The Last Paradise

“But if the accusation’s false, surely Henry Ford will complain.”


“Wake up, will you! For Stalin, the Avtozavod’s a personal matter. They’ve overthrown an empire; do you really think a lawsuit will scare them? They’ll fabricate false evidence to accuse us all and get what they want! They started eliminating workers they branded counterrevolutionaries to create a hotbed of unrest that would justify their subsequent outrages. And not because they want to safeguard their actions in an eventual lawsuit, which I doubt they give a damn about, but to give them an aura of legitimacy in the eyes of foreign powers that they don’t yet have diplomatic relations with.”

“I see. But what do I have to do with any of this?”

“You have to help us get out of Russia. Help me and my niece. I have the money, and you have the contacts. I’ll pay whatever you ask.”

“But why me? Can’t you just leave the country? You’re an important executive. Henry Ford will help you.”

“Ha! Old Henry’s a sly fox! He wouldn’t get me out of here if I were pointing a gun at his son’s head.”

“But if you tell him about Sergei’s plans . . .”

“That would be my death sentence! As soon as Ford suspects that the Soviets are plotting to break the agreement, he’ll make me the fall guy. Don’t you see? If he blames a single person for the sabotage, and not the organization, my guilt would be his salvation.”

“Then take your passports and escape under your own steam.”

“What passports? They took ours, just like they took yours. That’s exactly why we need you! Do you really think Sergei would allow us to just run away?” He discreetly gestured at two men shooting at a nearby cabin. “They’re watching us day and night. That’s why I wanted to meet you here. When they’re not following me, they’re on my niece’s tail, like bloodhounds.”

Jack tried to think of a solution that wouldn’t compromise him. He already had too much trouble for his liking. “You could go to the embassy. The Soviets say it’s opening next month.”

“The embassy and Ford are the same hyenas with different smiles. Do you think they’ll lift a finger to save someone whose arrest will prevent them from losing millions of dollars?” He let the newspaper drop, defeated.

Jack looked at him in silence. Hewitt had lost all but a hint of his arrogance. “And you don’t have friends you can call on?”

“Who the hell am I going to ask for help, Jack? My subordinates? They’re all scared out of their wits. None of them will make the slightest effort for me.”

“I don’t know. Maybe Smirnov can help you.” He gestured at the Soviet official. “He seems besotted with Elizabeth, he has plenty of money, and contacts, and from what I hear, he despises Sergei.”

“I don’t trust him. He works for Sergei. For the OGPU.”

Jack tried to think. For a moment, he considered revealing to Hewitt how he was being blackmailed by Sergei. But helping the industrialist could only bring him more problems. “And what if you proved that the person behind the conspiracy is Sergei himself?”

“Prove it to whom? He’s the boss. Anyway, do you think it would do any good? The Soviets protect one another. Even if I had proof, they’d fabricate new evidence to cover up their plot.”

“So, what’s your plan?”

“I wish I had one! All I can think of is for you to obtain false passports for me and Elizabeth.”

“Do you know how dangerous that would be for me? And anyway, what makes you think I could get them?”

“Look, Jack. Let’s lay our cards on the table. I’m not asking you for charity. I’m offering you money in exchange for your help. Mountains of money. I could pay you more than you’ve ever dreamed of earning. If you want, I’ll even fund your escape to America with us.”

Jack fell silent. Mountains of money . . . his dream, within reach. He could flee Russia, and start a new life in which—

A volley of gunfire tore Jack from his fantasy. He turned pale. Since they’d set sail from New York, not a day had gone by without his dreaming of returning, but Hewitt’s proposal was absurd. Though he knew he might regret it, he looked at the industrialist with determination. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hewitt, but it’s too dangerous.”

He stood and limped off toward the exit, leaving the industrialist as wounded as if Jack had placed the targets that the Soviets were firing at over his heart.





27


Through November, the arguments between the Americans who supported the Soviet regime and the disillusioned ones who wanted to return to the United States but were unable to do so intensified to the extent that the American village was divided into two opposing camps. Jack tried to keep out of it, but when Harry Daniels’s son refused to sell pork ribs to Paul Farmer, who in response struck him on the head with a bottle, he had no choice but to intervene.

“We can’t go home, and on top of that, this bastard’s laughing at us!” bellowed the Daniels boy, his face bloody. Jack held him back as best he could. His hip smarted—Jim Daniels had bumped into him accidentally when Jack had tried to separate them.

“Goddamned bloodsucker! That’ll teach you for sitting by while we all go hungry!” Paul Farmer yelled.

Jack managed to get the young Daniels to retreat to the latrines near the village store where the argument had broken out. When Jim promised him he’d keep his distance, he limped back to the youngster’s assailant. “You think you can go around doing that to a fellow American?” he challenged him. Jack was a full head taller than Paul Farmer, but Paul’s arms were two fibrous trunks.

“My son was born here, and his Russian mother has the same right to eat a hot meal as the pikers that want to go back to the United States.”

“The same right, huh?” He threw the pack of meat he’d taken from Jim Daniels at Paul. “There. Now get out of here! And if I see you waving a bottle around again, I’ll ram it down your throat!”

Paul snatched up the package and clenched his jaw. His defiance lasted a few seconds, long enough to make sure that there were ribs wrapped in the newspaper. Then he turned around and marched off, cursing. Jack returned to the latrines to assist the Daniels boy, who was sitting near a door. When he reached him, he saw a gash on the young man’s forehead that would no doubt leave a scar for the rest of his days. He took out a handkerchief and tried to stanch the bleeding.

“Are you crazy? Do you think we can afford to get into fights?” Jack reproached him.

“It was him! The bastard was crowing about belonging to the party. He said we should either become Russians or rot in a labor camp,” he argued.

“And do you think you’ll achieve anything by getting their backs up?” yelled Jack, exasperated.

“At least I can have the pleasure of leaving him without any ribs.” He looked at Jack’s empty hands. “Where are they? Please tell me you didn’t give them to him.”

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