Читать книгу Two for the Devil - Allen Hoffman - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

NIKOLAI SVETKOV’S UNCOUTH, BESTIAL ENERGY FLOWED out through the open office door. Grisha could hear the animated, shouting voice and sensed the appearance of the speaker. Ruddy, thick Russian features crowded onto an insufficient expanse of face. Unkempt, his rumpled tunic would be hanging like a shaggy coat. He often draped it over his chair to reveal a smudged shirt badly in need of a wash; his shirttails, like dark, dirty rain clouds, ballooned out of pants inevitably in need of pressing. Had Grisha learned that Svetkov, like the prisoners, slept in his clothes, he would not have been surprised.

The similarity to prisoners did not end there. Although both dreamed prolifically, good and bad dreams, Svetkov’s were the prisoners’ nightmares, whereas the prisoners’ dreams were the chief investigator’s nightmares. Indulging his rapaciousness, Svetkov seemed to thrive on the dark intimacy of his relationship to the prisoners. He always looked happy and prosperously well fed. There was a softness to his pink flesh, but Grisha didn’t doubt the strength in the sturdy frame. Indeed, the apparent softness gave the false impression of greater bulk. The boorish, joking selfaggrandizement disguised an untrained but clever, perceptive mind. Like Stalin himself, Svetkov was most dangerous when he was most clownish, as if his laughter unleashed within him something terrible and capricious.

For all his fear of the speaker, Grisha wasn’t listening to the bullying voice inside the office. He had been surprised to find a new secretary. The young, uniformed female officer invited Grisha to enter with a curt nod. Her hair was cut so short that it barely moved when she flipped her head. Although she hadn’t been there the day before, she seemed to know who he was and acted with an arrogant confidence that Grisha envied. Yes, that’s how it should be done! That’s how he, too, had done it once—when he and the revolution were both young and glorious. But Chekist women had never been this mannish. Certainly not Maya Kirsanova; for all her severity and dedication, a few long blond hairs had always escaped the discipline of the tightly tied bun. Grisha found nothing astray on the new secretary. Nodding vigorously for him to enter the office, she seemed oddly sexless. Grisha straightened up, smoothed his neat tunic, and stepped into the large, impressive chamber.

Occupied with the telephone, Svetkov waved him gleefully inside, inviting him with a conspiratorial wink to appreciate his performance. Although he was grinning broadly, his voice was harsh and threatening when he spoke into the telephone.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a train, because if you don’t, we’ll have to march them over and dispose of them in your office. You leave us no choice!”

He paused while the party on the other end trembled in terror.

“I know you understand!” Svetkov bullied. He hung up the phone, turning to his live audience for approval.

On the couch sat Pechko, a junior lieutenant, who chuckled out loud at his commander’s wit. One of the new men, Pechko had been introduced shortly before Svetkov’s arrival. Grisha wanted to join in the laughter, but he felt too weary and too fearful that he might be among those marched off for disposal. Realizing that he couldn’t ignore the joke without offending Svetkov, Grisha nodded wearily in agreement. “Yes, you won’t find a larger office in Moscow than the stationmaster’s.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Grisha saw Pechko slyly examining Svetkov for the proper response. No sooner did the NKVD chief of investigations beam his approval and begin to guffaw than Pechko nodded vigorously and returned to chuckling. Grisha felt as if he were among idiots—rather boorish ones, too. But instantly Svetkov turned completely serious and motioned him to be seated. The man could switch gears with lightning speed. It made him all the more dangerous. Grisha took a seat in one of the frayed, overstuffed leather armchairs in front of the massive desk, which had once insured an empire. Like a drunk encountering a policeman, Pechko was trying to regain his sobriety; his unsuccessful attempts made him all the more ludicrous. Grisha focused on Svetkov.

“Pechko needs some information for his investigation,” Svetkov was saying.

Grisha nodded agreeably. This was how the service was supposed to function. He pivoted slightly to face the junior lieutenant, who was seated on the large couch off to the side.

“What do you know about the Jewish New Year?” Pechko asked.

It was such a surprising question that Grisha wasn’t sure he had understood correctly. In fact, he was certain that he had not. He stared in dull amazement at his questioner.

“The Jewish New Year,” Pechko muttered with slight embarrassment.

“The Jewish New Year?” Grisha repeated, wondering why Pechko should be mentioning such a thing in the office of the director of investigations.

“Yes.” Pechko nodded, a touch too aggressively.

“What about it?” Grisha asked.

“That’s what I want to know,” Pechko agreed.

“Why?” Grisha asked, befuddled and anxious.

“Why do you think! Because he has an investigation with a fanatic Jew!” Svetkov burst impatiently into their conversation.

Welcoming the interjection, Pechko nodded vigorously.

Grisha, too, had been recalled to his senses.

“Major Feldman handles religion. He’s very knowledgeable,” he informed them.

“Yes, we know, but we’re asking you,” Svetkov said bluntly.

Grisha knew that he must not give in to an investigator. The first reasonable admission always opened a floodgate of demands and accusations. “Why?” he responded with equal bluntness.

“Because Feldman’s not here, and you are,” Svetkov replied.

“Where is he?”

“Major Feldman can’t be everywhere. That’s why all of us are here to help him,” Svetkov announced sarcastically, with a shrug of disbelief at Grisha’s unreasonable hostility.

Grisha sensed that he was making a fool of himself by standing on ceremony.

“What do you want to know?” he asked defensively, knowing that the game was already lost. You couldn’t begin to cooperate and stop when you wanted to stop.

“Good,” Svetkov said buoyantly, his overlarge mouth curving into a buffoonish grin. “After all, we’re here to tell the truth,” he laughed, burlesquing the NKVD line fed to all prisoners until they agreed to absolute untruths.

Pechko laughed dutifully, but Grisha did not. It was all he could do to keep from wincing. Svetkov glanced at Pechko, who quietly controlled himself.

“I have an old-fashioned Jew, a long coat and beard. Primarily a British spy, but he also committed economic sabotage. He’s shaky, and I want the names of the other bloodsucking profiteers. Is there any way I can use the Jewish holy day to get him to tell the truth?”

“I don’t really see what we could do in the Lubyanka,” Grisha answered thoughtfully. After all, the Lubyanka was not a synagogue, was it?

“What do these Jews do on their New Year?” Svetkov asked directly.

No, Grisha didn’t like it, but he began to concentrate on Rosh Hashanah for the first time in many years. “It’s the beginning of the New Year. It’s the day of judgment for the coming year. In the synagogue they pray, and at home they dip bread and apples into honey for a sweet year. It’s a holiday, but a serious one,” Grisha concluded with a certain vagueness concerning events deeply buried under the weight of decades. He felt that he was omitting something important, but couldn’t imagine what that might be.

“What about special wine? Do they use a special wine?” Pechko asked.

“No, I don’t think they do. They use the wine they always do,” Grisha answered.

“What wine is that?”

“Jewish wine. They make it themselves. I suppose it is special to them, if that’s what you mean, but it’s the same wine they use all year for religious blessings.”

“What do you think of Pechko letting the prisoner have some in his office to celebrate the New Year?” Svetkov proposed.

“To create dependence and the belief that I really do want to help him,” Pechko encouraged by way of explanation.

Grisha couldn’t help raising his eyebrows in puritanical disapproval.

“You don’t think it’s a good idea?” Svetkov asked.

“Who needs bourgeois superstition? We have our own Bolshevik methods, and they have been proven effective,” he answered forcefully.

Pechko glanced at Svetkov; both looked slightly disappointed.

“I suppose so,” Svetkov said.

“I’ll continue then with the usual method tonight?” Pechko asked his superior.

“Did you know that tonight is the Jewish New Year?” Svetkov asked Grisha.

In spite of Svetkov’s barbed question, Grisha merely shook his head. There was something special about Rosh Hashanah that he was forgetting. “Oh,” he announced, like a schoolboy recalling the right answer, “they blow a ram’s horn.”

“Why do they do that?” Svetkov asked curiously.

“They think it helps them to become better people.”

“Does it?” Svetkov asked seriously.

“How should I know?” Grisha snapped.

“Your father might have told you,” Svetkov suggested casually.

“My father died when I was an infant.”

“Maybe your father-in-law, the grand rabbi in America, might have told you, or his daughter, Rachel Leah, your dear wife, might have mentioned it this morning,” Svetkov speculated.

Grisha was surprised that this insult wasn’t delivered with Svetkov’s usual obscene smile.

“If anyone did, I don’t remember,” he responded.

“Some things are best forgotten,” Svetkov said sympathetically.

Grisha squirmed uncomfortably before this new, considerate Svetkov.

“What should I do with the wine?” Pechko asked petulantly, now that he wasn’t permitted to serve it to his prisoner.

An extraordinary grin wreathed Svetkov’s face. “Give it to me. Tonight is the Jewish New Year. I’ll know what to do with it.” He laughed.

Pechko, slightly confused, was trying to laugh when Svetkov’s face contracted. “That’s enough of this nonsense, Pechko. Get back to work. Colonel Shwartzman and I have some serious matters to discuss.”

Under Svetkov’s disapproving gaze Pechko aborted his laugh with two deep choking breaths and rose to leave. Beneath the chandelier he bowed awkwardly toward his superiors and, breathing unevenly, marched self-consciously out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Turning to Grisha, Svetkov remained serious, but softened his expression as if he were dealing with a respected comrade. “Colonel, forget that silliness. A simple problem needed a simple solution. I called you in for something really very important.” Svetkov paused, as if searching for the right words. “Some cases are so delicate”—the word seemed to discomfort him—“that only the most senior investigators can be trusted with them. It’s no secret that no one here has had your experience defending the revolution. We are relying on you to make use of that formidable experience. This is a case that demands an old Chekist. Unfortunately, we have only one left.” Svetkov delivered his charge and sat back with evident relief.

Stimulated and flattered by Svetkov’s appeal—he had never known him to be so respectful for so long—Grisha sat up straighter to receive the particulars. Svetkov, however, said no more. He simply sat back and nodded very soberly, as if he had already delivered all the details.

“How long has the case been under investigation?” Grisha asked.

“A few days. It was entrusted directly to me, and I am giving it straight to you to handle,” Svetkov answered and again fell back into his chair.

“Perhaps we should start with the file,” Grisha suggested.

“There isn’t any,” Svetkov answered.

Although Svetkov remained silent, Grisha looked at him for an explanation.

“It is that delicate,” Svetkov explained.

“Then how do I proceed?”

“The prisoner himself will explain everything.” Svetkov seemed nervous and frightened by the case, but Grisha felt the thrill of a formidable challenge.

“When do we start?”

“In a few minutes he will be brought here,” Svetkov answered.

“Here?”

“This demands the strictest secrecy. You will use my office with all its resources at your disposal. Needless to say, you will be relieved of all other duties until this business is completed.”

Svetkov rose from his chair and made a few haphazard attempts to stuff his billowing shirttails into his pants. These unsuccessful thrusts merely flattened the dirty garment against his body. Removing the tunic that he had been wrinkling with his own bulk from the back of his chair, he put it on. Svetkov even made an effort to brush his hair with his hand.

Grisha wondered what prisoner could elicit such respect from Svetkov.

“Sit here behind the desk. It wouldn’t make sense otherwise,” he suggested.

Grisha rose and took the seat of Svetkov, chief of the Lubyanka. As he passed his nominal superior, he was surprised to find that the man was sweating.

“Whatever you need, Tatiana will get for you. She is a good girl. Thoroughly reliable. She has been briefed as to the investigation, but she knows nothing of the case itself. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Grisha answered.

“Then have her send him in.”

Grisha picked up the phone and heard the severe, efficient “Yes?” of the new NKVD secretary.

“Send him in,” Grisha commanded crisply.

Svetkov crossed the large office as if on his way to escape. For a moment, the insane thought crossed Grisha’s mind that they were going to assassinate him seated at the desk of the chief of investigations. Instead the door opened and a guard entered, followed by a man sandwiched between him and another guard. Svetkov nodded. The first guard stopped, permitting the prisoner to enter. A look of loathing on his exaggerated features, Svetkov let the man walk by him and quickly exited, as if he were escaping a foul odor. The guard stood at attention to Svetkov, then quickly followed him out, closing the door.

Grisha sat up straight, focusing intently on the man who had just been deposited in front of him. After staring several moments to be certain, he was indeed surprised.