Читать книгу The Russsian Factor: From Cold War to Global Terrorism - Simona Psy.D. Pipko - Страница 4

We all remember the city of our youth, whether it is a well-known place in the world or a small town hardly recognizable on a map. It’s a law of gravity—we are always drawn to the piece of land where first love visited us and left a pleasant impression on our souls and memories for the rest of our lives.

I was no exception. Moreover, I was lucky. Leningrad had been the city of my youth. In the 1950s and 1960s, many loved the famous city, some because it was considered the cradle of the October Socialist Revolution. Others recognized it as a unique and remarkable landmark of Western civilization, built by Peter the Great on a swamp and turned into a masterpiece of palaces, monuments, bridges, and European architecture. I belonged to the latter group. I loved the city as if it were a human being—intelligent and wise, magnificent and kind.

That is why receiving an invitation to celebrate the birthday of a friend from Leningrad in two weeks brought a lot of bustle, joy, and excitement to our home. A visit to Leningrad would mean a great deal not only to me, but also to my husband. We had both graduated from Leningrad law school. We had met there.

My husband, Garrik, was several years older than I, the first man I had fallen in love with, the first I kissed, the one I later married. And everything had happened in Leningrad: the unforgettable white nights on the embankment of the Neva River, the strolls along the Nevsky Prospekt, and many other marvelous memories . . .

Garrik graduated from law school a couple of years before I did. After graduation he was sent to Tallinn, the capital of Estonia, where his parents lived. When I graduated from law school, I was assigned to Tallinn too, since my husband already had a job there. I considered myself a lucky girl to have grown up in Leningrad and to live in Tallinn, one of the oldest cities in Europe. The capital of Estonia charmed me at once, and forever, with its picturesque medieval silhouettes, grand cathedrals, and houses with red-tiled roofs that looked like those in fairy tales, yet real people lived there. It was my kind of city, with a strong sense of history, culture, and tradition.

The part of Tallinn called the Old Town, with its thirteenth—to fourteenth— century Gothic architecture, had miraculously survived the horror of World War II, in spite of the fact that seventy percent of the residential areas of the city were destroyed. The Old Town had become an island of civilization, a museum under an open sky, and cobblestone streets so narrow that only a horseman without a carriage could get through. People of the twentieth century walking along those cobblestone streets could not only see the heritage of the past but also hear the echo of history.

Needless to say, I loved the city very much, and I wasn’t alone. People from all over our ethnically diverse country admired the Baltic and adored Tallinn. Situated on the shore of the Gulf of Finland, it was a closed window in the iron curtain, through which people could nevertheless catch a glimpse of something unusual and forbidden to the rest of the country.

The twenty-year period of Estonian independence between the two world wars had created an unprecedented rise in productivity, especially in consumer products, which had been underdeveloped in the rest of the Soviet Union. Thousands of visitors from our large country, predominantly women, dragging bundles and suitcases, invaded Tallinn every year, buying dishes, china, crockery, cotton-jersey women’s and men’s underwear, and many other things. When our friends from Leningrad visited us, they always shopped a lot too, though for them the main search was for the unique and beautiful articles of Estonian leather. All well-paid advocates the prices didn’t stop them from buying expensive items (Advocates are defense attorneys and advisers in all aspects of Soviet law. Only a small group of lawyers are advocates; they constitute the bar association)

That gave us an idea for a birthday present. We had time to find a special piece, even to order it for our friend’s birthday. Though we were two young lawyers earning modest incomes, the enormous respect for our colleague overcame our uneasiness. The man deserved something special, and we were eager to please him. Like my husband’s given name, his was also Gavriil, but we called him Galya. A remarkable man ten years older than us, Gavriil Mihilovich Shaffir was a well-grounded individual knowledgeable in philosophy, history, literature, and music—a brilliant lawyer with an extensive practice. Eloquent speakers of the highest order, the two Gavriils were very much alike: both handsome brunettes with an impressive appearance and a similar manner of bearing, talking, and arguing. Yet their brown eyes were different. Galya had eyes that were alive, ardent, and curious. My husband, Garrik, just the opposite—his were languorous and sad. And I loved him dearly.

We were supposed to leave our small daughter Katya with my in-laws and take a midnight train to Leningrad on Friday. Two weeks flew by as if they’d been one day. I accomplished everything I’d planned—the birthday present was beautifully wrapped, the tickets bought. On Friday morning I drove Katya to my in-laws. Garrik was at home, working on an appeal to the Supreme Court. I had a criminal case in a district court. Home by seven o’clock, I prepared supper and, while eating, told Garrik about my case. Then we packed and left for the railroad station, elated by our upcoming reunion with Leningrad. Perhaps the same pleasant pictures of the past were going through our minds, but we did not discuss them. We enjoyed them separately. As soon as we boarded the train, we got our bedding and went to sleep.

It was a convenient train, and we reached Leningrad in the morning. We both knew the exact schedule for the entire day before the birthday party. We would first visit my parents for a couple of hours. Then we would go to a hotel designated for foreigners to have lunch. Then we would stroll along the Nevsky Prospekt, as we had in the years of our youth. Yes! If a walk along Nevsky Prospekt was a ritual of youth, a lunch in the hotel for foreigners was a real adult treat. The lunch would cost us a great deal of money for the delicacies we usually couldn’t afford and that people in Leningrad could only dream about. Under the KGB management, these hotels accommodated only foreigners, and provided upscale service to attract them. Our country desperately needed the currency they could bring.

Holding hands, we were glued to the window of a squeaky old taxi that rushed us through the empty streets of the still sleeping city. On that October day, there was neither rain nor sun—it was just typical gray Leningrad weather with thick, mighty clouds casting a gloom over everything alive, but not over us immersed in our memories.

We brought Estonian whole wheat bread and cottage cheese to my parents—something they appreciated since Estonian food was considered to be of higher quality than Russian. After spending a few hours with my parents and discussing everything from world politics to the dangers of sugar in the diet, we hurriedly left so we could arrive early at the hotel cafeteria and have more time for our stroll.

When the taxi stopped at the door of the hotel, the doorman, a big fellow with a stern red face and long blond mustache, dressed in a uniform with gold epaulettes like a general of the tsarist army, did not ask us a word, silenced by the tip Garrik gave him. Not one muscle on his red face moved as we slipped into the hotel open only to foreign tourists. We reached the second floor . . . and suddenly we were in a cozy café with a buffet offering a variety of beautifully displayed dishes.

The small room with no windows had preserved everything from the past: the dark brown oak furnishings of each booth, soft light fixtures on the oak walls, matching oak tables and chairs in the middle of the room, and mirrored insets.

The café had just opened for lunch, and we were the first patrons. Leaving our luggage in the booth, we rushed to the buffet. In just a couple of minutes, our table was laden with colorful plates, spreading tempting aromas and making our mouths water. Each movement of the dishes and silverware loudly resonated in the empty room, making us a bit uneasy; we whispered to each other. Anticipating a day of intensive walking, we needed to eat enough to last six or seven hours. I would not eat in any other café or restaurant in the city. None of them had the resources to prepare decent meals, and many had substandard sanitary conditions. We all knew that.

Slowly and persistently, we savored our delicious meal commenting upon it as we shared each dish. The lunch took about forty-five minutes; by the time we finished eating, all of the booths in the café were occupied. We no longer had to whisper because we could hardly hear each other amid the multilingual chatter of foreigners and the clinking of plates. I looked at my husband’s velvet eyes and we simultaneously burst into laughter. Life was beautiful, and ahead of us lay a wonderful day in Leningrad! We got up and left . . .

In a few minutes we reached the corner, and were enmeshed in the familiar sounds of the Nevsky Prospekt. Despite the gloomy weather, the place was crowded and boisterous. Like Red Square in Moscow, it was considered a national treasure. For two hundred years Russian writers and poets dedicated their works to it. I especially admired the brilliant descriptions of the famous Prospekt by Pushkin and Gogol. What an impressive picture both have left in our literature for generations to come! I even remembered some of Pushkin’s verses by heart.

My eyes filled with tears of pride as we dissolved into a slowly moving crowd talking, laughing, and enjoying the openness on that Khrushchev’s Thaw day. People called the time of the late ‘50s Khrushchev’s Thaw because it was him who revealed Stalin’s crimes to the world. We learned that for several decades, millions of innocent people had been killed or tortured and sent to labor camps in Siberia. Secrecy in our society had been so pervasive that nobody knew for sure how many millions had perished.

I myself had listened to many horror stories of survivors who had been released from exile after the Khrushchev revelations. They sat in my office, emaciated invalids, some without an arm or a leg, but all with hope in their searching eyes. Yet I couldn’t help them. Nobody could restore their health, property, or family. The only good news was their release—they were alive.

The entire country let out a sign of relief when many years of injustice had finally ended. The crowd on the Nevsky Prospekt reflected these events with guarded satisfaction, carrying us along its powerful current. We followed the crowd . . .

Nevsky Prospekt was not a simple avenue or boulevard, but a road rich with history and geography. Events of several centuries were personified along that road. It was Peter the Great who had decided to implant Western civilization on the shore of the Baltic Sea. What a project it was! That Western civilization should be brought to the culture of archaic Russian traditions, to soil covered by a swamp! That ground had swallowed many human lives in the primitive age of machinery in Russia at the dawn of the eighteenth century. But it was the price paid for moving Russia closer to the West. Nevsky Prospekt epitomized the greatness of Peter’s design.

We knew every stone, every palace and monument on our way from the Neva River to Insurrection Square, and we enjoyed each minute of the stroll along the spectacular straight line of perspective. We admired a magnificent monument to Catherine the Great on a round black granite pedestal. We had frequently met at that monument. Passing by the Belozersky Palace, we could not take our eyes off the famous sculptures of rearing horses by Peter Klodt on the Anichkov Bridge. The palaces and monuments, all artifacts of the pre-Soviet era, created an impressive view along the unique straight line of Nevsky Prospekt.

Crossing several times, we passed five movie theaters where we used to kiss in the dark, and a photography studio where our wedding picture had been displayed for many months. Finally we approached Insurrection Square. The square brought up a lot of memories—we had lived on opposite sides of it and used to run into each other on the same bus from the Moscow Railroad Station to law school.

Tired but happy experiencing again that tender, sweet feeling of being in love, we stood in front of the station embracing each other as if one of us had just arrived from Moscow. Pictures of the past flew vividly through our minds. The gloomy weather and wind from the gulf did not bother us. Then Garrik picked up our small suitcase, and we turned back toward Nevsky Prospekt.

On our way, in spite of the cold and windy weather, we stopped in the square in front of the Kazansky Cathedral and sat on a bench to admire the grandeur of the edifice with the imperial Roman colonnade. I adored the cathedral.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit cynical to turn a symbol of religion into the Museum of Atheism?” I asked Garrik, continuing to admire the splendid colonnade.

“No, it’s a normal event in our country. We are turning the past into the future. By the way, Simosha, I know you’re quite a curious girl, and I’d like to give you some advice about the party tonight.”

I began laughing. “What kind of advice?

“It’s not a laughing matter, Simosha. At the home of our friends this evening, you’ll meet the old advocates who know much more than you and me about the past. Please don’t ask them any questions.”

“But Sergey has always participated in all discussions at the home of our friends, and he’s only a teenager. You’re giving me some pretty strange advice.”

“Their son is their business. Please, Simosha, believe me, I know those old lawyers and the impressive stories they’ll tell all night.” He was no longer smiling. I got the message and stopped arguing.

We strolled back along Nevsky Prospekt toward the Neva River where our friends lived. We bought a bouquet of white and purple asters for Galya’s wife, Tanya, a woman of such beauty that artists had painted portraits of her. Stunning, with big blue eyes, light brown hair parted in the middle and tied in the back, and a cameoclassic face, she was a collector of antiques and an expert in the field.

My thoughts had completely changed as we approached the embankment of the Neva River’s stream, spanned by a small humpback bridge. A majestic work by Pushkin and Tchaikovsky had made the embankment famous. It had been there that Lisa, from the Queen of Spades, committed suicide, hurling herself into the water. Our friends’ windows looked out on that famous bridge.

We rang the bell and Sergey opened the door. In the tiny corridor, I kissed and congratulated him with a bouquet of flowers for his mother, who was busy in the kitchen. We moved to the living room, embraced Galya and Garrik handed him the birthday present. The living room was prepared for the celebration—all of the furniture was moved to Sergey’s room. Delicate crystal candelabra illuminated walls covered with old master paintings and Sevres porcelain plates. Two tables, put together to form a T shape, were covered with white tablecloths and dishes of meat and fish prepared and decorated by Tanya. As usual, on top of the potato salad, Tanya’s incredible mushroom with the red head of a tomato on a white egg stem towered over all of the dishes.

There were three couples in the room. I didn’t know them. Galya made the introductions. They were defense attorneys and their spouses—relatives and friends of the family, all Jews. I had a great deal of respect for those professionals—they had been the only group of lawyers who tried to help the defenseless victims of Stalinism in the dark decades of lawlessness. Activities of that nature required a lot of guts, posing a risk to their careers and lives. Before Galya finished the introduction, we heard the doorbell ring, then voices in the corridor, and another couple entered the room. Everybody stopped talking while Galya hurried toward them.

“Folks, allow me to introduce old friends of ours, Jacob Mayzel and his wife Milliza.” In silence all eyes fell on the tall, slim, silver-haired man whose posture revealed old-world manners. Clearly, the other guests had enormous respect for this man. With dignity and a light smile, he shook hands.

“Are you a lawyer too, my dear young girl?” he asked, holding my hand in his soft, warm palms. I blushed but was unable to squeeze out a word. Garrik saved me as usual.

“She’s my wife. You’re right, Simona graduated from law school only a few years ago. Like me, she’s a defense attorney.”

“That is a very nice addition to the bar,” said Jacob, making me blush even more. Everybody burst out laughing. In the relaxed atmosphere, the guests began talking, some complimenting the table spread, others exchanging political jokes, with Khrushchev being the usual an object of mockery. Garrik and I were admiring the old paintings and Sevres plates on the walls.

Tanya’s resounding voice rose above the noise, “Dear guests, I invite you all to take a seat at the table. I know that everybody’s starving. Let’s start eating, please.” She was right. Hungry and tired, Garrik and I obediently followed as did the others. The shuffling of chairs in limited space and giggles and excuses filled the room. When we were all seated, an incredible aroma of food tickled our nostrils. But nobody dared to destroy Tanya’s creative food presentation. She grasped the situation immediately. “Friends, please, give me the pleasure of seeing you eat the fruit of my labor.” We all laughed and did not make her wait. Soon the room was filled with the sounds of working forks and knives. For a couple of minutes nobody talked. Then Garrik stood up with a glass of vodka in his hand.

“I would like to propose a toast to my friend Galya,” he said, raising an overfilled glass; the vodka left round damp spots on the white tablecloth. By Russian tradition, any celebration has to have a special person delivering a toast. With his theatrical talent and excellent command of the Russian language, Garrik usually did the job and loved it. He knew where to make a pause and where to raise his voice. I sat there admiring him.

“Today we celebrate the birthday of a unique fellow. It so happened that we live in different cities and I met him only several years ago, but as you know a real diamond always shines. All these years I have been astounded by Galya’s unlimited energy and strong will to do good. He’s fighting everywhere in the courts of Moscow, Tallinn, and other cities throughout the country for his clients in criminal and civil cases. He’s a tireless fighter in the Leningrad District Communist Party Committee for the defense attorney’s right to speak the truth. He is driven by a sense of mission to help people and make our country better.” Though Garrik smiled, a few drops of sweat appeared on his forehead, and two oval islands of sweat were quite noticeable under his arms. The vodka left more spots on the tablecloth. He put his glass down.

“Thanks to our esteemed Nikita Sergeevich Khrushchev, for whom I have a profound respect, we are all free from fear and terror. But there is no more courageous and daring man than Galya. We know how difficult it is to be courageous and daring in our profession. That is why Galya is an inspiration and role model for us all.” He raised his glass again. “I propose a toast to a brave man, to a man of principle and conviction, to a citizen with a capital c. I wish my friend Galya Shaffir good health and many, many years of productive work for the well-being of our great motherland.” By Russian tradition, Garrik gulped his vodka at once, and then, with a theatrical gesture, set the empty glass on the table and dropped onto his chair. Some guests applauded him; others followed his example and gulped their drinks.

There were many different toasts that evening. We drank to parents, to Tanya, to Sergey, to a new apartment the family needed, and more and more. Within a few hours the table had lost its pristine beauty as if a tornado had swept over it, leaving empty dishes and a tablecloth covered with motley spots of red wine and different foods. The guests’ voices had grown louder, their faces redder and sweaty. Some were changing places at the table, and the room turned into a beehive of sounds— moving chairs, laughter, and clinking of glasses . . .

By that time, Sergey had already left after talking on the phone with a friend. I found myself surrounded by the group of guests, delivering jokes one after another. They interspersed their speeches with profanities, which was very fashionable in the top echelon of Soviet society. All Jews, well acquainted with each other, they felt secure in that charming room after a wonderful diner. Relaxed, they had a talent for telling stories. Soon my stomach was sore from laughing.

Then a brunette with round black eyes, dressed in a flowered blouse, was telling a joke about Khrushchev when her husband drew my attention to what was going on between Galya and Garrik. Turning to the other side of the table, I found them in the midst of a dispute. I couldn’t hear the words, but neither of them was smiling and tension strained their faces. A suspicious silence fell over the room.

Staring at the table, Galya moved aside the glasses and plates in front of him, as if preparing a battlefield. He took a fork in his hand and twisted it in his fingers. He spoke slowly, but with vigor and indignation. “If you think that Khrushchev’s hands are not bloody, you’re foolishly naïve. He was doing in the Ukraine what Stalin did to the entire country. Nobody was free from the system.”

Garrik, drunk, could not maintain decorum. He shouted, “You don’t understand the significance of our time! What Khrushchev has exposed about the past will help us to change the system you’re talking about.”

Galya’s bright brown eyes revealed he was seething, but he held his temper and spoke quietly. “I know you’re a good lawyer who knows a lot of poetry, but it’s not sufficient, considering ‘the significance of our time.’ I thought you were better informed. Unfortunately, your words demonstrate not only a naïveté of opinion, but also an inability to show sound judgment. How easy it is to deceive good people. Alas, ignorance is bliss, and only those acquainted with the truth and duty of conscience feel pain.”

I watched Galya with complete disbelief. Perhaps alcohol took away his selfrestraint, I thought. Meanwhile, his voice became louder and stronger. “Nothing can change a system run by the same people. The remedy for the Soviet system is as of yet unknown. The old mentality of lying and cheating is shaped by it and is winning. Every month I argue in the District Party Committee without any success. Do you know what it means to voice disagreement in the Communist Party Committee? People there are so filled with missionary zeal they will never admit they were wrong.

“Your ‘esteemed’ Nikita Khrushchev has exposed only the tip of the iceberg and he did that to win his fight for power with Bulganin and Malenkov. The three of them killed Beria. Khrushchev helped to destroy one of his own, portraying Beria as a foreign spy. That was nonsense. Beria was doomed because he knew the crimes of the inner circle. Do you know that they tricked Beria, and then murdered him before the court rendered the death sentence? Does that remind you of anything?” Galya asked sarcastically, cleaning foam from his lips and continuing in the same tone.

“You have already forgotten how Stalin killed millions. I’m not talking about show trials and the politics of personal destruction, demonizing leaders of the opposition. No. I’m talking about tens of millions of innocent Soviet citizens slaughtered by Stalin. Do you know that he killed all his relatives because they knew his past? He shot the best people to promote his yes-men and cover up the truth. That is the way Stalin shaped the Soviet system. Think about it, and keep in mind the manner of the Beria assassination. The modus operandi of the Stalinist system is still alive and well.”

Garrik attempted to answer, but Galya stopped him, extending his hand with a fork. “Let me give you two examples to characterize the methods of the system and the character of your ‘esteemed’ comrade Khrushchev. He knew that Postyshev was guilty of nothing. Yet the first secretary of the Ukrainian Communist Party did nothing to save that innocent old Bolshevik. Adherence to the system prompted Khrushchev to follow precept. Crying, on his knees, Petyshev was maintaining his innocence, but nobody heard him . . . You would recognize the pattern if you had intellectual curiosity.” Galya put the fork on the table, his mouth tightly closed.

“OK, give me the second example,” Garrik said, pushing back his black hair with both his hands, preparing himself for the response.

“Second, your ‘esteemed’ Nikita Khrushchev gave an order to blow up a synagogue in Kiev and build a new TV building on the spot. Are you following this pattern? Stalin blew up thousands of churches and synagogues, turning some into stables and storage buildings. Forget about changing the system. Stalin forged it with an iron hand, tightening his inner circle by mutual crime. Do you know that Stalin forced all of the members of the Politburo to sign his lists of people destined to be executed? He cast a plague on the great Russian culture and stopped the progress of civilization in our country . . .”

Galya’s last words shocked Garrik. He could not restrain himself further. “Your examples will not alter the historic fact. Stalin won the Great Patriotic War. In his name, soldiers committed heroic deeds, contesting every inch of our ground, dying on the battlefields. He saved our country, us Jews, and you and me—”

“For you to suggest that makes me sick to my stomach,” Galya struck back. “The Soviet people of all nationalities won World War II! Stalin used and betrayed them all. Before the war he annihilated millions of innocent men, leaving fatherless families behind. Because of him, millions of our young boys were taken prisoners by the Germans in the first months of the war and perished in captivity. He deprived our army of the best generals, shooting them just before the war. You haven’t heard about them? Listen, Jacob,” he addressed the silver-haired man sitting in the center of the T table, “tell this young man about the case of Marshal Rokossovsky, would you?” Evidently, Galya intended to end the discussion. He left the table and approached Jacob Mayzel.

“Please, Jacob, tell them the truth. I’ll be back in a minute.” He left the room. The four walls covered with all that art, stared at us. Nobody spoke. I was sitting with my mouth open, totally bewildered, not knowing how to react. The last name I’d expected to hear was Marshal Rokossovsky’s. That name evoked only love and admiration. Soviet women adored him—he was the embodiment of courage. A highly decorated hero of World War II, his portraits appeared in Soviet prints and publications, and we often saw him in documentaries. Tall and broad shouldered, handsome with a full head of chestnut hair and a pair of playful eyes, he could charm anybody with his smile revealing a mouth full of gold teeth, which were very fashionable at that time. An extremely attractive Pole with a proud bearing, dressed in a military uniform, he was an idol beloved by the entire country. On a white horse, he had commanded the Victory Day parade on Red Square after the end of World War II.

What could it mean, “the case of Marshal Rokossovsky”? Confusion was also written on the faces of all the guests. Only the whispering of Jacob’s wife, a smart and knowledgeable woman, broke the silence.

When Galya returned, the situation had not changed. He took a seat. “You haven’t started yet, Jacob? Please, be aware that at our table sit only thoughtful people. I assure you of that.” The silver-haired man at the center of the table sat quietly. Looking into space in front of him, his head elevated a bit, both hands crossed on the table, he kept silent. A patriarch of the bar association, he had known bad times. And though we were living in Khrushchev’s Thaw, taking consideration whether to speak openly was perhaps the wise course.

It happened that being so astonished at the mention of Rokossovsky’s name, I couldn’t stay silent any longer. “I’m sorry,” I blurted out, “Maybe I’m mistaken. Are you talking about our Marshal Rokossovsky?” From another side of the table Garrik signaled me to stop talking, but it was beyond me.

The patriarch scratched his temple, gazed at me, and smiled slightly.

“Yes, young lady . . . I defended Marshal Rokossovsky in a military tribunal.”

“What?”

“I defended Marshal Rokossovsky,” Jacob repeated.

Suddenly, everyone at the table wanted to hear the story.

“Please, tell us about the case . . .” Jacob was sitting still.

“Please tell us the story,” the guests continued asking.

Galya as a host had an obligation to resolve a dilemma. “Jacob, you can talk freely in my house. You’re surrounded by friends who know the environment and the consequences.” Galya assured him.

A wise man, Jacob had been listening more than talking all evening, but now the situation had changed. We all awaited his story. A long pause ended when Jacob, looking around the table and meeting the eyes of each guest, finally nodded and waved his hand.

“Marshal Rokossovsky was a lucky man. He was brought in for trial before the military tribunal,” Jacob began.

For me, a young defense attorney, the military tribunal was a scary institution. “The military tribunal is the worst place to be charged with a crime!” I exclaimed.

“You are a lucky girl too. You didn’t work as a defense attorney in the thirties.” Jacob’s face became stern, his gray eyes so sharp that they were drilling into me.

“There were only two possibilities at that time—a military tribunal or the ‘troika.’ Do you know what the troika means?” He asked me. I had some idea, but I did not answer the question.

“The troika was formed by the three members of the NKVD, the security agency that combined the KGB and the MVD. Those three men brought charges, rendered judgments, and executions. The administrative proceedings were secret, and the accused had no rights to a defense counsel. Do you know, young lady, about the fate of our brilliant poet Osip Mandelshtam?” He continued drilling into me with his gray eyes.

I felt as if my questions had irritated Jacob. My answer was timid and careful. “If I’m not wrong, he was exiled to Siberia and died there.”

“Osip Mandelshtam was sent to a labor camp as a ‘person to be socially dangerous’ by the three-man special board of the NKVD called the troika. Our great poet had no right to defense counsel or appeal, despite his complete innocence. I could participate in the case because Rokossovsky was brought for trial before the military tribunal, which meant a court proceeding, not the administrative one. He was charged with many different crimes, including collaboration with foreign intelligence. But the most unbelievable thing for me was his admission of all charges. I was in total shock when I saw his signature on each page of the interrogations.” Jacob asked Galya for a glass of water. He drank it slowly. In a dead silence we could hear every sip he took.

“To make a long story short, let me describe the atmosphere in the courtroom of the military tribunal. I remember everything. Between the two windows of a big hall stood three wooden armchairs with their backs to the wall and in front of them a huge black writing desk with green fabric in the center of it. In the armchairs sat three judges, all high-ranking military men with typically Slavic faces. The chairman, in the center, a gray-haired man wearing eyeglasses, had been an experienced professional lawyer, older than the other two. To the right of the judges was a table for the military prosecutor, to the left a table for me. Facing all that was an enclosed wooden structure, like a cage up to the chest, for the defendant.” Jacob paused, took a few sips of water, and continued.

“On the huge desk, in front of the chairman, was a dossier—a file with all the evidence and interrogations. When the formalities were taken care of, the chairman addressed Rokossovsky:

“‘The accused will stand up.’ Rokossovsky did.”

“‘How do you plead?’” Silence.

“The chairman repeated his question, “‘How do you plead, accused?’”

“‘I plead not guilty,’” Rokossovsky answered.

The chairman began turning over the pages in the dossier.

“‘In front of me is a protocol of your interrogation, where you admitted to all the charges. Is this your signature?’”

“‘Yes.’”

“‘If it is your signature, it means that you pleaded guilty in the preliminary investigation when you were interrogated. Why are you changing your plea in court?’” Silence.

The chairman closed the dossier, put his hands on it and slowly pronounced, “You have a right not to answer my question. But I’m asking you for the last time. Why are you changing your plea?” The question hung in the air of the soundless courtroom, where everyone was waiting for the answer.

“As Rokossovsky’s defense attorney I couldn’t intervene, it was not permitted, but my heart was going out to the man behind the wooden barrier. He stood like a monument of a proud soldier. There was no fear in his eyes, no confusion on his face. He looked straight into the eyes of the judges. He did not say a word. It seemed that time came to a halt in the courtroom of the military tribunal. After a while, I turned and gaze at Rokossovsky. He interpreted it as a signal to start answering, but he did not say a word. He opened his mouth; in the dark, bloody opening, there were no teeth . . . not one . . .” Jacob stopped talking and dropped his head.

I do not know what happened afterward. As if lightening hit my stomach, I felt overcome by nausea. I ran to the bathroom so fast that I knocked over my chair.

In the tiny bathroom I vomited. When, finally, I returned to a vertical position and glanced in the mirror, a strange young woman looked back at me, her hair in disarray, her frightened sweaty face covered with red spots, and her blue silk blouse completely wet with sweat.

It took some time for me to pull myself together. When I returned to the living room, the guests were quietly drinking tea. They acted as if nothing had happened and did not even look at me. It was late, and Galya called for a taxi. We said goodbye and left for the railroad station.

We again took the midnight train, this time back to Tallinn. Lying down in the compartment, I could not sleep, recalling Jacob’s final words: “In the dark, bloody opening, there were no teeth . . . not one . . .”

As the midnight train carried us home, something essential had changed inside me. I was returning from one beloved city to another with baggage on my shoulders—I was carrying the burden of truth.