David Duffy - In for a Ruble

“What’s that?”

“Why you didn’t shoot the bastard when you had the chance, that night at JFK.”

“I owed him everything. That’s a tough bond to overcome, whatever the provocation.”

“He was a mass murderer. He killed Polina. He tried to kill my sister. As it was, he left her shattered.”

“I can imagine how you feel.”

“Can you?”

The anger flared in his features, then left again, almost as quickly. I didn’t want to get further into that argument, at least, not yet. “I can try.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Pointless death gets under my skin. Who do you think I inherited that from?”

I sidestepped the temptation to give the answer he was expecting— Certainly not your mother. Instead, I said, “Since we’re onto Iakov, let me tell you what happened next.”

The waitress brought the food, and we both ordered another a beer.

While we ate, I took him through the events of the Great Disintegration. In 1988, I was posted in the New York rezidentura for the second time. The rezident —chief of station—Lachko Barsukov, Iakov’s eldest son, was fast climbing a ladder to the top of the Cheka. He’d always been greedy and he was running a side business, ordering everything from Champagne to truffles to designer dresses on the consulate’s tab, shipping it all home, where his brother sold it on the black market. One of my agents exposed him, I turned him in. Iakov leaned on me hard not to testify. I made the worst decision of my life—and I didn’t even know how bad it would turn out to be. Honor versus loyalty. I opted for loyalty. Dumbest thing I’ve ever done. But I was screwed no matter what.

Lachko got away with a slap on the wrist. He was tainted, though, and his ascent was over. He blamed me and sought revenge. He mounted a nasty campaign of innuendo. The whispers got around to Polina. I didn’t realize how much I underestimated the depth of her insecurity. Her alcoholic father had been run out of the GRU (military intelligence) and sent to the camps. She was horrified at the prospect of her life crumbling again—and being married to a zek, although I left that part out for the moment. She set out to ruin me by sleeping with my fellow officers, the kind of indiscretion she knew the Cheka could not ignore. I found out what she was up to before the organization did and made a deal with the devil to save all of us. Polina could raise Aleksei, with my support. I wouldn’t interfere, I wouldn’t even be a known factor. As if I never existed, a zek ’s destiny. I didn’t reckon on her marrying Lachko, but I’m not omniscient. In retrospect, she was grasping for security and still trying to get even. He’d always had a thing for her and he wanted to get even too. Iakov pulled some strings and I was given an assignment in San Francisco. That was a time-buyer. I was back in Moscow in two years, behind a desk, which I hated. When the opportunity presented itself to call it quits, I did, and moved to New York. Start over.

“That’s quite a story,” Aleksei said as the waitress cleared our plates. His professional tone was back.

“It’s straight—or as straight as I can remember. A difficult time. Memory plays tricks, as you know. I made a big mistake, I tried to rectify it as best I could. You were one big casualty of that. I’m sorry.”

He nodded, in acknowledgment or acceptance, I wasn’t sure which. Neither of us said anything for a few minutes while we sipped our beer. I had a sense what the next question would be—like staring at a gallows, knowing what it’s to be used for, with nowhere to run. My pulse picked up speed as I waited. I didn’t know for sure how I’d answer.

“How about your childhood? Where’d you grow up?”

Paralysis grabbed my throat. My heart raced, my breath got short.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Aleksei, I…”

He had concern on his face, no doubt over the rising panic on mine.

“The… the reason your mother said we were damned,” I croaked. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. It was all but drowned out by the pounding in my chest.

He was waiting, uncertain what to say or do. I fought for control. I told myself to get on with it. It’s only a word. A word I couldn’t speak.

“G… Gulag,” I finally managed to whisper.

He looked at me quizzically.

“That’s… That’s where I was born. That’s where I grew up. Your mother never knew—until the end. That’s the reason everything fell apart.”

He didn’t jump up. He didn’t run. He didn’t shout NO! He didn’t even look that surprised. He just leaned back and nodded. My heart rate slowed a little.

“Why didn’t you tell her before?” he said after a minute.

“Shame. Fear. I was ashamed of my past. Still am. I can barely tell you about it, today, five decades later. And I was scared about how she’d react. I wasn’t wrong about that.”

He nodded again and crossed his arms. “I have friends whose parents were in the camps. They don’t talk about it either. I kind of understand it, I guess. But, at the same time, there were millions of victims. All Russians share that history. It’s something we need to come to terms with if we’re ever able to confront our past. And we can’t do that without talking about it—openly.”

I could have cried, from tension and relief. My heart rate returned to normal. The shame that haunted me meant nothing to him. I’d spent the last twenty years terrified—for no reason. Maybe there was hope for Russia—if more people of his generation shared his view.

He was watching my reaction. “You were born there, you said. That means your mother…”

“That’s right. She was arrested with her parents during the Terror in 1938. Your great-grandparents were artists and died in the camps. Your grandmother was released in 1946 and rearrested in a roundup of ex-prisoners in 1948. She was sent to Dalstroi this time—Siberia. I was born there on March 15, 1953—the day Stalin and Prokofiev died. Bad timing for Sergei Sergeyevich. We were released in Beria’s amnesty, but she was too weak to make the journey home. She died on the train. I was brought up in an orphanage, got into trouble as a teenager, got sent back to the Gulag. You hate him, I understand that, but it was Iakov Barsukov who identified my language skills and gave me a chance. He got me out of the Gulag and started my career in the Cheka.”

He shook his head. He didn’t want to hear that about Iakov. “What about your father?”

“That’s less clear. The man I’m named after, Electrifikady Turbanevich…”

He was taking a sip of beer. He stopped and laughed out loud. “Say that again.”

“Electrifikady Turbanevich.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No. You didn’t know?”

“She never told me. How did you get saddled with… If you don’t mind my asking.” He was still smiling.

“He was the man I believed to be my father. My mother broke with tradition and gave me the whole name. They didn’t have much time together. ’Forty-six to ’forty-eight, then a supposed reunion in Kolyma in ’fifty-two. She wanted a way to remember him, I guess.”

“Okay, but how did he get…”

“Stalinist zeal. He was born in the thirties. Lots of kids got screwy patriotic names—Ninel, Stalina, Drazdraperma. Apparently Grandpa Turba was a Stalinist with a sense of humor.”

“Unlikely combination.”

“The czars couldn’t kill Russian humor, neither could the Bolsheviks.”

“What did he do, your father?”

“He was a Chekist. On Beria’s staff.”

He started at that.

“He was a zek too. Arrested with my mother in forty-six. Rejoined the Cheka sometime after he was released in forty-eight. That wasn’t unheard of, by any means.”