The Last Paradise

“Sure, sure. But it’s not what concerns us. Go on, please.”


Jack cleared his throat. He set aside the files on the injured workers and moved on to the incidents that affected the equipment. He explained that most of them could be attributed to a lack of maintenance, misalignments, insufficient lubrication, corroded bearings, belts not being replaced, design faults, or mechanisms not being properly cleaned. “But there’s one”—he set aside the rest of the files—“for which I have yet to find an explanation. It happened on January 1, 1933, in the engine plant, the very day that Stalin visited Gorky to inaugurate the production line. According to the official reports, a copy of which you have in your own files, during the afternoon shift, the power supply was cut off when there was a planned outage, but there is no record of this in the fault reports—the basis of the final official report—even though the rules of conduct state that every time there’s a stoppage, both the incident and its possible causes must be recorded.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, there is no entry for a planned outage in the incident reports you provided, nor in the power supply register kept at the turbine plant, nor in the records for the transformer that controls the amount of power consumed in the engine plant.”

“That’s strange, yes. Still, it doesn’t prove anything. They could’ve just forgotten to report it.”

“Maybe, but these Soviets record everything. They record your name, the time you arrive, and the time you leave, the machinery you operate, and the number of parts produced on your shift, so it’s hard to believe that they’d forget to report something of this magnitude. And it wasn’t a brief stoppage. Engine production was interrupted for five hours, with Stalin here, observing everything. The official report attributes the downtime to a planned shutdown of the power plant, but that’s not true. My informants assured me that no interruptions were scheduled for that day. Naturally, Stalin was furious and demanded an explanation.”

“Oh yes. I remember being told about that.” Hewitt clenched his teeth. “They brought the opening of the factory forward to a week before we disembarked so they could take the credit. Are you implying that the factory’s bosses made up the excuse of the outage to cover up another problem?”

“I am. And if my theory’s right, the only explanation is that they didn’t want Stalin to know they’d been sabotaged on such a momentous day.”

“It’s strange. These reports were provided to me directly by Sergei Loban. He should’ve told me that the outage was not planned by the management—that the official report was a cover-up. Why would he want to hide it from me?”

“That I don’t know. Maybe you should ask him.”



Jack smiled with satisfaction as he hid his first pay packet of three hundred dollars in the secret pocket he had fashioned in his belt. Hewitt had explained to him that he would pay him the agreed amount privately every week, without a receipt. Given Jack’s rank, he couldn’t justify paying him such a large sum. Jack was delighted with the arrangement. He decided to pay a visit to Ivan Zarko, the contact that the smuggler Konstantin had given him at the station in Leningrad, to exchange some of his dollars for rubles so he could spend them. He remembered that Zarko worked as an upravdom on Tverskaya Avenue, and he wondered whether that address was anywhere near the mansion where Elizabeth was staying. He also thought that if he was going to see her, he ought to find himself a more appropriate outfit.



Despite the wrinkles on his face, Ivan Zarko proved to be one of those old men who have ice in their eyes and an iron hand, someone who seemed capable of impaling anyone who tried to cross him without blinking an eye. This was clear to Jack as soon as he asked for him, when under Zarko’s watchful eye, his two sons frisked him to make sure he wasn’t carrying a weapon.

“So Konstantin sends you,” the patriarch murmured. “And what in hell does a foreigner want from a poor old man like me?”

Jack explained that Konstantin had assured him that he could get a good price for his dollars on the black market, and that Zarko could help him.

“I haven’t been involved in that business for years,” the old man said, staring into the distance. “If I was caught trading in currency, I’d never see my grandchildren again. So tell me, how is Konstantin?” he asked from behind a rickety desk in the hallway of the building he managed.

Jack sensed that Zarko’s words were those of a shrewd old man dealing with a stranger.

“Konstantin would do anything for me.”

“Perhaps he would. But I don’t know you. Look, son, if you want some good advice, forget the black market. Tell them at the bank that you didn’t know the rules and make do with the rubles they offer you. You’ll lose money but keep your health. And health is important in such a cold place.”

“It would be three hundred dollars a week,” said Jack.

Zarko’s two sons looked at each other in surprise.

“Listen to me, American. We don’t like jokers—”

In response, Jack took off the belt where he’d hidden the money and deposited a bundle of green notes on the desk. The old man grabbed the cash and hid it under his overcoat.

“Are you crazy? We could be arrested.”

Jack looked from side to side to assure himself that the place was deserted. “I never joke. Especially when it comes to money.”

For the first time, the old man looked into the blue eyes of the willowy American in front of him. “Damned foreigner . . . How do I know that you’re really Konstantin’s friend and not an OGPU agent?”

Jack stood in silence, as did Ivan Zarko’s sons. He noticed the two of them looking at each other nervously.

“Because he gave me blat,” he replied, and without waiting for Ivan Zarko to respond, he took the piece of paper signed by Konstantin out of a pocket and left it in the same place he’d deposited the bundle of notes.



With nine thousand rubles burning a hole in his pocket, bought at a rate of thirty per dollar, Jack took in the shop windows on Sverdlovka Avenue like a child left alone in a candy store. The Grand Way, as the locals called it, and which he had nicknamed Rich Street, was an avenue so wide that ten cars could travel along it side by side. Even so, only a few horse-drawn carriages and tramcars were on the street. As he walked, he admired the succession of hotels, churches, museums, and palaces that seemed to be competing for the title of Most Lavish Building. Despite the cold, Jack spurned the tram and climbed on foot toward the former monastery square, in search of a tailor who could make a suit for him similar to Hewitt’s. However, none of the three establishments he visited could meet his request.

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