by Sam Eastland
Just before he stepped inside the shop, Kirov paused and looked around. Once again, he had the feeling that he was being watched. But the side street was empty, and so was Lubyanka Square. No faces loomed from the doorway of NKVD Headquarters, or from the shuttered windows up above. And yet he experienced the unmistakable sensation of a stare burning into him, like a pinpoint of sun concentrated through a magnifying glass. I really am losing my mind, he told himself. If Stalin knew what was going on in my head, he’d tear up my Special Operations pass and have me thrown out into the street. If I could just talk to someone about it, he thought, but the only one who’d understand is Pekkala. I can’t breathe a word of this to Elizaveta. She already thinks I’m mad for not giving up on this search. I love her, he thought. I just don’t know if I can trust her. Not with something like this. Can you love someone and still not trust them? he wondered. Or do only mad men think these thoughts?
Podolski’s shop smelled of polish, glue and leather. Rows of repaired boots, buffed to a mirror shine, stood on shelves awaiting their owners, while boots still in need of repair lay heaped upon the floor.
Podolski was a squat, broad-shouldered man, whose body looked as if it had been designed for lifting heavy objects. A pair of glasses hung on a greasy length of string around his tree-trunk neck. On his gnarled feet, he wore a pair of old sandals so thrashed by years of use and neglect that if a customer had brought them in, he would have refused to fix them.
‘I just fixed your boots!’ muttered Podolski, when he caught sight of Kirov. He sat on a block of wood which had been draped with a piece of old carpet, a hammer in one hand and an army boot grasped in the other. The boot was positioned upon a dingy iron frame which resembled the branches of a tree. The end of each branch had been formed into shapes like the bills of large ducks, each one corresponding to the size and type of shoe which Podolski was repairing. Clenched between Podolski’s teeth were half a dozen miniature wooden pegs, used for attaching a new leather sole. When he spoke, the pegs twitched in his lips as if they were the legs of some small creature trying to escape from his mouth.
‘I’m not here about my boots, Comrade Podolski,’ replied Kirov. ‘I’ve come because I need your help.’
Podolski paused, hammer raised. Then he turned his head to one side and spat out the pegs between his teeth. Lowering the hammer to his side, he allowed it to slip from his fingers. The heavy iron fell with a dull thump to the floor. ‘The last time someone asked me for my help, I ended up fighting at the front for two years. And that was in the last war! Don’t say you’re calling me up again!’
Ignoring Podolski’s outburst, Kirov handed him the piece of leather from the tobacco bag. ‘Do you recognise that symbol?’
Without taking his eyes from the blurred scar of the brand mark, Podolski slid his fingers down the string attached to his glasses and perched them on the end of his nose. ‘The numbers 243 are the date this leather was tanned. It means ‘the second work quarter of 1943’, so somewhere around June or July of this year. But the symbol,’ he clicked his tongue, ‘isn’t one I’ve ever seen before. There are thousands of those symbols and they all look more or less the same. Trying to isolate just one of them would be like carrying water with a sieve.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of.’ Already, Kirov regretted having left the comfort of his office.
‘You’d have to go through the whole book,’ said Podolski.
‘A book?’ asked Kirov. ‘There’s a book of these symbols?’
‘A big book, but it would take hours to go through.’
‘Where can I find it?’ Kirov snapped impatiently.
With a groan, Podolski rose to his feet and made his way over to the window of his shop. ‘I’ve got it here somewhere.’
‘Find it, Podolski! This could be very important.’
‘Patience, Major. Patience.’ He paused to scratch the ear of his cat. ‘You should be like my friend here. He’s never in a hurry.’
‘I don’t have time to be patient!’ replied Kirov.
Podolski lifted up a thick volume crammed with pulpy grey pages. ‘Then good luck to you, Major,’ he said as he tossed the book to Kirov, ‘because you’ll find thousands of those little brands in there.’
The volume thumped against Kirov’s chest, almost knocking the wind out of him.
‘It’s probably in there somewhere,’ continued Podolski, making his way back to the wooden block. Thoughtfully, he rearranged the piece of carpet before sitting down again. ‘Unless it’s not a Soviet brand, in which case, you are completely out of luck. Either way, I wouldn’t know. I’ve never even looked in it.’
Kirov looked around for a chair, but there wasn’t one, so he lowered himself down to the floor with his back against the wall and rested the book on his lap. He was just about to open it, when suddenly he paused. ‘Why do you even have this book, Podolski, if you’ve never looked in it?’
‘The government gave it to me. I told them I didn’t want it, but they said it was the law. I have to own a copy, and so does anyone else who works with leather in this country.’
‘But why?’
‘All the leather I use for mending shoes and belts and whatever else comes through that door has to come from a State-approved tannery. Each tannery has its own symbol. They stamp the outer edges usually. You find them in each corner, in the parts of the hide that aren’t of even thickness or have too many creases. They usually get thrown away as scrap or turned into laces or,’ he skimmed the tobacco bag across the floor to Kirov, ‘turned into trinkets like these. As long as one of those stamps is on the hide when I buy it, I have nothing to worry about. But if I get caught using leather which hasn’t been approved, whether it’s any good or not, then I’m in trouble. And given my clientele, Major, that’s a chance I’d rather not take.’
‘You mean you have to go through this whole book every time you buy a hide for fixing shoes?’
‘All my leather comes from two or three local tanneries. I know their symbols by heart. One thing I can tell you, Major, wherever this came from, it’s nowhere near Moscow.’
Kirov began leafing through the fragile pages.
Podolski went back to work, after carefully fitting a new set of wooden pegs between his teeth.
The tanneries were listed alphabetically, each one with a symbol marked beside it, and Podolski was right — there were thousands to sort through. After half an hour of staring at symbols, they all started to look the same. They seemed to jump across the flimsy paper as if the book held a nestful of insects. Kirov kept losing his focus, sliding away into daydreams, only to wake from them and realise that he had been turning pages without looking at them properly. He had to go back and look at them again.
‘It’s time for me to go home,’ said Podolski. ‘My wife will be wondering what’s happened.’
‘Patience, Podolski,’ replied Kirov. ‘Think of your cat.’
‘He’s not married,’ grumbled Podolski. ‘He can afford to be patient.’
Two hours later, just as Podolski was closing up his shop for the day, sweeping the floor for scraps of leather and tooth-marked wooden pegs, Kirov located the symbol among the tanneries beginning with the letter K. By then, he was so dazed that he had to stare at it for a while before he could be sure. ‘Kolodenka Leather Cooperative,’ he read aloud.
Podolski’s broom came to a rustling halt across the floor. ‘Kolodenka! Where the hell is that?’
‘No idea,’ replied Kirov, ‘but wherever it is, that’s where I’m going.’
‘Then I hope it’s some place in the sun.’ Podolski propped his broom in the corner. Removing a small can of ground meat from the shelf above his head, he opened it with a key attached to its side. The lid peeled away in a coil like an old clock spring. Then he emptied the food into a bowl and placed it on the window sill for the cat.
The two men walked out into the dusk.
While Podolski locked the shop, Kirov glanced uneasily up and down the street.<
br />
‘Are you expecting someone?’ asked Podolski.
‘I wish I was,’ muttered Kirov. ‘Then, at least, I could explain why I always feel as if I’m being watched.’
‘You are being watched,’ Podolski told him.
‘But by whom?’
Podolski tapped the glass of his shop window, drawing Kirov’s gaze to the Manx cat. With eyes as green as gooseberries, it stared clean through into his soul.
*
‘You’re going where?’ demanded Stalin.
‘To the village of Kolodenka in western Ukraine,’ replied Kirov. ‘I believe that Pekkala may have been there recently, or somewhere near there, anyway.’
‘And this is based on what?’
Kirov paused. He knew he could not tell Stalin the truth. To do so would be to sign the death warrants of Linsky and Poskrebychev. ‘Unsubstantiated evidence,’ he stated categorically.
At that moment, in the outer office, Poskrebychev muttered a silent prayer of thanks. As usual, he had been eavesdropping through the intercom system between his desk and that of Stalin. Relaying Linsky’s message to the major had been the greatest act of faith that he had ever undertaken, and the days since then had been filled with terror at each unfamiliar face he encountered in the hallway, every noise outside the door of his apartment. Even the casual glances of people he passed in the street caused sweat to gather like a scattering of pearls upon his face. When Kirov had passed by on his way into Stalin’s office, he had not said a word to Poskrebychev. Kirov didn’t even look in his direction, which had caused Poskrebychev’s heart to accelerate completely out of control, and to flutter about his chest like a bird trapped behind the flimsy caging of his ribs. As soon as Kirov entered Stalin’s room, Poskrebychev had leaned forward and, with trembling fingers, switched on the intercom so as to hear every word of what he felt sure was his impending doom.
‘In other words,’ said Stalin, ‘you have nothing to go on but more rumours.’
‘That is correct, Comrade Stalin. Rumours are all we have.’
‘How did you plan on getting to this place? Kodo. .’
‘Kolodenka. I took a look at the map and the nearest airfield is just outside the town of Rovno, only a few kilometres from Kolodenka.’
‘Rovno.’ A flicker of recognition passed across Stalin’s face. ‘That’s partisan country.’
‘Yes, and I believe it’s possible that Pekkala has been living among them.’
‘I suppose this should come as no surprise, given how much trouble they have caused us in that region.’
‘Trouble?’ asked Kirov. ‘But the newspapers are filled with reports of their heroism in fighting behind the lines.’
Stalin barked out one sarcastic laugh. ‘Of course we are calling them heroes! That sounds a lot better than the truth.’
‘And what is the truth, Comrade Stalin?’
‘The truth,’ boomed Stalin, ‘as always, is complicated. And people don’t want complications. They want a simple narrative. They want to know who’s good and who’s not. Some of them have been fighting bravely against the Fascists, but others fought alongside them when the tide of war was flowing the other way. There are heroes among them and there are traitors as well. Deciding which is which has become very difficult. There is even a danger that some of them might turn their guns upon us, now that we are recapturing that corner of the country. The situation has become so serious that, just last week, I dispatched Colonel Viktor Andrich to Rovno, with the job of sorting out this mess. If anyone knows where Pekkala might be hiding, it is Andrich. I will see to it that you have letters of introduction, which will guarantee his full cooperation in your search. In the meantime, you may requisition whatever means of transport you might need to get you there. But you had better leave now, Kirov. If Andrich fails in his mission, a war could break out any day now between the Red Army and the partisans.’
Two minutes later, Kirov was striding down the hallway, bound for the nearest airfield and the first plane he could find which might be heading west. Then he heard someone calling his name. Kirov spun around and realised it was Poskrebychev, galloping unevenly towards him. Poskrebychev’s balance was offset by a bundle, wrapped in paper and tied with string, which he carried tucked under his arm.
‘Not again,’ Kirov muttered to himself. He had avoided even making eye contact with Poskrebychev on his way into Stalin’s office. Given the risks both of them had taken in keeping information from Stalin, the less the two men had to do with each other the better, at least for the present. And now, here was Poskrebychev, bounding through the Kremlin and shouting out his name as if everyone in Russia knew their secret.
Poskrebychev skidded to a halt in front of Kirov. He tried to speak but was so winded that at first he could not even talk. Instead, he held up one finger, nodded, then bent over and rested one hand upon his knee while he struggled to catch his breath. In his other arm, he continued to clutch the package he’d brought with him. ‘I have something for you,’ he gasped, still staring at the floor.
‘Something for me?’
Poskrebychev nodded, wheezing.
A woman passed by on her way to the records office, carrying a bundle of files. She eyed them suspiciously and then hurried on her way.
Kirov smiled at her and patted Poskrebychev on the shoulder, as if they were the best of friends. Then he lowered himself, until his lips were almost touching Poskrebychev’s ear. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he whispered, his teeth clenched in a skull-like grin. ‘Are you trying to get us both killed?’
With a final gasp, Poskrebychev righted himself. His face was a liverish red. ‘From Linsky,’ he announced, shoving the parcel into Kirov’s hands. ‘Your new tunic, Major.’
Kirov had forgotten all about it. ‘Well,’ he said, flustered, ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘Just bring him back,’ whispered Poskrebychev. ‘That will be more than enough.’
Letter found November 1st, 1937, wrapped around stone at entrance of US Embassy, Spano House, Mokhovaya Street, Moscow.
(Postmark: none.)
Dear Ambassador Davies,
I sent a letter to you in July of this year, regarding the arrest of my husband, William H. Vasko, of Newark, New Jersey, by Russian police at our home in Nizhni-Novgorod, where he was employed as a foreman at the Ford Motor Car factory.
I came to the Embassy several times to see if you had replied to my letter, but was told by your secretary, Mr Samuel Hayes, that you had no comment on the matter.
I cannot believe this is true.
Ambassador, my husband has been missing for almost five months and during that time I have received no word as to his whereabouts or even the crime he is supposed to have committed. In August, my children and I were told to vacate our house in order to make way for a new family of workers and since then we have been living at a homeless shelter here in Moscow.
I would like to return to America but I have no money and our passports were taken from us when we first arrived in the Soviet Union. We were told we’d get them back but it never happened.
I now believe that we are being followed and I do not dare approach the Embassy in person.
Ambassador Davies, I appeal to you as an American citizen to help me and my son and daughter.
Sincerely,
Betty Jean Vasko
The following day, out of a gently falling rain, a two-seater Polikarpov UTI-4 roared down on to a grass strip runway which ran beside the railway tracks, a few kilometres northwest of Rovno. The Polikarpov, normally used as a training aircraft, had been pressed into service earlier that day when Kirov, in his perfectly fitted new tunic, had interrupted a young pilot’s first day of flight instruction. Shortly after Kirov had transmitted instructions to the newly established Red Army garrison in Rovno that he would require transport upon his arrival, the Polikarpov had taken off towards the west, the pilot instructor still protesting loudly through the headphones and the student standing by himself on
the runway, watching as the plane rose up into the clouds.
At the edge of the runway stood the ruins of a building which had once housed the ground controller. All that remained of it now was a silhouette of ash, and the smell of the damp, burned wood filled Kirov’s lungs as he walked towards a mud-splashed American Willys Jeep, one of thousands sent to Russia as part of the Lend-Lease programme, which waited for him by the railway tracks. The rails, destroyed by the retreating German army, twisted into the air like giant snakes charmed from a basket.
The only thing that Kirov carried with him was a canvas bag with a wooden toggle closure, intended for an army-issue gasmask. Its original contents had been disposed of, in favour of Pekkala’s Webley, the box of bullets, a lump of half stale bread and a piece of dried fish wrapped up in a handkerchief.
The driver of the Jeep was a thick-necked man with a wide forehead and narrow eyes, his upper body cocooned in a telogreika jacket. The telogreika’s tan cotton exterior was faded by washing in gasoline, which soldiers at the front often used instead of soap and water. The white fluff of raw cotton used to pad the jacket peeked from numerous tears in the cloth.
‘Welcome, Comrade Major!’ said the driver. ‘I am your driver, Sergeant Zolkin.’
Kirov climbed into the Jeep, dumping the bag on the floor at his feet. The seats smelled of sweat and old smoke. ‘Do you know where I can find Colonel Andrich?’
‘Yes, Comrade Major!’ exclaimed the driver, a broad smile sweeping across his face. ‘He is expecting you.’
Soon, the Jeep was racing along the muddy roads, its wipers twitching jerkily back and forth, like the antennae of an insect, smearing the raindrops from the windscreen.
‘So you have come from Moscow?’ asked Zolkin.
‘That’s right.’
‘It has been a dream of mine to visit that great city.’
‘Well,’ said Kirov, ‘perhaps you will get there some day.’
