Obviously, I could never find actual Academicians with such qualifications who would help me. I would simply have to invent four such people. I started by giving each of them a name, a title, and a unique, yet plausible, bureaucratic assignment.
At that time, no communication was valid without written substantiation. Because of government secrecy, few people knew what any Academician was actually doing, under whose auspices he worked, whether he was in disfavor or even if he was still employed by the State. In the Palace of Science and Culture, individuals were merely sum totals of titles, documents and dossiers. The power to impress the Academy’s seal on official documents was real and perpetual, but the person who wielded that power was often anonymous. Because my plan capitalized on that anonymity, there was a good chance it could work.
I finished my chart, folded it up neatly and taped it to my rib cage. My plan was intricate and I knew I would often have to consult my map to ascertain where the five of us were at a given moment.
I had each of my Academicians officially apply to the State Printing Office for stationery with his new letterhead. Since they all gave prestigious promotions as the reason for their requests and filed the requisitions following proper procedures, the Printing Office filled the orders immediately.
The letterheads listed the four men’s full Academy credentials along with their titles and affiliations. I manufactured one member of the National Council of Humanities. Another was the editor of the Quarterly Review of Current Trends. The third was a Senior Fellow at the Institute for Coordination of State Planning. And the fourth was a vice chairman of the High Commission for Technological Development and Progress, a man who was also the editor of the police journal, Problems of Internal Security. I doubted that anyone would question the existence of my men or their jobs.
I also requested rubber stamps and seals for these make-believe authorities, and had them shipped to the Academy’s Postal Center. I made a separate visit to collect each Academician’s order, presenting the appropriate authorization, which I wrote on my Institute’s stationery, to a different staffer each time. By the end of the week, the stationery, stamps and seals of the Academy’s four newest members were in my room, safely packed away in boxes of photographic paper whose labels warned that the contents would be damaged if exposed to light.
In order to divert any future State inquiries, I knew my Academicians should have complete information about me. I spent several days listing every person and establishment I had ever dealt with. Using the list, my Academicians sent letters of inquiry to all schools and institutions with which I had been connected, to fellow students, teachers, professors, ski instructors, neighbors, casual and intimate friends, as well as to my parents’ acquaintances. I had the letters marked “Official and Confidential” and sent by registered mail.
Two of the Academicians occupied positions in the humanities and the other two in the sciences. Academy personnel involved in the humanities received formal letters from my two scientists, while those in science heard from my humanists. Not only did this make the inquiry seem more objective, but it greatly decreased the chances of anyone’s discovering that my Academicians did not exist.
The letters stated that the Academy department listed on the letterhead was considering me for a foreign research scholarship. They asked for thorough evaluations of my academic performance, character and political allegiance, and guaranteed that all replies would be kept strictly confidential. I had my Academicians request that their original correspondence be returned with the replies. They also requested that any past or future inquiry made about me by other State agencies be forwarded to the Academy for reply. Since the Academy was the highest authority regarding politically sensitive material, any information gathered in a real State investigation of my life would be sent directly to my four nonexistent Academy members. To expedite the responses, with each letter I enclosed a prepaid self-addressed envelope stamped “Official and Confidential” and bearing the name and official address of the signing Academician.
During the weeks that followed, I collected dozens of replies. A former girl friend spoke of my sexual obsessions, which seemed alien to the Party spirit; a current one listed unpredictability as my dominant character trait. A professor with whom I had studied warned I could be a camouflaged enemy of the State and if allowed to leave the country might never return. My parents’ neighbors wrote scathing denunciations, calling my father a reactionary who was openly contemptuous of the State, and my mother a cosmopolite, a remnant of the old regime. Some of the friends with whom I had studied, skied and spent summer vacations evaded the issue by claiming that I was too inaccessible to be evaluated.
A few professors praised highly my academic achievements but hesitated to give me political recommendations. Letters from the offices of the Rector, the Dean and the University Military Reserve training unit were accompanied by my academic transcript, with confidential reports by the university’s Party cell. There were several references to a police investigation of my family and me shortly after the Party take-over.
Having assembled the most complete dossier possible on myself, I now possessed written proof that, when questioned by the State, even my most trusted friends would inform against me. My fear that the State could at any point build a case against me was not an imaginary one.
Meanwhile, friends called to congratulate me on my good fortune in being considered for a trip abroad, but I always dismissed my chances of foreign travel as slight, and tried to divert further curiosity. My parents wrote that their neighbors and business associates had received requests for information from high academic authorities. My father speculated that this was actually a hostile police investigation but I persuaded him not to worry. Everyone in the country, I said, had been under investigation at one time or another. It was the Party’s only method for establishing the innocence of the majority of the population.
To those professors who inquired about my proposed research abroad, I replied that I had just learned the project was about to be abandoned, thus ruling out the chance for overseas study.
With all potentially damaging material locked away in my darkroom, I was reasonably certain that I would have time to avert any Party or police inquiry before it could reach me. Meanwhile, I advanced to the second stage of my plan. Rather than apply for a passport at the overefficient and always suspicious central office in the Capital, I utilized a little-known regulation that permitted requests to be made at the place of voter registration.
I was banking on the ignorance and lethargy of my home town’s Provincial Passport Bureau. It issued few passports and always to the most deserving applicants. The Academy letterhead would impress them and make the Bureau especially susceptible to official pressure from the Capital. Since the passport application had to be filed by the Academy member in charge of my research, one of my creations duly submitted the forms along with instructions to address all inquiries directly to him.
I had every original document notarized at the offices of the Central Committee of the Party. The Central Committee was the highest authority in the land, and I presented the documents to its notary with the explanation that they would eventually be submitted by the Academy to one of the Central Committee’s departments. I knew that the Party’s official seal on my papers would have an additional impact on a Provincial Passport Bureau. That seal meant absolute power, especially to a petty official.
After several weeks, my Academician had still not received the passport. I decided to speed things up. I made a special trip to my home town and went directly to the Provincial Bureau. Identifying myself as an employee of the Academy, I asked for a brief appointment with the major who was the Bureau Chief. The secretary asked to see my identity card and was obviously impressed, because she went immediately to the major’s office with it.
When she came back, she announced he would see me in fifteen minutes. At the appointed time, I entered a large room decorated with portraits of State and Party leaders
. The major was a tall man in the uniform of the elite Internal Security Police. He rose from behind the desk. We shook hands; then both of us sat down.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a manila file open on his desk. Among its contents I recognized the Academy stationery.
“So you’re the young genius the Academy wrote us about,” he said jovially. “But it is the Academy that acts for you,” he added reflectively, “and your presence here is out of order.” He was still smiling broadly.
“I am aware of it, Comrade Major,” I said contritely, “but what brings me here is a matter of the utmost importance. I would be betraying the State if I kept it from you.”
“You sound concerned. Still and all …” he rose from his chair, uncertain whether or not to stop me. He walked around the desk, then sat down on the edge, his polished jackboots dangling in front of me. “Well, let’s not be so formal,” he said, breaking the silence. “Go ahead. Speak up.”
“I came to ask you, Comrade Major …” I hesitated. Then, as if I were mustering my courage, I looked straight at him. “I came to see you, Comrade Major,” I repeated emphatically, “because quite suddenly, you see, I have found a woman.” I faltered again, and again mobilized myself. “A woman I love. I have never been in love before.”
The major stood up, barely restraining his laughter. “You’re in love, then. Unfortunately, we issue passports here, not marriage certificates.”
I forced a weak smile. “Yes, of course. But, Comrade Major, I wondered whether …” I paused, and pretended to be having difficulty swallowing, “… whether the issuance of my passport could possibly be delayed for at least a month so that I can get to know her better?”
He drew his brows together in exaggerated disapproval. “You came here to request I delay what the highest authorities require you to do? Now, young man, there are limits to what I can listen to, even from someone as accomplished as you. Yours is a highly immature request. If I were to go by the book, I’d have to report you to your Institute.”
I was flushed and breathing shallowly. “I know,” I said, “but I had to risk that and tell you the truth, Comrade Major. The truth is I want to marry her and give her a child. And if I go abroad as soon as they want …” I stopped, then corrected myself. “… as soon …” I faltered several times, pretending to be overwhelmed by emotion. “…I might not come back alive from the mission which the Central Commit …” I stopped abruptly, as if I were on the verge of giving away top secrets.
The major frowned and gestured for me to stop talking. He returned to his chair and leafed quickly through my file, stopping at a document I could not see. I hoped he had noticed the seal of the Central Committee. He raised his eyes and glowered at me.
“I never again wish to hear you speak as you have just done,” he scolded. “You’re a grown man, and I gather a very bright one.” Casually indicating his decorations, he said, “I have been in every historic battle of the war, so I can tell you from experience that every man, no matter how brave, fears losing his life.” He now spoke like a commander addressing his troops. “But the Academy, the State …” He paused, then stressed, “and the Central Committee of our Party, they all have faith in you.” He paused again, trying to show me he understood the real significance of my mission, then added, “That’s why you are being sent abroad on this … mission. Go back home,” he said, winking knowingly as he ushered me to the door and opened it. When his secretary handed me back my identification card, I realized she must have been verifying it while I talked to the major.
If my stratagem had worked, the major now believed I was a Party operative ready for his first important assignment abroad.
I returned to the Capital, where I began spending every day in the Academy library, to make it seem that I was still involved in my studies. I used to sit in the hushed reading room, watching other men and women studying.
From a raised desk separated from the room by soundproof glass, a middle-aged librarian in thick glasses maintained constant watch over the readers. One day, after glancing repeatedly in my direction, she picked up a telephone. My heart pounded: if the major had reported me to the Party and security personnel should attempt to visit any of my Academicians, I was finished.
Even as I sat reading, Internal Security men might be gathering outside to arrest me. I reached into my pocket to feel for the cyanide pellet. After waiting an anxiety-ridden hour, I got up and left the library. No one stopped me and, as far as I could tell, no one followed me home. I was safe for the moment.
Toward the end of the week, a clerk at the Academy’s Postal Center casually handed me a small packet covered with “Official—Confidential” stamps and addressed to one of my Academicians. I opened it in the privacy of my darkroom and found inside a brand-new passport issued by the Provincial Bureau. As I leafed through it with reverence, my eyes met the eyes of my photograph. In a covering letter, the major apologized for the delay in processing the passport.
I immediately applied to the State National Bank for a round-trip airline ticket. At the bottom of the application I listed all the documents required by the State Bank, but in place of every unobtainable document I attached letters from my Academicians concerning my Academy position or the importance of my research.
As an employee of the Academy, I could request a personal interview with the Deputy Chief of the Foreign Travel Division of the State Bank. Shortly after I requested one, I was told to come to his office, bringing with me my official application, my passport and all the required documents.
I entered an enormous hall partitioned into large open areas, each filled with desks, file cabinets and bustling office workers. I asked one of the clerks to point out the Deputy Chief’s desk, and he told me to join the long line of State officials already waiting to see him. When my turn finally came, I approached him, presented my Academy identification card and introduced myself. He was a middle-aged man with a round face and bull-like neck, who asked for my papers with undisguised indifference. I placed the application, the documents and the passport on his desk. Ignoring the rest of my papers, he picked up my passport with two fingers and sneered, “With this tourist passport, my dear Comrade, all you need is a rich relative to pay your way. But I see from this application that you consider the State your rich relative. Where is your official Academy passport?” I pretended to grow suddenly tense, as if I were being accused of a serious crime against the State. When he saw I was worried, he shrugged his shoulders and continued in a sarcastic tone, “All you low-flying butterflies from that flower bed in the sky …” He screwed his face up into a mirthless smile and continued, “… are so absent-minded …”
I took a deep breath. “I have given you everything that I understood was required. I resent your attitude, Comrade, and find your vocabulary most offensive,” I announced loudly. “I’m not a ‘butterfly’ but a scholar employed and paid by the Academy. That ‘flower bed’ is the scientific avant-garde of the working class and of the heroic Party that guides it.”
The Deputy turned pale, started to rise, then dropped back into his chair. He glanced around the room as if he were inviting others to rally to his defense.
Everyone in the office froze. Several officials waiting in line ceased talking when they heard what was said. “But I did not … I did not mean it that way,” he mumbled. “All I said was …”
I interrupted him, speaking even more loudly than before. “Your statement, Comrade, degrades the Academy and all its devoted staff, among whom I am proud to number myself. May I remind you, Comrade, that both you and I represent institutions. They are significant; we are not.” I withdrew my passport but pushed my application closer to him. “This document as well as all its enclosures were prepared by the Academy for the State Bank. As the Academy employee who delivered it to you, I am at least entitled to proof that you have received it. May I have a receipt?” I demanded, hoping to distract him.
Eager to terminate the incident, the Deputy Chief reached for the
document with trembling hands and, without reading it, signed the bottom of the carbon copy. He was as anxious to be rid of me as I was to leave him, and he hastily handed me the copy. After checking it for a moment, I said, “This is not sufficient; the regulations governing circulation of confidential State materials require you to list legibly on this receipt your name, position and the date and hour of this delivery. Then you must affix your department’s stamp to validate the information. These procedures are for security’s sake, Comrade, and I admit I am astonished that you appear to be unfamiliar with them.”
The man could barely restrain himself. His face and neck were becoming discolored by swelling blood vessels. He snorted to clear his nose, stamped the receipt and, with a shaking hand, dated it. He pushed the duplicate application, passport and identification card across the desk without looking at me.
I calmly took the papers from him and began to walk toward the door, past nervous clerks and apprehensive officials who pretended not to see me. When I turned back, I saw the Deputy Chief angrily tossing the documents I’d given him into a desk-tray marked “File.”
On my way down, I asked the elevator operator, “What’s the name of the red-haired woman in the Foreign Travel Division? I’ve just finished talking to her but I’ve already forgotten her name.”
The man leered at me. “You liked her?”
“Maybe that’s why I looked at her instead of listening to her.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t tell you her name. It’s against the law, Comrade.” I gave him a tip, which he quickly pocketed. Then he told me the woman’s name.
I called the Foreign Travel Division from a public telephone booth and asked for her. When she answered, I introduced myself, citing my official position at the Academy as well as the exhibition of my photographs at the State Experimental Arts Gallery not far from the Bank. I told her that I had noticed her in the Bank and asked her to meet me in a café after work. She hesitated; I promptly assured her I wanted only to discuss a business matter of mutual interest.
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