“Yes. However, the crime I am referring to, though related to Natasha Lobanova’s case, is another. Please, permit me to—”
“What manner of insubordination is this?” Smirnov cut in. “Arrest him!”
“Mr. General Secretary”—the old lawyer knelt in a calculated theatrical gesture—“Article 1 of our Penal Code specifically states that the purpose of the criminal law of the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic is to defend the socialist workers’ and peasants’ state. If you do not hear me, you run the risk of the Avtozavod falling into the hands of criminals.” He saw Smirnov leave the dais and head toward him, pistol in hand. “I beg you, Comrade Stalin. Do not squander the opportunity to let the Americans know that in the Soviet Union, justice really does prevail.”
Stalin flushed red. For a moment, he looked as if he would draw his own pistol and shoot the retired lawyer himself. However, he clenched his fists and gestured to Smirnov to stop. “It’s all right, Viktor. Leave him,” Stalin said. “You said your name was Valeri . . . ?”
“Valeri. Valeri Pushkin.”
“Very well, Comrade Pushkin. Show us what you have to show us, and let’s put an end to this business once and for all.”
Viktor Smirnov returned his weapon to its holster, but before doing so, he aimed it at the old lawyer and pretended to shoot. Valeri swallowed. Then he opened the mahogany box, and with Louis Thomson’s help, took out a strange device.
“I need a socket. Aha! There’s one . . .”
Smirnov went pale. “Comrade Stalin! Are you going to allow this crazy old man to make a mockery of us?” he bellowed.
“Let him continue. I’m curious. What device is that?”
“It is an American invention, Mr. General Secretary. A phonograph, I believe they call it.” The lawyer plugged in the contraption and turned it on.
“Are you going to play us all a Russian march?”
“Huh? Oh no, sir. These devices are old, really, but very interesting. Unlike modern gramophones, which can only reproduce sound, these contraptions can also record it . . . I’ll show you.”
On his signal, Louis Thomson took a can from the box, removed the lid, and extracted a hollow wax cylinder. He positioned it over the phonograph’s axis, placed the sapphire stylus on the surface, and turned on the motor. The wax cylinder began to turn on itself until suddenly it filled the room with the refrain from Polovtsian Dances of Prince Igor. Before Stalin could recover from his astonishment, the lawyer withdrew the needle and took out a knife. “Now listen,” Pushkin said.
Without stopping the cylinder, he applied the sharp edge of the knife to the cylinder to plane off the outer layer on which the music was engraved, until the cylinder was left completely smooth. Then he placed the stylus back on the surface of the wax, activated a lever, and fell silent.
“Comrade Stalin! I told you that this man is a lunatic!” Smirnov yelled, and he came down from the dais to arrest the lawyer himself.
However, Valeri Pushkin, undaunted, stopped the device, changed the position of the lever, and turned it on again. Before Smirnov reached him, a metallic voice rang out in the courtroom.
Comrade Stalin! I told you that this man is a lunatic!
Comrade Stalin! I told you that this man is a lunatic!
Hearing his own voice coming out of the device, Viktor Smirnov stopped in his tracks. While he stood there bewildered, Valeri Pushkin took another can from the mahogany box and replaced the wax cylinder. He restarted the phonograph, and Smirnov’s voice once again resounded from the horn. However, now, his words, accompanied by Jack’s, were emanating from the horn. Stalin stood up, incredulous.
So you’ve been hiding in this pigsty? I thought you had more taste.
So? The message you sent said something about some reports and an account number. Where are they?
Somewhere safe.
Somewhere safe, of course. And may I ask what you intend to do with them?
Nothing special. Just use them to make you free Natasha and confess your crimes . . .
The phonograph continued to reel off Viktor Smirnov’s confession, to the amazement of the courtroom. Viktor, horrified, tried to interrupt the reproduction, but on a signal from Stalin, several men swooped in and stopped him.
“Comrade Stalin! All of this is a plot!” Smirnov implored as they held him back.
At that moment, with the courtroom in total silence, the phonograph played the final passage.
Tell me, Jack . . . Did you really think I’d even care that you had some lousy document? Ha! A million reports wouldn’t have persuaded Stalin. That cretin would never convict me because he’ll always blindly believe every word a relative of his says.
While Valeri Pushkin approached the dais to show Stalin the copy of the Vesenkha document that Jack had given to Yuri, he could still hear Viktor Smirnov’s final words.
“It’s a plot! Damn you all! Damn you, Jack Beilis!”
43
“Dr. Natasha! There’s a gentleman outside who would like to see you.”
“Please, ask him to wait a moment.”
Natasha Lobanova finished bandaging the tiny leg of the baby she’d just operated on and handed the child to its mother. The woman, a peasant wearing a threadbare scarf on her head, was holding another child by the hand while hugging the baby with her free arm as if it were her most treasured possession. Natasha smiled. She washed her hands and walked out of the treatment room. Outside, Wilbur Hewitt was waiting for her. The man took off his hat and left his briefcase on the floor.
“Please excuse my poor Russian, but I didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye,” Hewitt said.
“I’m sorry I haven’t seen you before. I heard that you were acquitted, but there’s so much to do in the hospital that I haven’t had the chance to—”
“There’s no need to apologize.” He smiled.
“They tell me your niece reached America.”
“Yes, that’s right. They managed to get on a ship in Odessa.” He paused and adjusted his monocle. “I . . . I’m very sorry about Jack. I didn’t know you and he . . .”
“Yes.” She bit her lips. Her eyes filled with tears. “Almost nobody knew.”
“Well, I’m glad you got your job back. These people need you. Anyway . . . the ambassador’s waiting for me. I must go or we’ll miss the train to Moscow. Thank you for everything, and good luck.”
“To you, too.”
Wilbur Hewitt picked up his briefcase and turned around. Outside, surrounded by suitcases, Louis Thomson and a crestfallen Sue were waiting for him.
Natasha watched them leave. When the car was gone, she returned to her office, checked her patient list, and took off her white coat. The sun was setting. With the arrival of spring, the nights were growing shorter again. She said good-bye to her assistants and left the hospital.