The Last Paradise

“That’s irrelevant.”


“Irrelevant? Do you consider it irrelevant that the Germans’ adherence to the maintenance schedule and the rest of the safety measures outlined in this manual meant that, in the four years during which production was maintained in Berlin, there were only three serious accidents, almost the same number of incidents that take place here each week? Do you consider it irrelevant that those accidents could have been avoided?”

Sergei frowned, but more out of surprise than concern. “Are you accusing us of something, Mr. Beilis?”

“I merely asked a question. If there is anything that might accuse you, it will be your answer.”

“Comrade Loban.” The commissar responsible for administrating the sessions stepped in. “Do you wish to take a break from the proceedings? Perhaps you should consult—”

“Sergei does not need to consult anything!” Stalin broke in. “Arrogant Americans!” he growled. “Very well, Mr. Beilis, since you insist, I will answer your question.” He raised his voice, and the courtroom fell silent. “The Soviet Union has built an immense factory from scratch. We have invested vast sums of money to transform a frozen wasteland into a technological center that will power the proletarian awakening. We have taken thousands of peasant farmers from their barren fields, their poverty, and their dismal future, and brought them here, to a place where they can shape their own future. Where before there was despair, exploitation, and death, now there are cities, factories, wages, hospitals, schools . . . All of this requires sacrifice. And now you, an immigrant who left his country because it was dying of hunger; you, an immigrant whom our government welcomed with open arms; you, who were given work and a home for the simple reason that you needed it, dare to question our methods?”

Jack swallowed. Stalin was making the dispute personal. Making Jack seem like an enemy to Communism’s achievements. If he didn’t counter it, the rest of his defense would have as much weight as a speck of dust in the wind. “In that case, I suppose all these mutilations were among the sacrifices that were expected,” said Jack.

Stalin gave him a murderous look. The young American was proving to be a skilled adversary.

“Mr. Beilis . . . Your arguments are pathetic. You compare Germany with the Soviet Union, invoking their translation of a manual and their observance of the maintenance schedules. However, you go to great pains to conceal the other facts.”

“Which facts?”

“The ones that make your defense a fallacy. You avoid mentioning the differences between the Gorky and Berlin factories, but I know them well, because I signed every last contract myself. You forget to point out that the Ford A manufactured in Berlin was not the first vehicle that Ford had produced in Germany. You forget to report that in 1912, the first trade delegation was set up in Hamburg; that Ford tractors have been sold in Berlin since 1925; and that in that same year, a factory was opened in the Westhafen district to manufacture the Model T. You hide the fact that the Model T was produced in that Berlin factory until it was replaced by the Model A in 1928. And you intentionally hide from this courtroom the fact that the brand-new machinery they used, which was so perfectly maintained, is the same machinery that, after running without rest for four years, was dismantled and sent to Gorky’s Avtozavod. So do not speak to me about German maintenance, or German translations, or German workers. They had years of experience, with new machines and manuals inherited from old models. Do not make demands on us like a capitalist country, when your defendant, Wilbur Hewitt, sold us scrap metal at steel prices.”





37


Jack used the recess to go to the American store. He found Joe Brown and Miquel Agramunt there, frightened as rabbits. Neither Harry Daniels nor his elder son had shown up for work.

“We think they’ve been arrested,” Miquel told him. “The Black Crows turned up this morning and took about a dozen Americans.”

Jack kicked a half-empty sack. That he hadn’t also been arrested only confirmed that everything was part of a plot to give the trial a veneer of legitimacy. In any case, everything was beginning to fall apart. He advised Joe and Miquel to stay at home until things calmed down. Then he rushed off to meet Ivan Zarko. It was obvious now that his only hope was to escape the Soviet Union before the verdict was reached.

He found the man eating with Yuri, his nephew, in a warehouse near the repair shop where they’d hidden his old automobile. When Ivan saw him, he made a face. Still, he invited Jack to join them, and asked about the case.

“Things are complicated,” Jack replied. “Thanks for putting me onto that lawyer. Shame he’s an alcoholic . . .”

“Alcoholic? Even drunk, that old man’s head and shoulders above any of the lawyers who buzz around like fleas trying to get a seat in the party. Anyway, in the Soviet Union, drinking vodka’s no disgrace; it’s a privilege!” He served himself a glass. “Tell me, Jack, what can I do for you?”

“I need the passports. I don’t know how long the trial will go on, but things might turn ugly sooner than expected.”

Zarko shook his head. “I was about to send Yuri to speak to you.”

“Oh?”

“It’s about the price. The passports are almost ready, but my supplier says he’s had unexpected costs.”

“What kind of costs?”

“I don’t know. A thousand. Maybe two.”

Jack scowled. He rummaged in his jacket and took out fifteen hundred rubles. “Here. It’s all I have on me. I’ll give you the rest tomorrow.”

Ivan Zarko exploded with laughter. Yuri gave him a puzzled look, then followed his lead, guffawing even louder than his uncle. Jack thought both of them were out of their minds.

“Not rubles. Dollars. Two thousand dollars, boy,” Ivan explained before taking another swig of vodka.

Jack clenched his teeth. He had no choice but to trust Zarko. He agreed to bring the required amount. “When will you have the passports?”

“In a week,” Ivan replied. “And the money?”

“In a week. When I’m holding them in my hands.”

He was about to leave the warehouse, when he suddenly stopped to think over what he was going to do. He turned to the crook again, looking him in the eyes. “And get another one ready for a twenty-five-year-old Russian woman. I don’t care what it costs. I’ll send you the details.”



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