The Family on Paradise Pier

by Dermot Bolger

  He had been naive to expect every foreigner who came to Russia to be a revolutionary. Some were cowardly simpletons like the American with the Russian surname who had arrived in Moscow on the same day as Art and offered to share a room in the Novo Varskaya Hotel until they could register at the Labour Commissariat. The man had then visited counter-revolutionary relations in Moscow, been swayed by their lies, sold his tools on the black market and skulked away on a train to Helsinki in Finland, urging Art to do likewise. Other foreigners were agents provocateurs sent to spy and disrupt industrial production by infiltrating factories and spreading discontent. These wreckers and saboteurs were trained by the Imperialist powers with the sole purpose of disrupting the Five-Year Plan launched by Comrade Stalin during the Great Turning Point.

  The case of the Swedish saboteur arrested in work last week showed how insidious these counter-revolutionaries were. The man had frequently volunteered for thirty-hour work shifts in the factory and constantly suggested new methods to increase production and surpass the projected targets. Art had been deceived by the man’s talk about the pride he felt when his children marched home from kindergarten chanting: ‘Five years’ work in four years, And not five years’ work in five!’

  Still Art should have known that his constant suggestions to improve output were actually intended to deflate morale by insinuating that current production methods were wasteful. Last Thursday when the OGPU appeared at the end of a shift the bustling factory had grown so still that it reminded Art of playing statues as a boy in Donegal. Amidst the fear, he had experienced a sudden unaccountable homesickness. The OGPU did not arrest the Swede immediately. They had walked with casual strides among the motionless workers, pausing occasionally in front of a comrade before giving a half-smile and moving on. That was when Art noticed the special smell, a cocktail of fear and treachery. It sounded irrational but Art decided that the OGPU were trained like dogs to smell it, that when an officer stopped in front of him the man was not just staring into Art’s eyes but sniffing his sweat.

  Eventually three officers encircled the Swede and asked him to accompany them. When the man sought permission to send a message to his family they explained that this was unnecessary because their chat would not take longer than an hour at most. That was when everyone present knew that they would never see the Swede again. After he was gone and the comrade workers filed away without comment, Art had noticed a cleaner smell about the factory.

  That bad scent pervaded the building now and grew stronger with every step Art took up the stairs towards the apartment that he and his wife shared with three other couples. He expected his instincts to tell him which door the OGPU were behind. The smell outside would be overwhelming and he would pass on in relief to the sanctuary of his flat. But this did not occur. The stench increased as he approached his own door until Art realised that he was smelling his own sweat.

  He pushed open the door and his wife looked up from a chair in the corner. Nobody else was in the room except for a tall man whom he did not recognise. Art knew that he was a secret policeman and the other occupants had been ordered to disappear for as long as the OGPU remained in the apartment. Therefore their visit could only concern him, his wife or his brother Brendan who was visiting them.

  Irena looked too scared to speak and as the policeman remained silent, Art found himself examining his own conscience, in the way which Samuel Trench’s daughter in Donegal once explained that Catholics did before confession. Secretly lying in the dark by the Bunlacky shore, she had once outlined the categories of Catholic sins of deed and thought and omission. His mind worked through these same categories now. Had he ever, even subconsciously, doubted the wisdom of the Five-Year Plan? Had he failed to meet any production quota and therefore held back his fellow workers? Had he unwittingly associated with closet Trotskyites who were agents of the forces of Imperialist reaction? Had the Swedish spy falsely denounced him? Could the fact that he had briefly shared a room with that American turncoat four years ago in the Novo Varskaya Hotel have placed a question mark over him? Had he cleansed himself from all traits of his previous class?

  The OGPU officer indicated that Art was to sit on a chair opposite Irena.

  ‘You are sweating, comrade. Have you been running?’

  ‘No…I…the stairs are a steep climb.’

  Irena discreetly glanced towards the door into the small kitchen and Art knew that other OGPU officers were present there. They had not been awaiting him. The only person they could be interrogating was Brendan for whom Art had managed to procure a brief visitor’s visa. During his few hours free from the factory, Art had taken Brendan around Moscow to show him the workers’ paradise at first hand, with Irena taking him to other places when Art needed to sleep. Neither had encouraged Brendan to venture out alone, but his brother possessed a stubborn happy-go-lucky independent streak that left him prone to foolishness. Art rose from the chair.

  ‘Is it my brother? Is he in trouble?’

  ‘Why should your brother be in trouble?’ The OGPU officer spoke quietly. ‘Has he done something wrong? Have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why ask the question, comrade? Why are you interfering in state business?’

  ‘I’m not…I…’ The officer was right. His duty as a citizen outweighed his responsibilities as a brother. What had he been thinking of to question the OGPU in the course of their duty? Brendan was no traitor, unless he had committed some unwitting crime. True, he had glimpsed aspects of Soviet life which were usually filtered out from the carefully-choreographed tours laid on for foreign trade unionists and dignitaries. Art was sufficiently trusted to join the select band of workers allowed to meet such groups in the truck factory and play along with the illusion that white tablecloths and choice food in the canteen were everyday occurrences. With so much anti-Soviet sentiment in the Western papers, Art understood the necessity to counterbalance such propaganda. He never understood the cynical mutterings of some comrade workers at the notion of telling visitors how they all received one month’s holiday per year and a pension at the age of fifty.

  If Brendan knew that such privileges were still only aspirational, he had seen how they were integral to Stalin’s vision for the future. At present the canteen might only serve fish soup with eyes and heads floating on the surface, but Brendan understood that this was the initial price of building a utopia. Surely the OGPU did not feel threatened by such disclosure, though Irena had scolded Art for taking Brendan to visit a comrade who lived with five hundred other Elektrozavod workers in vast unheated dormitories in the Cherkisovo Barracks. Art would only make matters worse now by asking the policeman more questions. He sat stiffly on the chair, trying to guess what was happening in the kitchen. He had never known the building to be so silent, with no feet on the stairs and no chatter of voices constantly queuing for the rickety toilet in the alcove on the first floor. As Art listened he realised that everybody else in the building was listening too. He could hear the sound of two hundred people collectively holding their breath. Then he heard a confident good-natured laugh from the kitchen. Another Russian voice joined in, louder as if enjoying a joke and then a third laugh came, carefree and familiar to Art from his childhood.

  He glanced at Irena, who looked back equally baffled. Brendan’s laugh lacked the slightest hint of fear. Was he so naive as to not realise who was interrogating him? Would he walk blindly into whatever trap they set? Irena had warned both brothers to be careful even when queuing outside a shop in case any remark might be misconstrued and reported to the OGPU by a zealous comrade. When addressing the OGPU, extreme vigilance was needed, but Brendan sounded so relaxed that he might let slip some seemingly innocuous detail that could lead to charges against half the comrades on this landing. The tall officer watched Art, scrutinising his discomfort.

  ‘Your brother is a funny boy. His jokes make us all laugh. Georgi Polevoy is translating for him some of ours. Once the vodka flows Georgi can tell stories all night. W
e have no record of you telling jokes. Perhaps you are not a proper Irishman.’

  ‘I am a loyal party member,’ Art said. ‘My wife too. Within three months of the Labour Commissariat sending me to the truck factory I had been graded an excellent worker.’

  ‘Udarniks are to be valued,’ the policeman said, ‘but why can’t you tell stories like your brother? Maybe you have not known the same number of women?’ He glanced at Irena. ‘The women all love your husband’s brother, correct, comrade?’

  Irena did not reply and Art felt angry because nothing in his political education had prepared him for being toyed with like this. He had given up everything to come to Russia, had shown his commitment by marrying a Russian wife and working every hour possible without the slightest complaint. Yet he sensed that this made him a figure of ridicule in the policeman’s eyes. Angry was dangerous but suddenly Art didn’t care. If Brendan was being arrested for some crime then he and his wife would be automatically sentenced as accessories. He rose to speak, despite his wife’s terrified glance, but at that moment the kitchen door opened. An older officer, built like a weightlifter, stood in the doorway holding an empty bottle and addressed Art in English.

  ‘Comrade Goold, you stock a very small cellar. Not like the racks of good wines in your family house in Ireland which your brother has been telling us about.’

  Art drew a deep breath. It had been foolish to imagine that he could escape the curse of his birth. No matter how many double shifts he worked he was still a product of the class whom Stalin had termed the Former People, the Byvshie Liudi who once lived off the sweat of their workers? At heart he always knew that he would pay the price.

  ‘My wife is a good comrade,’ he said. ‘She has not been contaminated by my character defects.’

  The thickset man laughed. ‘Comrade, you take life too seriously. Your main defect is a shortage of vodka. Still, such an oversight is easily forgiven between friends.’

  He approached Art with Brendan following and a small, watchful man taking up the rear. Brendan looked slightly flushed, giddy with drink. He stared at his older brother.

  ‘Are you okay? You look terrible.’

  ‘I’m okay,’ Art said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Tiptop. Georgi here is bringing me to see The Red Poppy at the Bolshoi Theatre tonight. I was telling him you could not afford the tickets.’

  ‘The Bolshoi first, then we party. We have a duty to show our visitor a good time.’ The thickset officer raised his fists in a mock gesture to Brendan. ‘Then we fight over whether Russian or Irish women are the more beautiful.’ He turned to Art, his manner curt. ‘This accommodation is not suitable for our guest. He will come with us for ten days.’

  ‘You don’t mind, Art, do you?’ Brendan asked, more soberly. ‘I don’t want to just walk out on you, but they are very insistent and you’re killing yourself trying to work in the factory and look after me.’

  The three officers looked at Art, with no hostility in their gaze, just a curious indifference. If Brendan disappeared it would be impossible for Art to get word to Donegal. Not that he would have time to even try to post a letter. They would be back for him and Irena within the hour.

  The thickset officer smiled. ‘Don’t look so worried, comrade. In ten days you will see your brother again. Meet him at noon at the October Station. It has been arranged that you will have that day and the next day off from the factory so you can spend time together before he returns to London. He is a good comrade. You must be proud of him.’

  ‘If Art doesn’t mind then I’ll just pack my things,’ Brendan said.

  The small watchful officer spoke for the first time and Art knew that he was in charge. ‘That is not necessary. All needs will be taken care of. You are our guest.’ He looked at Art. ‘Twelve noon at the October Station. You understand.’

  ‘Yes,’ Art said, although he could be certain of nothing. Brendan shook hands with him and kissed Irena while the OGPU men waited. Then they were gone, their descending footsteps breaking the silence. Eventually the front door slammed and doors opened on every landing as people tried to beat the queues for the water taps and the toilets.

  Art sat opposite his wife. He did not know how long they would have together before the other couples returned to the flat. He did not know whether a knock would come for them in the night or if Brendan really would appear at the station in ten days’ time. He knew nothing for certain, except that he would be held responsible in Donegal for whatever happened to his brother. A small jealous part of him almost wanted Brendan arrested, because if they were telling the truth then Brendan was more important to them than he was. Art had never been afforded these privileges or treated with such respect, despite having given up so much – whereas Brendan was just a boy. It made no sense, but maybe this was a test. He looked up to find Irena watching him.

  ‘He will be all right,’ she said. ‘We will be all right.’ She repeated the words like a mantra to ward off evil, then whispered them fiercely for a third time, desperate to convince herself.

  SIXTEEN

  The Letter

  Donegal, August 1933

  The Manor House, Dunkineely, Donegal.

  28th August, 1933.

  My dearest son,

  Writing to you feels like writing to the dead – though naturally your mother would disagree, having long entertained the belief that our dead loved ones avail of every opportunity to address us, unlike the living whom we love in Moscow. This, naturally, is your prerogative and I do not criticise you for exercising it. I merely wish to exercise my prerogative as your father to keep you abreast of the condition of your estate-to-be.

  The house seems especially empty in this week of Eva’s birthday when I recall the excitement that her party used to cause. Time is not just a thief but a conjurer. Occasionally I look up from my desk and half expect to see you all tramping down from the attic, clutching old gowns and jackets as fancy dress costumes. You and Thomas should be quarrelling over whose turn it is to be Napoleon, with Brendan feeling slighted, Maud making the peace and Eva lost in her own world. Only mice occupy the attics now. I hear them scurry about and have not the heart to set traps. They have made their home there and are often the only company your mother and I have.

  Not that we complain because we have each other and there is still enough love between us to keep out the sleet and rain of winter and those bleak January days when it seems that spring will never come. But come it did again this year and yielded a Donegal summer where the rain only reluctantly declared intermittent ceasefires. Dunkineely’s happiest inhabitants are undoubtedly the ducks wandering between brimming potholes on the street. The new government seems as disinterested in filling them as their predecessor. Perhaps they are waiting to knock this house down and crumble up the stone to use as gravel. I have seen it done to many houses, compulsorily purchased or presented to this state. They gleefully demolish them, crushing up beautiful stone to use on the roads so that people can walk on us. But your inheritance still stands and the sweet peas lifting their heads to the evening sun beneath my window seem truly happy, radiating their wondrous scent of eternally renewed freshness after the rain. I wish you could smell them, Art, and taste the salty tang in the breeze coming in off the sea.

  Have you window boxes packed with flowers in your apartment? Ffrench says that Moscow is awash with collective gardens. Indeed he says a great deal now that I am talking to him again. What was the point of holding a grudge? We are two educated men, lonely for company in this isolated place. I never thought I could be lonely, especially in summer when this house was always filled with visitors, but the rooms are so empty with my children gone.

  Thomas writes to say that he has found work as a town planner in Cape Town. His health is much improved by the sun. I blame his onset of consumption on the dampness of this house, one of many legacies. His health would have further deteriorated had he not followed his doctor’s advice and emigrated to a warm climate. In truth though, for all
his love of Donegal, he told me he was leaving for his own sanity. He is bitter against you, I am afraid. Brendan writes from London occasionally. What can I tell you of him? Possibly you know more than I do. He remains so light-hearted that it is hard to know what he thinks of anything.

  Maud is comfortable in Dublin. I fear that life is hard for Eva in Mayo, although you would need to delve deep behind the chatter of her letters to sense her pain. It is no time to be a Protestant there. They must keep their heads down since de Valera orchestrated a boycott of the Mayo libraries because of the alleged danger to people’s souls when a Protestant was briefly appointed as County Librarian. It helps to laugh at such things because humour and resolve and a few ramshackle houses are all our class have left. Even those grow fewer every month. The IRA need not have bothered burning out so many old families, they should have sat back and waited for the stock market to do their work for them. The last of the old money was lost in that crash. Houses are just abandoned now, with local children using the windows for target practice. Sometimes I take a pony and cart into the hills to visit homes where your mother and I once danced, with the great bedrooms and libraries now left to the mercy of the rain and whatever few birds choose to build their nests there. You probably rejoice to see capitalism come crashing down so awesomely, but at what cost? There is hunger in Donegal like I never saw in my lifetime, caused by this depression which seems to affect everywhere except your beloved Russia, where, according to Ffrench, milk and honey still flows.

  Civilised life did not end with Mr de Valera’s ascent to power, despite predictions of doom from Mr Cosgrave’s outgoing government. The mood in Ireland is sour and fractious though, with Donegal more divided into two camps than ever. In truth de Valera’s former assassins in Fianna Fáil have proven no more radical a government than Mr Cosgrave’s ex-gunmen. His old comrades in the IRA were cock-a-hoop at first when he released all political prisoners, but they soon found that he had little interest in letting them park their guns under his cabinet table. At the first sign of trouble he had the Civic Guards hound them back underground – though he could not resist a sly blow by sacking Cosgrave’s Commissioner of the Civic Guards, General O’Duffy. O’Duffy is a buffoon but a vain and ambitious one. It is hard to credit the gentlemen in Mr Cosgrave’s old cabinet placing themselves under his yoke. O’Duffy now parades across the land like an overfed cock, decking out his supporters in blue shirts and modelling himself on Mussolini.