to sift through their information. Suddenly, his long-standing suspicions of Sasha Parsky disappeared. Petr Selivanov had to be the killer, and Galina probably knew his whereabouts.

  Turning from the window, he stepped forward with his arms folded across his chest. “Galina Selivanova,” he commanded, “where is your husband?” Before she could reply, he added, “I will not stand for obfuscation. The truth and only the truth will do.”

  Galina swiveled in her chair to face the major. She showed no signs of guilt or remorse. “By now, he must be in Kiev.”

  “What do you mean ‘by now’?”

  “He left several months ago. One night he showed up at our door. We let him stay in the attic. Since the murders, he has been living as an itinerant farmhand. During this time, he met another woman, one more suited to him, he said. He asked me to divorce him so he could marry her. She comes from Kiev. If I initiated the divorce, he could keep out of sight and not appear in court. He was afraid of being arrested as an army deserter.”

  Filatov held out his arms with the palms up, as if imploring Galina to explain away the obvious. “Did you give no thought to the possibility that he had committed the murders?”

  “Yes, but he explained that a transient farmworker was to blame.”

  “And how did he know that?”

  “He had exchanged places with an army mate and exited the truck on a hill overlooking the Parsky farm. Although he said the rain and truck obstructed his vision, he saw the farmhand bury two bodies. He also saw the couple drive away in his company, with him at the wheel.”

  “That’s what he told you?”

  “Almost word for word.”

  The major walked over to Sasha and put a hand on his shoulder. “Do you have any idea who the transient laborer might be?”

  Without weighing his answer, Sasha merely reinforced Filatov’s new theory by saying, “My parents rarely employed hired hands.”

  “Petr Selivanov . . . he’s the one. I will call Kiev at once.”

  But he remained in place, with his hand on Sasha’s shoulder. “Tell me, Comrade Parsky,” the major said in a voice overflowing with friendliness, as if he had dispelled all his doubts, “did Selivanov speak to you about the murders?”

  “He told me what he told Galina. That’s all.”

  “Did he mention the name of the woman he wishes to marry?”

  “Just that she lives in Kiev.”

  He squeezed Sasha’s shoulder in an affectionate manner. “Don’t worry, Comrade Parsky, we’ll find him and once we do, we’ll learn where your parents are hiding. If I had seen two grisly murders, as they did, I would also run away. But now it’s time for them to come home. Perhaps they can even join you here in Balyk.” He snapped his fingers and said, “Now let’s properly enjoy the meal.”

  Over dinner and three bottles of vodka, Filatov recounted the killings. Those guests unaware of the story sat entranced. Sasha hoped that Filatov’s newfound buoyancy would shorten the interrogation. But after several shots of vodka, he turned to his aides and asked them to continue with “the small matter of disloyalty at the Michael School.”

  Larissa Pankarova spoke first. Opening her black briefcase she removed a folder, opened it, adjusted her glasses, and fixed her eyes on Goran. “Your uncle in the Politburo, as you may have heard, has fallen out of favor. But then,” she said without a trace of irony, “changes occur frequently. As Comrade Brodsky said earlier, nepotism is a problem. And so it is. We, that is, Major Filatov, intends to end it. You will, in the future, find no succor with us. We suggest you find productive work, relinquish your photographic equipment, and avoid Viktor Harkov. Understood?” The color drained from Goran’s face. He looked like a child chastised for wetting his pants. “Well?” asked Larissa. He hung his head and murmured yes.

  Filatov then added, “You will also turn over all your fabricated photographs to our office and denounce both Citizens Dolin and Harkov for their nefarious attempts to discredit Comrade Brodsky.”

  Sasha could hardly believe what he heard. Brodsky, for all his scheming, had escaped arrest. But what of Natalia? Would he let her take the blame for his misdeeds? Apparently he would. So that’s what the system did. It turned intellectuals into apologists and cowards willing to let others suffer unjustly. He knew what Brodsky would say, “What’s the alternative?” And he would have answered, “Truth, exile, and even death.” But then it was easy enough for him to take the high moral ground when he had escaped the hot seat. Heroism and valor emerge not from words and fancy phrases but from the crucible of pain. What pain had he experienced?

  Basil Makarov spoke next. He had a file on Bogdan Dolin. “Didn’t Kolyma teach you anything?” Basil asked. “Are you so anxious to return that you continue your forgeries and fabricated documents? We have left you untouched for all this time because Balyk is a provincial town with little connection to the larger world. But when enemies of the people come to you for passports to escape the country, we cannot turn a blind eye. The odious Leon Trotsky slipped through our grasp, and now look at the price we are paying. Every counterrevolutionary is headed for Mexico. It is intolerable. Do you deny that you forged a passport for Goran Youzhny’s uncle, who was stopped at the Finnish border?” Bogdan’s sullen look said nothing and everything. “You will be remanded into police custody for trial and probably deported to Siberia. Your home and possessions will be confiscated and your identity papers stamped invalid.”

  Filatov thanked his assistants and, to Sasha’s delight, resumed his questioning of Viktor. But after a few minutes, Sasha rebuked himself for his schadenfreude. He felt as if he’d become part of the Soviet apparat, taking pleasure in seeing others suffer. Viktor may have been personally reprehensible, but to see him interrogated in front of all these people reminded Sasha of what Chekhov had said: Never humiliate a person in public; it leads to lasting hatred. And yet, at this moment, Viktor’s eyes radiated unconcern, neither fear nor enmity.

  “Then you readily admit,” Filatov summed up, using repetitive flourishes, “that you have colluded to replace Sasha Parsky with Vera Chernikova as director of the Michael School, that you have assisted Bogdan Dolin in defaming Avram Brodsky, that you have used Goran Y
ouzhny’s contacts to obtain information about the school’s teachers, whose portraits you have donated to the archives of the Moscow NKVD—to what end, who knows?—and that you have, in violation of the law, changed your identity papers and forged a new passport. Am I right?”

  Without the slightest hesitation, Viktor admitted his sins. Surely, thought Sasha, this man must feel he’s untouchable. But what was his invisible shield? The answer came swiftly.

  “If you have finished,” said the secret agent from Moscow, Polkovnikov, “I would like to have a word in private with you, Comrade Filatov.” He then folded his eyeglasses, lifted his briefcase, and followed the major out of the room.

  In their absence, nothing was said, but the contagion of suspicion spread from one person to another like a deadly bacillus, smothering any impulse of generosity or charity.

  When the two policemen returned, Polkovnikov perceptibly smiled at Viktor. Filatov looked grim. His colleague Larissa, seeing his discomfort, whispered to him, but he dismissed her with a wave of his hand, clearly out of sorts at the prospect of sharing what had just taken place. But with others facing arrest, he felt that he owed the assembly an explanation. He began with an astringent and terse apology to Viktor Harkov for questioning his loyalty and motives.

  “Had I known,” he said, “that you enjoyed the protection of the Ryazan NKVD, I would have been more circumspect. But I still find your behavior, in the instances I’ve cited, to be unworthy . . .” He trailed off.

  Unworthy of what, he never said, leaving his guests to fill in the blanks: unworthy of an honest man, of a Soviet citizen, of a comrade, of a friend, of a colleague, of an intellectual, of a lover. Filatov took no pains to cloak his intense dislike of Viktor. He sneered at his smarmy behavior and decided that before crucifying the guilty in the room, he would, in his own way, expose Viktor.

  Suddenly, Sasha leaped to his feet, coughing and spitting. He bolted from the table, choking on a fish bone. He could be heard in the kitchen, gagging. Filatov directed Larissa Pankarova to look in on him. Then, as if no interruption had occurred, he continued:

  “I don’t suppose, Comrade Harkov, that you know the whereabouts of Petr Selivanov, whom you have roundly denounced as a traitor? It would be interesting to compare his views with yours. But on one point we’re agreed: No traitor should go unpunished.”

  Galina’s expression was one of confusion. It seemed to say: Could I have possibly heard the major correctly? Did Viktor really denounce Petr; did he actually label him a traitor? Surely there’s been a mistake. At that moment, she would have protested had not Larissa and a pallid Sasha, full of apologies, returned. For a moment, no one spoke. Rain pelted the windows, a sound that Bogdan mentally likened to the flogging of convicts. Then Polkovnikov stood and asked Viktor to join him in bidding the guests adieu. As he went out the door, Viktor threw Galina a kiss and made a loud clicking noise, his familiar sound. A suspicious Sasha, absent during Filatov’s revelation of Viktor’s treachery, took Viktor’s gestures to mean, “I’ll see you later.”

  Filatov told his two aides to arrest Natalia Korsakova and Bogdan Dolin, and to hold Goran Youzhny and Brodsky for further questioning.

  ✷

  That night, with Alya and Benjie planning to sleep at the home of Ekaterina Rzhevska, where Benjie would sing his May Day song for family and friends, Galina undressed alone, put on her flannel nightgown, and climbed into bed. The storm had shorted the electricity. She lay awake in the dark thinking about the evening’s events, tortured by questions. Would Brodsky let the mother of his son be exiled without trying to free her? Would he join her in exile if he could not obtain her release? Would Bogdan Dolin be transferred (most likely in chains) to Magadan, the major transit center for prisoners sent to labor camps, like Kolyma? Would Goran be exiled to a work camp now that his uncle had fallen from favor? Would Filatov or Polkovnikov be promoted for their work? Would Vera Chernikova continue teaching at the Michael School, as if nothing had happened? Would Devora Berberova resume her position in the front office now that everyone knew she reported to the secret police? Would the other teachers wish to remain at the Michael School once they learned about the evening’s proceedings? Would Petr escape arrest or would the police track him down in Ukraine? Would anything ever be the same? Would she ever be the same? She feared not. Like most purges, this one did not clean or cleanse. If you add too much bleach to the water, the colors fade. Balyk and the school would be colorless after this chistka. The Soviets, of course, would repeat, as they did ad infinitum, that you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs. But measuring progress by the number of people purged accomplished little and damaged the country. Was there not a shortage of engineers, teachers, scientists, doctors, and poets? Where were they? Purged and locked up!

  Filatov’s aides, Larissa and Basil, had already left with their suspects tucked away in the back of a Black Maria, which they had brought to Balyk in anticipation of the purge. The major had decided against spending the night on the school cot in the nurse’s room. The rain was increasing, and with the school generator down and all the outlying buildings lacking electricity, he would sleep at the Balyk Inn. The next morning he and Sasha could decide on the school’s future. He would return to Tula on the afternoon train. Sasha had remained behind to oversee the students who were tidying up after supper.

  As Galina lay in bed, alone and unseen under a moonless sky, she wondered whether Viktor and Polkovnikov had already left in the latter’s car, a black Zim, and if they had, where were they headed? Ryazan? Probably. All was still, except for the clock on the windowsill. Then she heard the back door open and close. But she couldn’t hear footsteps. Instinctively, she knew that the person had removed his shoes. Only a thief would do such a thing. She reached for Petr’s service revolver, the faithful Nagant M1895 that she kept in her nightstand, at the back of the drawer, wrapped in burlap. Petr had taught her how to use his revolver, and as a young girl, she had accompanied her father on pistol shoots, though never on hunting trips. Straw targets were one thing, animals another. The revolver was loaded, just the way Petr had left it. He had told her that should she ever need to ward off thieves or drunkards, always afoot in the countryside, the pistol was ready. She had warned Alya never, never to touch the gun. Not even Sasha went near it. The intruder slowly opened her bedroom door, but waited to enter, as if listening to determine whether she was asleep or awake. Although unable to see in the dark, she trained the revolver on the door and waited. When the dim outline of a person appeared, accompanied by an alveolar click, she fired one shot. The body hit the floor without so much as a groan. She waited to see if he moved. Perhaps he was only pretending. Slipping out of bed, she kneeled next to the body and ran her hand over the face. It was beardless, not the face of Viktor Harkov. She couldn’t believe the features she felt; they were those of Sasha Parsky.

  How could such a mistake have occurred? When Sasha left the school building, he’d caught sight of Viktor and Polkovnikov standing next to the policeman’s car. Why hadn’t they left yet? Consulting his fears instead of his reason, he concluded that Galina was in the house waiting for Viktor’s final embrace—and perhaps more. Gripped by an instinctive jealousy and primal possessiveness, he decided to do the unimaginable. He would test her. If his and Galina’s recent lovemaking truly mattered, she could easily prove it. He entered the farmhouse through the pantry, removed his shoes, and tiptoed to Galina’s door. In the few seconds before he eased it open, a thousand fears raced through his mind. Everything would depend on her first reaction to his address. His was a life in the balance. He opened the door and heard Galina’s soft breathing, but was unable to see her. Given his hours of practice, he sounded a good imitation of Viktor’s alveolar click. He knew that if Galina greeted him warmly and invited him into her bed that all their recent affection was a sham and that she could never again be trusted. A pistol sounded and he sank to his knees, unable to speak. He rolled to the
floor. A moment later, he felt her hand on his face. With his dying breath, he whispered the fond and fugitive words that made everything clear.

  Coda

  Before sunrise, Galina packed a few belongings, collected Alya at Benjie’s house, and caught the morning train for Ryazan. She left Alya with the Baturins, who were delighted to reunite with their former charge. Knowing Viktor’s haunts and habits, Galina had no trouble finding him. She ascended the steps of a bleak building to the top floor. The nameplate was devoid of a card. She listened for a moment. On hearing movement inside the apartment, she knocked. At first, Viktor opened the door only a crack, but on seeing Galina, threw the door open and spread his arms wide. Several minutes later, he was found on the floor in this cruciform posture, with a bullet hole in his forehead. Galina had made no attempt to escape. The neighbors on hearing the report of the gun had called the constabulary. She was casually reading a magazine when the police arrived.

  Alya remained with the Baturins during her mother’s trial, at which Galina was found guilty of having been driven to murder because of jealousy—her lawyer argued that Viktor, her former lover, had abandoned her—and sentenced to ten years in a work camp. With the outbreak in 1939 of the Russian-Finnish war, she volunteered for nursing duty at the front. In February 1940, after a massive Russian push breached the Mannerheim Line (the Finns’ southern defensive barrier stretching across the Karelian isthmus), the Red Amy moved north to the Finnish city of Viipuri (Vyborg), where Galina died of typhus.

  Petr Selivanov, although a deserter, and denounced as an enemy of the people, made his way undetected from Kiev to Ryazan, where he rejoined his daughter and took her back to Bogdanovka, in Ukraine, where he was living with his second wife, Tatiana, and his young son, Benedikt. In October 1941, Bogdanovka became the site of an extermination camp, run by Rumanian occupation authorities. At one point, fifty-four thousand Jews were held there. Petr and his wife hid a local Jewish couple and their two daughters. When discovered in the attic of the Selivanov’s house, the Jews, as well as Petr’s family, were marched to a nearby forest, ordered to remove their clothes, and kneel. They were shot in the back of their necks. A plaque, honoring all the murdered, now marks the spot of the extermination camp.