Jack cleared his throat. It annoyed him that, even though their divorce was being processed, Sue was carrying around a forged document that could potentially get them into trouble. However, he didn’t have the luxury of choosing his visitors, and, at that moment, Sue was his only contact with the outside world. He put the business with their marriage to one side and asked her why Walter hadn’t come.
“When you disappeared from the hospital, alarm bells went off in the village. Those who think you sympathize with the Russians didn’t care, but Walter tried to find you. You know he works for the OGPU now,” she said, swelling a little with importance.
“Yeah, I know. But why hasn’t he come?”
“He wanted to, but he can’t risk being associated with someone accused of counterrevolutionary acts. He has no idea why you’ve been arrested, but he thinks you may have been branded an enemy of the workers.”
“And what does that mean?”
“You haven’t read the Soviet Penal Code?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Walter asked me to bring you a copy.” She took it from a cloth bag. “I think it was given to him by a doctor. Here. It’s the 1927 edition. We looked through it last night but didn’t understand much, since it’s in Russian. Wait, let’s see, I’ll find it . . .” She opened the volume nervously, in search of the paper bookmark on which she’d noted something down. “Yeah. Here it is: ‘Article 58.1. A counterrevolutionary action is any action aimed at overthrowing, undermining, or weakening the power of workers.’ There’s more, but this is the paragraph they translated for us.”
With the guard’s consent, Jack took the volume from her and ran his eyes over it. He saw that, in addition to Sue’s quotation, Article 58.7 specifically mentioned industrial sabotage, and 58.9 referred to damage. He was surprised to find that both crimes were punishable by death.
“Are you OK?” she asked, seeing him turn pale.
“Yeah, yeah.” His throat was dry. “And you two?”
“We’re getting by. Walter seems happy in his new job. He says the Russians treat him well. He’s thinking about joining the party; it might get us a better ration card and more food.”
“Sue . . . This is all a big mistake. If I could speak to Walter, I bet he could—”
“I told you he can’t come. Tell me whatever you want to say, and I’ll pass on the message.” She glanced at the guard, as if worried he could understand what they were saying.
Jack shook his head. He didn’t like involving Sue in his problems, but he knew that he had no choice. He revealed to her that Wilbur Hewitt had hired him to investigate the sabotage plaguing the Avtozavod, and that in the course of his inquiries, he’d discovered that Americans were being falsely charged and arrested. “Tell Walter to be careful. I’m convinced that Sergei Loban is behind all this,” he whispered.
Sue coughed when she heard him. “Loban? But he’s the head of the OGPU.”
“Just tell him.”
“All right. I’ll let him know, but I don’t see what he’ll be able to do to help. After all, he’s just the new boy.”
“Damn it, Sue, you have to get me out of here. If not you, then whom can I turn to?”
“Jack, think it over! Walter’s just an assistant. Do you want them to arrest all of us? They say they’re opening the American embassy in Moscow in November. Maybe they can—”
“They say, they say! That rumor’s been making the rounds since Roosevelt was inaugurated in March.” He thumped the table. “And even if they establish diplomatic relations, he won’t be able to get help from the embassy, because in America he’s wanted for murder.”
“Well, don’t worry. We’ll find a way to get you out. But I have to go,” said Sue, seeing the guard gesturing to them to finish. “I should give you a kiss, or the guard will think it’s strange.”
Jack nodded, his mind elsewhere. When she kissed him, he was surprised.
“Take care,” said Sue.
“Yeah. You, too. Say thanks to Walter for the Penal Code. And remind him to speak to Hewitt! Maybe he can help me.”
When Sue left, it dawned on Jack that he would not escape the labor camp alive.
26
Jack would never forget the night when, without saying a word, two Soviet guards came into his cell and dragged him out to the same black car in which, a few weeks earlier, they’d taken him away from the American village. He asked where they were going, but neither escort answered. They just put him in the backseat, and one sat on each side of him. As they drove through Gorky’s dark streets, Jack recalled the sinister stories that circulated in the ispravdom about the nocturnal outings that the prisoners were subjected to from time to time. Reportedly, they were taken in the middle of the night, put in a car that drove them off, and a flash of light was the last thing they saw. As he imagined what awaited him, his heart skipped a beat.
As the vehicle penetrated the forest and the city’s lights disappeared, Jack’s fears grew. He didn’t know where they would stop, or whether people would be waiting for him when they did, but doing nothing could prove fatal. Though he was handcuffed and hemmed in by two men, presumably armed, he told himself that he had to escape. He was strong. If he attacked the two guards inside the vehicle, the driver wouldn’t be able to help them. Maybe he would have a chance.
He looked at his escorts. The one on the left seemed the stronger of the two. He would hit him first with the handcuffs, then the one on his right before he could react.
He felt sweat cover his entire body. The vehicle drove on while Jack delayed his surprise attack, waiting for a good moment that would probably never arrive. He could sense the proximity of death, and he didn’t want to hasten it. He didn’t consider himself a believer but commended himself to Adonai nonetheless. He was taking a deep breath before he would deal the first blow, when the car suddenly braked hard, stopping on the edge of a precipice, near an abandoned hut where two more men stood waiting, flashlights in their hands. He didn’t have a chance to react. The guard on his right grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him out of the vehicle like a sack of garbage while the beam from a flashlight blinded him. Jack shaded his eyes to try to identify the men, but he couldn’t. Then, the Soviets moved aside, leaving a familiar-looking man with a graying head of hair standing in front of him.
“Good evening.” Sergei Loban’s voice boomed in the silence of the night.
“It might be for you.” If they were going to kill him, there was little point in formalities.
“Jack, Jack . . .” He paced around the American. “I have to make a difficult decision, and I’d like you to help me.”
“What kind of decision? Whether to shoot me or throw me off a cliff?” He spat into the ravine. He thought he could see Sergei smiling.
“How melodramatic you Americans are! You two. Leave us,” he ordered his men. “You see, my choice is very simple, as I hope yours will be. I need to know whether you’ll go back to your old job.”