“And our passports, when will they be returned to us?” Jack asked.
“Why ask question? To work in Soviet Union, you not need passports.”
The Daniels family and Joe Brown also had their passports taken. However, like the rest of the immigrants, they were given a typewritten receipt so that, when the time came, they could retrieve them.
With the paperwork done, the sixty-eight Americans were led on foot across the snow-covered mile and a quarter between the Eastern District stop and what was known as Fordville, or the American village, the complex of prefabricated bunkhouses built to house the Avtozavod’s foreign workers.
As they approached, Jack gazed at the apartment buildings. Though newly built, the timber of the walls and roofs, along with their squat size and the wire fencing that encircled the site, made them look like giant stables. They were nothing like the family homes that Walter had described, but taking shelter in a barrel would have been preferable to spending a moment longer exposed to the cold, so Jack ignored the soulless appearance of the buildings and, along with the rest of the workers, sought refuge inside. Finally, after weeks of hardship, laughter and jubilation took hold of the Americans, and the cold and the fear disappeared. Joe Brown asked Jack to pinch him, but Sue got in first and gave him a shove that did nothing to diminish the daft smile spread across his face. The man couldn’t believe what he was seeing. In his fifty-three years of life, working from dawn to dusk with no vacation or Sundays off, he had never had so much as a new mattress, and now, in front of him, like a Christmas gift, there they were waiting for him: a new home and a salary of two hundred dollars a month, all for tightening a few screws.
Jack would’ve loved to go to see the baseball field, the social club, and the other facilities that the veteran Americans who had come to welcome them wanted to show them, but a young Soviet guard appeared and stopped him. He said he had come on behalf of Wilbur Hewitt, and added that the industrialist was waiting for Jack in his office.
Jack understood that it wasn’t an invitation. He gave his luggage to the Daniels family to take to his room and said good-bye to everyone.
“But, Jack! You’ll miss the welcome party they’ve laid out for us!” Sue complained.
“Then save me some cake!” he yelled as he went out into the blizzard and headed to the old truck where the guard was waiting for him with the engine running.
The vehicle roared as its heavy wheels turned on their axles, fighting to free themselves from the nasty mixture of mud and snow that the road had become. As they built up speed, Jack could see that the fresh-faced youngster was enjoying squeezing the truck for every ounce of power it had left in it, thrashing it about on the factory’s tracks as if it were a giant iron toy. Between potholes, Jack noticed the blue ribbon around the kid’s peaked cap, which was different from the one worn by the guards at the gates. He considered asking him why there was so much security, but something told him that curiosity would be about as helpful here as washing his hands in a bowl of acid. Instead, he gripped his seat and allowed the young guard to concentrate on his crazed sprint across the site.
Finally, the vehicle stopped by a guard station with a screech that made Jack think the bearings had breathed their last breath. The driver turned off the engine, waved at the sentry, and after showing his ID, asked Jack to accompany him. Heading through an administrative building crammed with workers, they stopped in front of an office where the sign on the door read:
SERGEI LOBAN
DIRECTOR OF OPERATIONS
Jack was silent. He looked at the driver for an explanation, but the youngster just knocked on the door and waited for an answer. When Jack heard Sergei’s voice, he could not prevent a slight shudder.
The director of operations received Jack while leaning back in his armchair, with the same dour portraits of Lenin and Stalin behind him that seemed to look over every room in the Soviet Union. By the armchair of frayed felt stood a coatrack from which hung a thick fur overcoat and a peaked cap trimmed with blue ribbon. Sergei Loban put out his cigarette in a half-drunk glass of tea, dismissed the driver, and asked Jack to take a seat on one of two red leather armchairs. Jack obeyed, anxious to find out why he now found himself in that office and not Hewitt’s.
“You should trust your hosts more,” Sergei replied when Jack questioned him about it. “Mr. Hewitt had to tend to some urgent business, and since you’re going to be doing the job entrusted to Mr. McMillan, I thought it would be good to welcome you on board officially.”
Jack didn’t know whether to believe him. He decided to remain wary, given the first impression he’d had of Sergei on the SS Cliffwood. “Please accept my apologies,” he said, trying to rescue the situation. “I can assure you that I’m most grateful to the Soviet people, and my intention is only to do the best job I can in the tasks I’ve been assigned. I was just confused because Mr. Hewitt had told me how much work there is to do, particularly on the assembly line and press shop, and I imagined he’d called me here to bring me up to speed. I found you, and that’s why I was surprised.”
“I understand. Very well. Wait one moment, and I’ll see if Mr. Hewitt’s free.” He picked up the telephone and dialed a number.
While he waited, Jack noticed a picture frame showing a photograph of Stalin shaking Sergei’s hand, at what appeared to be the factory’s grand opening. He heard Sergei ask whether the industrialist had finished the business he’d been taking care of. When he hung up, he smiled in a way that Jack hadn’t seen before.
“Mr. Hewitt’s able to receive you now. As you can see, Jack, we Bolsheviks aren’t the ogres that everyone makes us out to be.” He stood to bring the conversation to a close and show Jack the exit. “However . . .” He stopped in the middle of the office.
“Yes, Mr. Loban?”
“However, make sure you respect us. This isn’t America.” His smile was gone.