Moscow
Lubyanka Square
The Lubyanka, Headquarters
of the Secret Police
Next Day
Leo hadn’t slept last night, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sting of the humiliation to fade. After several hours he’d got up and paced his empty apartment, moving from room to room like a caged animal, full of hate for the generous space appointed to him. Better to sleep in a barracks, the proper place for a soldier. His apartment was a family home, the envy of many, except it was empty – the kitchen unused, the living space untouched, impersonal, no more than a place to rest after a day’s work.
Arriving early, he entered his office and sat at his desk. He was always early except for the day he’d stopped to ask Lena’s name. There was no one else in the office, at least not on his floor. There might be people downstairs in the interrogation rooms, where sessions could run for days without interruption. He checked his watch. In an hour or so other staff would start to arrive.
Leo began to work, hoping the distraction would push the incident with Lena from his mind. Yet he was unable to focus on the documents in front of him. With a sudden swipe of his arm, he knocked the papers to the ground. It was intolerable – how could a stranger have such an effect upon him? She didn’t matter. He was an important man. There were other women, plenty of them, many would be thankful to be the subject of his attention. He stood up, pacing the office as he’d paced his apartment, feeling caged. He opened the door, walking down the deserted corridor, finding himself in a nearby office where the reports on suspects were held. He checked that Grigori had filed his report, expecting his trainee to have forgotten or to have neglected the duty for sentimental reasons. The file had been submitted, languishing near the bottom of a low-priority stack of case files, many of which would not be read for weeks, dealing with the most trivial of incidents.
Leo lifted Peshkova’s file, feeling the weight of the diary inside. In a snap decision, he moved it to the highest-priority pile, placing it at the very top – the most serious suspects, ensuring the case would be reviewed today, as soon as the staff arrived.
Back at his desk, Leo’s eyes began to close as if having completed that piece of bureaucracy he was finally able to sleep.
*
Leo opened his eyes. Grigori was nudging him awake. Leo stood up, embarrassed at being caught asleep at his desk, wondering what time it was.
— Are you OK?
Pulling his thoughts together, he remembered – the file.
Without saying a word, he hastened out of the office. The corridors were busy: everyone arriving for work. Quickening his pace, pushing past his colleagues, Leo reached the room where active cases were held for review. Ignoring the woman asking if he needed any help, he searched through the stack of files, looking for the documents on the artist Polina Peshkova. The file had been on the top. He’d put it there only sixty minutes ago. Once again the secretary asked if he needed any help.
— There was a file here.
— They’ve been taken.
Peshkova’s case was being processed.
Same Day
Leo searched Grigori’s expression for hatred or disgust. Evidently his trainee didn’t know that the file on Polina Peshkova had been moved. He would find out soon enough. Leo should pre-empt the discovery with an explanation, an excuse – he’d been exhausted, he’d simply glanced at the documents then put it back in the wrong pile. On second thought there was no need to mention it. The evidence against the artist was thin. Her file would be reviewed and the case dismissed. It was going to be reviewed anyway: Leo had merely accelerated the process. At the very worst, she’d be called in for a short interview. She would be free to continue her work. Grigori could meet her again. Leo should put the matter out of his mind and concentrate on the task at hand – their next assignment. Grigori asked:
— Are you OK?
Leo put a hand on Grigori’s arm.
— It’s nothing.
*
The lights were turned off. The projector at the back of the room whirred. On screen there appeared footage of an idyllic rural village. The houses were made of timber and roofs were thatched. Small gardens were lush with summer herbs. Plump chickens picked at grain, overflowing from ceramic pots. Everything was in abundance, including sunshine and good humour. Farmers were dressed in traditional outfits, patterned shawls and white shirts. They strode through fields of corn, returning to their village. The sun was bright and the sky clear. The men were strong. The women were strong. Sleeves were rolled up. Soaring music gave way to a formal news commentary.
— Today these farm workers have a surprise visitor.
In the centre of the village were several men in suits, out of place and awkward. With smiles on their plump faces, the suited men guided their guest of honour through the picturesque surroundings. The visitor was a man in his late twenties, tall, well built and handsome. Either through some trick of editing, or through some trait of the individual, it seemed as if there was a permanent smile on his face. His hands were on his hips. He was not wearing a jacket and his sleeves were rolled up, just like the farmers. In contrast to the artifice of the rural pantomime playing around him, his excitement seemed genuine. The commentary continued:
— World-famous Negro singer and dedicated Communist, Jesse Austin, has come to visit the countryside as part of his tour of this great land. Though a citizen of the United States, Mr Austin has proved himself to be a most loyal friend of the Soviet Union, singing about our way of life and this country’s belief in freedom and fairness.
The footage changed to a close-up of Mr Austin. His answers were dubbed in Russian, the English still audible in the gaps in the translation.
— I have a message to tell the world! This nation loves its citizens! This nation feeds its citizens! There is food here! And plenty of it! The stories of starvation are lies. The stories of hardship and misery are the propaganda of capitalist big businesses that want you to believe that only they can provide the things you need. They want you to smile and say thank you when you pay a dollar for a cent’s worth of fd! They want the workers to feel gratitude when they’re paid a couple of dollars for their labour while big business makes millions. Not here! Not in this nation! I say to the world – there is another way! I say again – there is another way! And I’ve seen it with my own eyes.
The men in suits surrounded Austin in a protective circle, laughing and applauding. Leo wondered how many of the farmers were agents of state security. All of them, he suspected. No real farmer would be trusted to pull off this performance.
The footage ended. From the back of the room, their superior officer, Major Kuzmin, stepped forward. Short and stout, with thick-lensed glasses, to an outsider he might appear comic. To officers in the MGB, he did not, for they understood the scope of his power and his readiness to use it. He declared:
— That footage was filmed in 1934 when Mr Austin was twenty-seven years old. His enthusiasm for our regime has not diminished. How can we be sure he’s not an American spy? How can we be certain his Communism isn’t a trick?
Leo knew a little of the singer. He’d heard his songs on the radio. He’d read some articles about him, none of which would have been published unless the authorities considered the American a valuable asset. Sensing Kuzmin’s questions were rhetorical he said nothing, waiting for Kuzmin to continue, reading from a file:
— Mr Jesse Austin was born in 1907, in Braxton, Mississippi, migrating with his family at the age of ten to New York. Many Negro families moved out of the South, where they experienced persecution. Mr Austin talks extensively about the experience in the transcripts I’ve given you. This hatred is a powerful source of discontent among black Americans and an effective tool in recruiting them to Communism, perhaps the most effective tool we have.
Leo glanced up at his superior officer. He spoke of hatred not as a crime, there were no acts of right or wrong, everything was weighed poli
tically. It was not a question of outrage but calculation and analysis. Kuzmin caught Leo’s glance.
— You have something you wish to say?
Leo shook his head. Kuzmin finished reading:
— Mr Austin’s family moved in 1917, along with many others, a period of mass migration from South to North. Of all the hatreds Jesse Austin experienced, we speculate that it was the hatred in New York that made him a Communist. Not only was he hated by white families, he also found himself hated by the Negro middle-class families who were already established in the area. They were terrified that the migrants were going to flood the northern cities. It was a pivotal moment in his life, watching people who should have stood in solidarity with the new arrivals turn on them. He witnessed the way class divides even the closest of communities.
Leo flicked through his copy of the file. There was only one photograph of the young Mr Austin with his parents. Mother and father standing straight, as if nervous of the camera, the young Austin standing in between them. Kuzmin continued:
— In New York his father was an elevator man in a run-down hotel called the Skyline, which has since gone bankrupt. The hotel specialized in all the corruptions typical of a capitalist city – especially drugs and prostitution. As far as we are aware, his father was involved in none of the illegal activity; although he was arrested on numerous occasions haps as freed without charge. His mother was a domestic. Jesse Austin claims his childhood was untroubled by violence, or drink, instead his family was broken by squalor. Their room was cold in the winter and hot in the summer. His father died when Jesse Austin was twelve years old. He contracted pulmonary tuberculosis. Though the United States has some admirable health facilities they are not open to all. For example, the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company of New York has built one of the most advanced sanatoria for its employees. However, Mr Austin’s father was not an employee of the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company. He could not afford a stay in a sanatorium. To this day Mr Austin remains sure that had the facilities been available his father would’ve survived. Perhaps this is another important event in Mr Austin’s political development. Watching his father die, in a country where healthcare is contingent on your employment circumstances, themselves dependent upon the colour of your skin, the accident of your birth.
This time Leo raised his hand. Kuzmin nodded at him.
— If this is the case why don’t more Americans become Communists?
— That is a very important question, and one we are puzzling over. If you come up with the answer, you can have my job.
Kuzmin laughed, a strange, strangled noise. Once he’d finished, he carried on:
— Though Mr Austin is full of praise for his mother, she was forced to work many shifts after his father’s death. With so much time on his own, he took up singing to keep occupied and a childhood fancy became a career. His singing and musical compositions have never been separate from his politics. To his mind, they are one and the same. Unlike many Negro singers, Jesse Austin’s singing is not rooted in the Church, but in Communism. Communism is his church .
Major Kuzmin put on a record and they sat and listened to Mr Austin. Leo didn’t understand the lyrics. But he understood why Kuzmin, the most suspicious of people, had no doubts about Mr Austin’s sincerity. It was the most honest voice Leo had heard, words that seemed to come straight from his heart, not moderated by caution or calculation. Kuzmin turned the music off.
— Mr Austin has become one of our most important propagandists. In addition to his polemical lyrics and commercial success, he is a brilliant speaker, and known around the world. His music has made him famous, giving his politics an international platform.
Kuzmin gestured at the projectionist.
— Here is footage taken from a speech he gave in Memphis in 1937. Watch carefully. There’s no translation but keep your eyes on the audience’s reaction.
The reel was changed. The projector whirred. The new footage showed a concert hall filled with thousands of people.
— Note that the entire audience is white. There were laws in the Southern states of America requiring audiences either to be all white or all black. There was no integration.
Mr Austin was on stage, dressed in black tie, addressing the large crowd. Some of the audience members walked out, others heckled. Kuzmin pointed to some of the people leaving.
— Interestingly, many of the people in this white audience will happily sit through his music. They will sit and clap, even give him a standing ovation. Howeve, Mr Austin is unable to end a concert without also giving a political speech. As soon as he starts to speak about Communism, they stand up and leave, or shout abuse. Yet watch Mr Austin’s expression as they do.
Austin’s face showed no dismay at their reaction. He seemed to relish the adversity, his gestures becoming more assertive, his speech continuing.
Kuzmin turned on the lights.
— Your assignment is a crucial one. Mr Austin is under increasing pressure from the American authorities for his unwavering support of our country. Those files contain articles written by him and published in American Socialist newspapers. You can see for yourself how provocative they are to a conservative establishment, calls for change and a demand for a revolution. Our fear is that Austin might lose his passport. This could be his last visit.
Leo asked:
— When does he arrive?
Kuzmin stood at the front, crossing his arms.
— Tonight. He’s in the city for two days. Tomorrow he’ll be taken on a tour of the city. In the evening he’s giving a concert. Your job is to make sure nothing goes wrong.
Leo was shocked. They’d been given so little time to prepare. Cautiously, he channelled his concerns into the question:
— He arrives tonight?
— You are not the only team to be given this assignment. It was a late whim of mine to ask you to be involved. I have a good feeling about you, Demidov. It would be understandable for our guest, finding himself under such scrutiny at home, to question his loyalty to our nation. I want my best people working on this.
Kuzmin gave Leo’s shoulder a small squeeze, intended to convey both confidence in his abilities and the gravity of his assignment.
— His love for our country must be protected at any cost.
Moscow
House on the Embankment
2 Serafimovich Street
Next Day
Leo’s was one of three teams working independently to ensure Austin’s itinerary went according to plan. The danger was not to his life, but to his high opinion of the State. To that end, the principle of three overlapping teams, each tasked with the same objective, was to inject a competitive element into the operation as well as factoring in redundancy – should one team fail another team would pick up the slack. The extraordinary precautions underscored the importance of his visit.
They’d been given the use of a car. It was only a short drive from the Lubyanka Square, the headquarters of the secret police, to Serafimovich Street and the exclusive residential complex where Austin was staying. It had been expected that he’d take a room in the Moskva Hotel, on the fifteenth floor with a view over Red Square, but he’d declined, stating his desire to stay in one of the communal housing projects, preferably with another family if there was a spare bedroom. He wanted to be:
Neck deep in reality.
The request had caused great anxiety since their role was to e that Austin was shown a projected vision of Communist society, a representation of its potential, rather than the reality of that society as it stood now. A principled idealist, Leo reconciled the dishonesty by rationalizing that the Revolution was still very much a work in progress. The time of plenty was only a few years away. Right now, a spare bedroom was unheard of in a city suffering from a chronic housing shortage. As for the idea of living with a Russian family: it was too much of a risk. Aside from the conditions, which were typically cramped, they might speak out of turn. Creating an idealized family for the benefit
of Austin was too difficult to stage-manage at this short notice. Mr Austin had only requested the change on the way from the airport.
In panicked improvisation they’d put him here, at No. 2 Serafimovich Street. It was an outlandish notion, passing off a housing project designed for the political elite at the cost of over fourteen million roubles as typical of the many communal housing projects being built. In contrast to the layout of most apartment blocks, with small rooms side by side, shared cooking facilities and outside toilets, this had only two large apartments on each floor. The living room alone covered one hundred and fifty square metres – a space that would normally have been home to several families. In addition to the extra space, the apartments were furnished to the highest specification, equipped with gas cookers, running hot water, telephones, radios. There were antiques and silver candlesticks. For a guest sensitive to inequality, Leo was troubled by the proximity of an extensive network of servants who provided residents with everything from laundry to cooking and cleaning. He had managed to persuade the other residents to allow the servants time off during Austin’s visit. They’d agreed, for no matter how powerful or wealthy a citizen, they feared the secret police as much as the poor, if not more. The previous occupants had hardly been ordinary citizens of the Soviet Union, including Communist theoretician Nikolay Bukharin and Stalin’s own children, Vasily Stalin and Svetlana Alliluyeva. The life expectancy of the occupants was perhaps even less than those living in the worst kind of deprivation. Luxury was no protection from the MGB. Leo had himself arrested two men from this building.
Having parked the car, Leo and Grigori hurried through the snow towards the grand entrance. Stepping inside, Leo unbuttoned his jacket, showing his identity papers which were checked against a list of those granted access to the building. They headed downstairs, into the basement, where a cellar housed a team of agents maintaining twenty-four-hour surveillance, technology that had been in place long before Austin arrived. Since these apartments were home to some of the most important people in Soviet society it was essential the State knew how they behaved and what they spoke about. Austin was staying five floors above, in an apartment wired with listening devices in every room. Among the surveillance team was a translator – one of three, working eight-hour shifts. In addition, an attractive female agent had been posted to the apartment itself, in a separate bedroom, ostensibly as the occupant. She was pretending to be a widow, prepared with a story about how her husband had died during the Great Patriotic War. According to their profile of Austin such a story would be particularly endearing. He hated Fascism above all else and had many times stated that the defeat of Fascism was largely a Russian victory, bought with Communist blood.