The Last Paradise

“How can you not have any fabric?” he’d asked.

In response, the last tailor he called on shrugged and then repeated the same story that Jack had heard from the two previous tailors. “We used to receive musk ox wool and sometimes even cashmere, but for a long time we haven’t had the material to make new suits. All we do is repair old suits and sell used garments. We have astrakhan overcoats and one or two vatniks that you could wear underneath to protect yourself from the winter.”

To Jack, it seemed inconceivable that even when he had the money, they wouldn’t give him what he wanted. “And the suits that the Soviet factory bosses wear, don’t they have them made here?”

“They do, sir. But they provide the fabric themselves.”

Seeing that the tailor’s own jacket had been mended, Jack cursed inwardly. After weighing his options, he finally agreed to bring the tailor some garments that he’d kept from McMillan’s trunk to alter. He took his leave and returned to the avenue, intending to buy some vodka and a couple of cakes to celebrate his first wage packet with his friends. He’d missed Walter, but in his cable, he’d assured Jack that he would join them soon.

It wasn’t easy to find a food store. Finally, he walked into one with meat, poultry, and confectionery filling the window display, only to find a crowd of weary-looking men and women waiting in line at the cashier. He noticed that the shelves contained only a few potatoes, some pots of lard, smoked sardines, and a box of meal. The rest of the shelves looked as if they’d been empty for years. Jack went up to a storekeeper who was cleaning behind a cash register and asked him for some of the products in the window.

“You have to go to the other till. This one’s for party members only.”

Jack contemplated the endless line. He was reminded of his days of hunger in New York. At least in Russia, even if you had to wait your turn, you could leave the store with food. He was about to join the end of the line when the storekeeper called to him. “You won’t be able to buy the food that’s in the window.”

Jack reddened. He hoped to God that those goods weren’t reserved for a privileged few as well. The storekeeper’s answer stunned him.

“It’s not that we don’t want to sell them to you. It’s just that the goods in the window are made of painted cardboard. It’s only advertising, to make the store look nice.”

Two hours later, Jack was on his way back to the American village, carrying a dozen eggs and some sugar. He’d visited at least ten food stores, and in all of them not only did he have to wait in endless lines, but their storerooms were virtually empty.

As the tram clattered through the snow-covered landscape, he wondered what good it was earning pots of money if he had nowhere to spend it. He had no desire to live like a miser, eating black bread, wearing patched-up suits, and traveling on a tram like a sheep on its way to the slaughterhouse. He would never earn Elizabeth’s admiration like this. What was he supposed to do? Stick his earnings in a sack and show them to Hewitt’s niece to prove his worth? He shook his head and swore to himself. It was so cold, he was afraid to sneeze in case his nostrils froze. He envied the other passengers who wore warm hats. Fortunately, the tram was reaching its destination.



In the communal kitchen, he gave the sugar and eggs to Harry Daniels’s wife so that she could prepare something sweet. “I’m afraid I couldn’t get flour,” Jack said apologetically. “I couldn’t find a single place that sold it in the whole damned city.”

“And why didn’t you buy it here?”

“Here? Where?”

“Where do you think? At the American store!”

Jack felt like someone who had spent the morning trying to pull a door open before realizing that it opened inward. Apparently, the foreign workers had their own stores where there were no lines or lack of stock. He hadn’t known. Of course, the prices were three times what they were in the Soviet stores. Mrs. Daniels added that the American store behind the bunkhouses was one of these establishments.

“It’s expensive, but at least you can find almost everything there, not like those poor Russian peasants, who only have watery porridge to give their children,” said the woman with a sad expression.

It was his day off, so Jack decided to find out for himself what was available in the village store. He said good-bye to Mrs. Daniels and promised her that he’d be back with the best flour in the whole Soviet Union.

The American store proved to be a meager pantry only slightly better provisioned than the stores he’d visited that morning. He wandered between the half-empty shelves, asking himself whether Mrs. Daniels had really meant it when she said that this was the place where he could buy almost anything, until behind the counter he found a Soviet worker who greeted him halfheartedly. Without expecting much, Jack asked him for a pack of flour, but to his surprise, the worker disappeared through a door and returned within a few seconds, the goods under one arm. Seeing this outcome, he added two bottles of vodka, a pack of American cigarettes, a rack of pork ribs, and half a dozen bagels to the order. The Soviet worker disappeared again and returned with the vodka and bagels. The other goods were not available. When Jack asked him if he could order them, the man gave a smug smile.

“Sir, I’m retiring in five years, and to be honest, even if I retired in ten, I doubt you’d see your order arrive at this store.” He explained that they sold only essentials, and that, though they had a much better selection than the stores in the city, it was becoming increasingly difficult to get hold of certain foods. “We sold the last sausage two weeks ago, when the welcome party was held. Since then, supplies have been hard to come by.”

Jack couldn’t prevent a slight shudder. When he asked why they had been cut off, the man shook his head.

“Let’s pray it doesn’t reach the Avtozavod.”

“That what doesn’t?”

“The famine, comrade. The famine.”



As he left the store, a familiar voice stopped him.

“Mr. Jack! Mr. Jack! Remember me?”

Jack turned around to find a dark-skinned man wearing a sock-shaped red hat. “You’re the cashier from the press shop canteen, right?”

“I’m glad you remember me, sir! I haven’t seen you in the canteen in a while. Do you take a lunch box to the office?”

“No. It’s not that.” He avoided explaining that, since the one time they’d met, he had eaten in the foundry canteen. “So what’re you doing around here? Have you switched jobs?”

“Oh no, sir! It’s just that I also work as a loader. Sometimes we deliver goods to the American store from the central warehouse, or vice versa—we take things from here to our canteen. It depends.”

“I see! Well, it was good to see you . . . Michael?”

“Miquel, sir. Miquel.”

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