The Last Paradise

“Then you have to earn it. You need money to buy things.”


“Answer me one question. Do those shelves stock dignity?” She lifted the dressing and applied an ointment to the wound. Jack gave a start when he felt the permanganate sting the burn.

“Pardon me?”

“I was asking if they sell dignity in those marvelous department stores of yours.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at, but anyhow, what good’s dignity if you can’t have a decent meal?” He pointed at the plate on which they’d served him a ladleful of sascha, or the revolting oat pap, as he preferred to call it.

“It allows you to look people in the eye.” She gave him a look as pure as water.

Jack cleared his throat. He could see the conversation heading onto rocky ground. “Perhaps, Natasha, you find it difficult to imagine what it’s like for the millions of starving people who, instead of a dignified look, would prefer to have a nice plate of lentils in front of them.”

“Why would I find it difficult to imagine?” Natasha pulled out a couple of hairpins, and her bun spilled onto her shoulders in a blond waterfall. Jack was struck by her confidence.

“You tell me. A young, good-looking surgeon, with a position of responsibility in the Avtozavod, from a family that no doubt provided you with an education and all the privileges that come with it. You don’t seem like the kind of person who could put herself in the shoes of these miserable tramps who can’t even choose what they eat.”

“Anything else while you’re at it?” Natasha leaned back in her chair, striking a relaxed pose that Jack had never seen before. When she crossed her legs, he let his gaze linger on them for long enough to lose the thread of the conversation. He stammered when he tried to take it up again. He was disconcerted by this young woman arguing with him on such fundamental issues. After a few more seconds, he remembered the question.

“Well, maybe the fact that your station means you can have any luxury: you can live in a nice dacha, wear fashionable clothes, or enjoy a good roast with white bread. At least that’s what much of your ruling class does.”

“Oh, really? You must be better informed than I am. Our leaders are honest people who—”

“Like Viktor Smirnov? Perhaps you know him . . . ,” he cut in.

Hearing Viktor’s name, Natasha’s tone hardened. “Viktor and I have very different ways of seeing life.”

“So you know him. How do you know him, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I do mind, but so I don’t seem rude, I’ll answer simply by saying that I’m not impressed by silk suits or sports cars.” A faint smile appeared on her face. “But let’s talk about you.” She paused. “If you’re a visitor to Wilbur Hewitt’s office, you must be one of those engineers earning their weight in gold.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Jack showed a touch of self-importance. “After all, you Soviets need our help, and we’re offering it.”

“How? By fleecing a country that’s trying to lift itself out of generations of grinding poverty?”

“Do you expect us to cross the ocean for a change of clothes and a bowl of soup?”

“Maybe . . . Some people have. Fellow countrymen of yours who’ve settled here to help build a fairer world. For a moment, when you poured scorn on me for my training and profession, I thought you might be one of those people. But by the sound of it, you enjoy all the privileges you’re accusing me of having. And looking at you, you don’t appear to be going hungry. Yet, a moment ago, you spoke to me as if I were a deluded rich person and you were an indignant revolutionary.”

Jack fell silent. Briefly, he thought about confessing his true situation to her, but he stopped himself. Though he sensed he could trust her, all he knew about her was that she was Sergei Loban’s daughter. “Look, Natasha.” He moved as close to her as his position in the bed would allow. “You can’t begin to understand what people like me have been through, let alone criticize us. I promise you I’ve earned the right to enjoy every last ruble your government pays me.” He lifted his pajamas to show her the burn.

“Perhaps. But I get the impression that rubles won’t solve the problems that you attract.”

“What do you mean?” Jack thought Natasha was referring to the attempt on his life.

“That you think money will solve all our troubles.”

“I don’t think it; I know it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because there was a time when I had a comfortable life, and I can promise you that I was the happiest man on earth.” He clenched his fists. Natasha noticed it. “You can’t imagine what it means to have everything taken from you, for no reason, with no right to complain, no compensation. To have everything you’ve fought for—everything you’ve achieved through hard work—disappear overnight.” He was beginning to lose control of his emotions.

“Oh, but I can imagine it, Jack. I’m surrounded by people who haven’t even had the opportunity to fight for the things you lost.”

“You don’t understand what I’m saying. I’m not talking about some stranger. I’m talking about myself. About what they did to me. For as long as I can remember, I’ve broken my back to make something of my life, and now that I’m getting somewhere again, a little daddy’s girl like you shows up to give me lessons on morality and—”

Natasha stood without giving Jack time to finish his sentence. “All right, Mr. Beilis. Perhaps we’ll have a chance to continue this conversation some other time . . . when your wounds have healed.”

Jack nodded without paying much attention. He was suddenly lost in thought, remembering the days when hunger was his only companion. Then, he seemed to reconsider. “I’m sorry . . . I don’t know what came over me. Yes. Hopefully, I’ll be back on my feet soon. The rim around the burn seems to be closing and—”

“I didn’t mean your hip. I meant the wounds on your soul.”



For the next few days, there was no sign of Natasha.

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