Ian Slater - World in Flames

It never occurred to her interrogators that she might be innocent of any sabotage, either on the railway or in the munitions factories where the Jews were supplying what was euphemistically called “volunteer labor.” She was also one of the young Jewish women prorosili —”requested”—to entertain the pilots at Khabarovsk air base. Refusal meant family harassment or most usually what the fliers called a “surprise party”—a pogrom — when things became too dull at the base.

“Is this how you Jews repay us?” pressed Marchenko. She glared at Colonel Nefski and his assistant looking on impassively.

“We give you your autonomous regions,” said Marchenko. “Let you worship your God — and this is how you treat us?” He waited. Nefski and his assistant could see the general’s patience was wearing thin.

“There are Jews in all our armed services, you know,” continued Marchenko. “Loyal to the USSR. How do you think they must feel, knowing there are traitors among their own people?”

She smiled, but it was one of contempt, as if to say, “They are the ones who are the traitors.”

Marchenko rose from behind the colonel’s desk, put on his coat, and picked up his gloves from his cap. Holding his gloves in one hand, the general put the edge of his cap beneath her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “You think this Jewish stubbornness is a virtue?”

She remained silent, and Marchenko, sweeping the cap away, turned to Nefski. “I’m wasting my time. She’s your charge.” Putting on his cap, he gestured to Nefski with his gloves. “A moment, Comrade.”

As the two men’s footsteps echoed down the stone staircase toward the brilliant white rectangle of snow framed by the door of the KGB headquarters, Nefski’s assistant asked the prisoner if she would like some tea. She made no sign.

Marchenko began putting on his fur-lined gloves. It might be sunny outside, but it was still twenty below. “She is banking on the kosoglazy —slant-eyes — being beaten by the Americans— if the Americans cross the Yalu.”

“I think you may underestimate the Chinese, General,” said Nefski. “With all due respect. They may solve our problem for us. Look at the Americans in Vietnam. They failed miserably, and with overwhelming air superiority.”

“They failed,” said Marchenko, pulling the other glove on tightly and squinting against the brilliant reflection of the snow, “because they lacked national will, Colonel. They dropped more ordnance on the Vietnamese than in all of World War Two. But it does you no good if you don’t have national will. This war, however, is very different, Comrade. The Americans see it as a Holy Grail. Vietnam veterans were spat on. In this war, Americans think God is back on their side. Like the Jews, which is why we must break that one upstairs. A dud torpedo that does not sink an American nuclear ship, a missile that fails to bring down an American nuclear bomber, could mean the difference between victory and defeat for us. Remember, Colonel, for the want of a nail, the shoe was lost, for the want of a shoe, the horse, for the want of the horse, the rider, for the want of the rider, the battle.”

“I will get the information about the sabotage,” said Nefski confidently.

“No doubt, Comrade. But when? It’s all a matter of time. You remember the Yumashev —the best battle cruiser we had? Well, we found the Estonian bastards who sabotaged her depth charges — depth charges which might have saved her from the American Sea Wolf — the Roosevelt —that sank her.”

“Luchshie umy mysliat odinakovo” —”Great minds think alike”—said Nefski. “I was telling my assistant only this morning, Comrade General, about the Yumashev.” Nefski didn’t go on to tell the general that his mention of the Yumashev to his assistant had been used to illustrate how Moscow’s interference with local investigations could actually delay solving the problem.

“Good,” said the general, “then we are in concert on this matter.” The chauffeur opened the door of the hand-tooled Zil and Marchenko stepped into the warm, plush interior. “I will be here for another six hours before I return to Moscow with my report. I can be reached at Khabarovsk air base. It would go well for us both, Colonel, if I could tell the Politburo upon my return that the situation had been solved.”

“Of course, General. I understand.”

“I’m sure you do.” The splash-green-and-white-camouflaged Zil moved slowly out of the compound, its tires crackling on the frozen sheet, the heavily coated KGB guards coming snappily to attention, rifles at the “present.”

“You are as foolish as your grandfather, Alexsandra,” Nefski told her. “You see, no matter what the official records show, we have always known your little secret. Oh yes, your grandfather paid his fifteen rubles like a good little boy to change the family name to Russian and thought he’d bought the family protection. I admit, for some, it worked. But you see, we—” he meant the KGB “—here at the local level have always known that you were Jews. And—” said Nefski, his tone magnanimous, “we told no one outside because we wanted to give you a chance. In return, this is how you repay—”

“You told no one outside,” she said, sitting forward, Nefski’s assistant grabbing her hair, pulling her back hard against the wooden chair, “because,” she shouted, undaunted, “you were being bribed not to tell!”

Nefski pouted like a disappointed grandfather. “You see?” He turned to his assistant. “The old man’s grandchildren are not grateful for his sacrifice. The poor old fool changes his name — he knows he can’t change the noses — but the name will help. To make sure, he does not go to synagogue — for seventeen years — to show us he’s sincere.” Nefski walked over, lifting up her chin. “He does this for you. And you despise him.” Nefski let her head drop. “He surrenders his faith and you spit on him.”

“I didn’t spit on him.”

Nefski glanced at his assistant as if he could no longer be bothered with her. “She spits on him. She and her brothers.” As Nefski stood by the window, the sunbeam caught his flat shoulder boards, and Alexsandra could see his red stars vibrant, like spots of blood, the sunbeam slicing the room in two, dust particles dancing madly in the beam, their randomness terrifying her. She didn’t know how much longer she could be strong. She thought of her grandfather, a good man but a compromiser, deluded into thinking he could buy respectability and safety, believing that even if the secret of the family’s origin got out, the very act of changing their name to Russian and not going to the synagogue would speak for itself. She despised Nefski and all those like him. In them, hatred of Jews ran as deep as it had in the Nazis. Gorbachev had not changed that. She remembered the resurgence of nationalism in the republics, all crying for more independence and, along with it, the wildfire of anti-Semitism. Even before that, she remembered the reports coming out of Hungary in the great days of the 1990 liberation, when at the beginning of the first big soccer game in free Hungary, the cry had gone up from the fans: “Kill the Jews! Kill the Jews!”

“You and your three brothers,” said Nefski. “You worked in the Khabarovsk munition factory. Dispatch. Correct?”

“Yes,” she said.

“The munitions are checked on the production line — so the logical place for sabotage is in dispatch. You agree?” She didn’t answer.

“Your family worked the night shift. Correct?”

“Everyone worked night shift — sometimes.”

“The midnight-to-dawn shift,” said Nefski. “Before the transport trucks arrive.”