“You mean Leningrad.”
“Sorry, yes. From Leningrad,” Jack corrected himself, remembering that, following the revolution, the Soviets had renamed the city after the Bolshevik leader.
“Do you still have relatives in Russia?”
“No. My grandparents were Ukrainian, from Odessa, but I never met them. They died soon after I was born.”
“And in America? Do you have family?”
“No, not here, either.” Walter had warned him against mentioning his capitalist relatives, and anyway, his uncle, Gabriel Beilis, was dead to him.
“And tell me, Jack. Why did your parents immigrate to the United States?”
“Hunger, I suppose.” His expression hardened.
“Do you know whether you are related to the Beilises of Kiev?”
“Not that I know of. It would be the first I’ve heard of it. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. There was a Menahem Beilis in Russia accused of murdering a child. A notorious case. He was tried and found innocent. He lives here now, in the United States, and has written a book on the outrages perpetrated by the Russians on the Jews. You will understand why I ask. We don’t want to have any misunderstandings.”
“As I say, I don’t know anything about that.”
“Good. One final question. Was your family associated in any way with the tsarist forces, the nobility, the bourgeoisie, the White Army, or the Orthodox Church?”
“No. Not at all. My father was a Jewish shoemaker, my mother was . . . well . . . she played the piano. They came to this country like thousands of others who immigrated, searching for the opportunity that Russia had denied them.” He paused. “But, it seems, things have changed now.” He looked at Walter, as if seeking approval.
“Indeed. They have changed, a great deal. Very good. In that case, I will summarize the situation for you.” He stood to address the three applicants. “The Soviet Union is a generous nation that opens its arms to all oppressed peoples, regardless of race, religion, or nationality. Our struggle is that of the weak, of the poor, of the slaves of capitalism, of the world’s outcasts. Walter, whom I have known since he was a trade unionist, has told me of your plans, and I assure you that nothing would please me more than to be able to help you. However—”
“However?” Walter broke in, removing his tortoiseshell glasses.
“However, things are not so simple now,” he went on. “Hundreds of jobless citizens come to this office each day: cooks, clerks, electricians, pilots, salesmen, chemists, storekeepers, librarians, dentists, even undertakers, in search of work. Our staff can barely keep up with the workload. We’ve processed over a hundred thousand applications, and the number of vacancies is beginning to shrink.”
“But wait a minute,” Walter cut in. “Last time we spoke—”
“Last time we spoke, I explained that we were overrun with applications.” He took out a bundle of newspapers and spread them over the table. “Here: Roy Howard of Scripps Howard, Karl Bickel of United Press, the correspondents Eugene Lyons, William Chamberlin, Walter Duranty, Louis Fischer . . . everyone! They’re all talking about the Soviet Union as if it were Eden rediscovered. Even the US Chamber of Commerce has published a bulletin encouraging citizens to travel to Russia!”
“Yes, but you promised me that you’d deal with our application personally.”
“And I will, Mr. Scott. I give you my word that I will, but not with the haste that you are demanding of me. Right now, there just aren’t places for everyone.”
“So, what about all those people waiting in the line?”
“We can only accept specialized workers. The rest must wait their turn, just like you.”
“How long are we talking about?” Jack asked.
“I don’t know. Let me see . . .” The Amtorg boss studied the reports on his desk. “Five months. Maybe six. Certainly no sooner. The ships are full, and, to be frank, with all the publicity we’ve received, propaganda workers like you are a low priority. Of course, as soon as an offer that fits your profile comes up, I will bear you in mind.” He walked over to the door to invite them to leave.
Walter and Sue got up, but Jack remained in his chair.
“And what about the Avtozavod?” Jack inquired.
“Pardon me?” Saul Bron fixed his eyes on Jack.
“You know, the Ford Motor Company in Russia. This pamphlet of yours says that they urgently need workers for the production plant that Henry Ford is building in Gorky.”
Saul Bron grumbled like a bear as he snatched the document that Jack held out to him and saw the news for himself.
“That’s right. But I don’t know what this has to do with your application. This offer is for highly qualified automotive operatives and—”
“Yes. I’ve read it. So it’s true that they need skilled workers urgently?”
“True enough. Should we find them, they’d be setting sail tomorrow.”
“In that case, you have your men right here,” Jack replied with his best smile.
Back at the printer’s, Walter hugged Jack until his ribs creaked, and he let Sue give his friend an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek. Neither could believe what had happened. Jack had persuaded Saul Bron to have Intourist, the Soviet travel agency, process three last-minute tickets, and to promise them jobs when they arrived in the Soviet Union.
“I don’t know how you wangled it, but that thing about me being the best student at the Brooklyn Tech must have sounded convincing,” said Walter. “Thank you, Jack. You’ve saved my life.”
His friend shook his head. “If you spoke Russian, you would’ve persuaded the Soviet official yourself. After all, what I said was hardly a lie.” He raised an eyebrow. “I just forgot to mention that in the last two years, you’ve traded your mechanical engineering classes for canteen politics.”
“Jack, I don’t know what they’re expecting of you in that Russian factory,” said an openmouthed Sue. “But to cough up dough just like that, they must really value your work. Free tickets!”
“Well, not exactly free.” Walter took off his glasses and rubbed the lenses with his shirttail. “When I spoke to the administrators, they explained to me that, once in the Soviet Union, they’ll deduct the cost from our wages. Still, you can’t deny it’s a godsend.” He put his spectacles back on no cleaner than they were before, and gave a self-satisfied smile.
“Oh! Of course, of course,” muttered Sue.
“And it wouldn’t have been right if we had accepted a preferential deal. Would it, Jack?”
“I suppose not,” he replied. For a moment he’d imagined that the Soviet Union might really be the paradise Sue and Walter had fallen in love with.
Walter gave Jack a celebratory slap on the back.