Beneath the Darkest Sky Page 27

  “Put him on the bed at the end over there and administer the sedative!” said Zorin, who was walking just behind us.

  The guards laid me down and two nurses approached, one holding a needle, the other, a cup of water. I was kicking and began repeatedly shouting, “MY LORETTA! MY GINGER!” But the guards were able to control my movements enough for one nurse to roll up my sleeve before the other injected me. As the drug began to calm me down, one nurse held my head up enough for the other to pour water into my mouth. By the time I had swallowed it all, light had turned to dark, and the nightmare had been temporarily put to sleep.

  * * *

  Eighteen days later, on December 15, 1938, I sat with James in our private barracks room and we ate lunch together with Osip watching our every move. We were finishing off our plates of baked salmon, boiled potatoes, and cabbage. Neither of us had found it easy to eat after learning of Loretta’s and Ginger’s deaths, but it was Osip’s job to make sure the plates didn’t leave the room until they were empty.

  “There is something I need to tell you, Interpreter,” said Osip. “Colonel Zorin has instructed me to inform you that you will be leaving in two days for Leningrad. You weren’t supposed to leave until late December, but that has changed.”

  Before Osip could say another word, Colonel Zorin entered the room carrying two brown briefcases. He looked down at James and me sitting in our chairs like we had stolen something. He always appeared angry, but this was an even more pronounced frown.

  “The Kremlin has just notified me that you will be leaving in the morning, Interpreter,” said Zorin. “It had been changed to two days from now, but now it is even sooner. Tomorrow morning is also when your boy here will begin working in the mines.”

  “Okay,” I said, no longer even able to summon up any words of resistance to these Soviet animals.

  “Don’t think for a second, Interpreter, that your son is no longer a fucking zek,” said Zorin, setting the briefcases next to Osip. “The Kremlin may have ordered me to feed him well over the next year, but he will work like all the others while you are in Berlin.”

  “Excuse me, Colonel Zorin,” I said, “but I have been asking for days that my son here get treatment for his breathing problem. James has told me that his brief visits to the hospital have only resulted in him receiving cough syrup, which is hardly considered treatment. He needs to see a proper doctor, not a nurse.”

  “What did you say, black zek?” said Zorin, angrily.

  “I said my son needs treatment. He is having trouble breathing, particularly at night. I would think the Kremlin would like to see him stay alive while I’m gone. He is their . . . you know . . . leverage after all.”

  Zorin removed his pistol from his holster and stepped forward, sticking the end of the barrel against the skin right between my eyes. Part of me wanted him to pull the trigger.

  “Shut your American mouth,” said Zorin. “You think because you are speaking Russian to me, that makes it okay to talk fancy with me? The doctors are busy attending to zeks with serious diseases. Do you hear me?”

  I nodded, the pistol still stabbing my forehead. James sat still with his plate on his lap. My fifteen-year-old boy was a young man now, unafraid I sensed, able to handle himself if need be.

  “I can sense that you are growing brave,” said Zorin. “You feel as though you don’t have as much to live for now. But maybe if you get a good night’s sleep before the morning departure, you’ll realize how important your son is to you. Don’t you remember that feeling of having your soul ripped out of you when you saw your dead wife and daughter?”

  I nodded.

  “You don’t ever want to feel that again, I’m sure. Besides, if you start acting too bold, the Kremlin will just have one of our undercover NKVD men visit Berlin and kill you, then order me to shoot your son here.”

  He finally pulled the pistol back and reholstered it.

  “Let me have your chair, Osip,” said Zorin. “And bring me the briefcases.”

  Osip stood, slid his chair over, and Zorin sat with James and me. Then Osip placed the briefcases at Zorin’s feet before returning to the doorway, where he continued standing guard.

  “Pay very close attention to this,” said Zorin. “For the sake of this mission, we will call the town of Valga, Estonia, the halfway point between Berlin and MR4. There will be absolutely no cable communication between you and me while you are in Berlin. And make no mistake . . . the Kremlin has made me their official go-between. It is I who will relay all intelligence to them once I receive it from you. Clear?”

  “Yes,” I said, setting my half-empty plate on the floor while James continued eating.

  “This briefcase is yours for now,” he said, picking one up and handing it to me. “And the other one is mine for now. As you can see, they are brand-new briefcases, each made by the Kremlin engineers for this specific mission. Steel covered with brown leather. They can only be unlocked with a combination of nine numbers and letters. Both briefcases have the same combination. I was told that you have an extraordinary memory.”

  “Yes,” I said, running my fingers over the seven small, gold, button-like fixtures located just under the briefcase handle.

  “Good, because you are never to write this combination down. “It is 7-K-6-Z-R-9-9-V-5.”

  I rolled my finger over the first button and it clicked each time a different letter or number appeared. When the number 7 appeared, I stopped and continued on to the next fixture. I finally clicked button number nine into position and popped the case open.

  “On your first try,” said Zorin. “Impressive. Now, listen carefully. The Nazis have all modes of communication under strict surveillance. They will intercept anything spoken over the telephone or sent via cable. So, on the first Tuesday of every month, in the morning, Osip here will meet our German contact, Dieter, at the train station in Valga, Estonia. Both men will have boarded their respective trains the day before, obviously on a Monday. Got that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dieter is a chauffeur for the Hotel Adlon in Berlin. We have lots of spies working at that fancy hotel where so many important international dignitaries stay. And all of our spies there, and within many other establishments throughout Berlin, are German citizens. But, you see, they are proud, loyal communists first. Dieter is also being well compensated for his longstanding loyalty. We have so, so many communist spies around the world! And, now, you will be the best. Yes?”

  “That is certainly my plan,” I said.

  “Dieter will pick up your briefcase on the first Monday of every month and then catch the train to Valga. His two days off are Monday and Tuesday. And he doesn’t have to show up for work until Wednesday, late morning. This gives him forty-eight hours to make the thirty-five-hour round-trip. Make a habit of having breakfast at 7:00 a.m. every Monday and Wednesday at the Golden Café near his apartment. He has coffee across the street at the Blue Lion daily. Your first drop-off is to be on February 6th, a day when he will be carrying a simple, empty briefcase, not one of these beauties.”

  “Got it,” I said. “At that point, you will still be in possession of the duplicate.”

  “Correct,” he said. “So, Dieter will see you get up to leave the Golden Café and cross Friedrichstrasse Street at seven forty-five. It is very busy at that time. Once the traffic guard signals and you cross, wait at the corner in front of the Blue Lion in preparation to cross the east-west street of Beck. Set your briefcase down. He will come stand beside you there in the crowd and set his briefcase down. Before you cross Beck Street, pick up his briefcase and he’ll grab yours.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “From that point forward, beginning two days later, on Wednesday, February 8th, he will be setting the duplicate briefcase down. It will be important for you to write any questions, statements, requests, news, etcetera . . . on paper and place them inside your briefcase along with the intelligence, because that will be the only communication you will have with
us until a month later. Even an emergency question and response will be subject to this strict schedule. Also, don’t forget, even the smallest piece of secret information from within your American embassy is important to us. Our Great Stalin is just trying to learn how much he can trust the United States.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “Who are the only two men on earth with the combination to these briefcases?”

  “You and me,” I said.

  “And it shall remain this way. Again, your briefcase will have gathered intelligence inside, and Osip’s will have any information from the Kremlin or me that you might need to read, or it might be empty. The key is that the one you deliver must always have intelligence in it. Clear?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  “Very good, Interpreter. The officials at the border have been informed that an official named Prescott Sweet is to have no problems exiting the country. Kremlin’s orders! Your passport is gold. You’re a very important man. And just in case you need any further motivation to keep you focused, I have come bringing gifts.”

  He turned and nodded at Osip, who exited the room. Zorin took his pistol from his holster and pointed it at me.

  “Stop eating,” he said to James. “Both of you go sit on the bottom bunk.”

  James set his near-empty plate on the floor. Then we stood and did as he said. Two minutes must have passed before another word was spoken.

  “If you move at all I will shoot you,” said Zorin.

  “The gifts are here,” said Osip, reappearing in the doorway.

  “Good,” said Zorin. “Bring them in.”

  On those words, Osip disappeared again. Then, a couple of guards escorted two sheet-covered individuals into the room. They stopped behind the seated Zorin, his pistol still aimed at us.

  “Remove the sheets,” said Zorin.

  The two guards yanked the white sheets off of them, and there before us stood Loretta and Ginger. They had risen from the dead. Instinctively I jumped up and James cried out, “MOMMA!”

  “Ah, ah, ah!” said Zorin, clicking his pistol.

  “It’s okay, Prescott!” cried Loretta in English, both she and Ginger weeping, their bodies still frail, their color, yellowish.

  I slowly sat back down and pulled James in close. All of us were weeping loudly, our eyes fixed on one another, the guards still clutching their arms. None of us was being allowed to move. It was motionless chaos.

  “Now!” said Zorin. “You should know, Interpreter, all of this was done so that you would know what it feels like to have a dead wife and daughter. And now that you have tasted that horror, you can go do your mission with more clarity and purpose. Your aim is clear now.”

  Each of us wept through Zorin’s words, all the while acutely aware of his drawn pistol. My only recourse was to clutch my delirious son tighter and tighter while he cried into my chest.

  “No one better say another fucking word,” Zorin continued. “Look at me, Interpreter. We just wanted you to appreciate the importance of your assignment. I’m sure you never want to feel that sickness again. You have much to be thankful for now. You have much to lose again, but now it is more engrained in you. That is why we drugged them and staged the entire death scene. You will come to see that it was very good for you in the end. It will make you sharper, more trustworthy. You might choose to call it a sick game us Soviets played, but we feel that these types of maneuvers work very well.”

  Zorin nodded at the two guards, prompting them to haul Loretta and Ginger away, each of them showing tremendous restraint and strength. I could tell by the powerful, stern look Loretta gave me just before exiting that she was saying, “I will continue to fight for our family!” I just knew that was what she was saying. And Zorin had been correct. I was going to carry out my mission with more clarity and purpose now. And my aim was indeed clear.

  22

  Berlin, Germany

  January 1, 1939

  AS SOON AS I STEPPED OFF THE TRAIN AT LEHRTER BAHNHOF, I looked left and right in search of a face I had been longing to see for two and a half years. And as if he’d been sensing my anxiousness for some time, Bobby came briskly walking through the bustling crowd of white faces, almost all dressed in business attire. My best friend was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Holy fuckin’ shit!” he said, spreading his arms wide, as I set my two bags and briefcase down before he bear-hugged me.

  Right when he let go and stepped back, I tried to muster up a smile, but it wasn’t in me. The still intense pain had an unrelenting grip on me. And I couldn’t stop ruminating over those last words I’d said to James: “Keep your head down and your mouth shut. Do your work and I will be back to get you, son. I promise. I love you.” All he’d done was nod like a good boy.

  “I see you’re still as busy as ever buying new suits,” said Bobby, looking me up and down. “And I love the fancy black topcoat. Looks like mine.”

  “You know me,” I said.

  I wanted to tell him right then and there that the fine, new brown suit I was wearing, along with the four others in my hanging bag, had been tailor-made for me in Leningrad just days before my departure, compliments of the Kremlin. They’d also had three different colored fedora hats made for me, along with several ties and two pairs of patent leather shoes. They’d spared no expense in making certain I looked the part of an embassy employee.

  “You’ve gotten so damn thin,” said Bobby.

  “Well, you can imagine how—”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. Of course! Your appetite has probably gone to shit since the whole split from Loretta. I’ve been so down in the dumps about that news, Press.”

  “Look,” I said, “I want to tell you all about it, just maybe not right here.”

  “Of course!” he said, picking up one of my bags. “I have a car parked out front. Let’s go.”

  Moments later we got into a black Mercedes-Benz and he took the wheel.

  “Some of the embassy staff is still operating out of Bendlerstrasse 39 in the Tiergarten area,” said Bobby, beginning to drive. “Others are finally beginning to move into the refurbished Blücher Palace, which is located on Pariser Platz. You and I will work at Bendlerstrasse for the time being.

  “Currently, there is no U.S. Ambassador in place. Hugh Wilson had only served for eight months before being summoned home by the president this past November. Roosevelt felt it necessary to call him back to the States after the Nazi attacks on so many Jews during the Night of Broken Glass. They call it Kristallnacht here in Germany. Actually, it was Assistant Secretary of State, George Messersmith, who persuaded Roosevelt to recall Wilson.”

  “I’m surprised Roosevelt didn’t shut down the entire embassy,” I said, looking out the window at the cold city, uninterested in its stunning architecture, so much of it appearing to be made largely of glass, concrete, and steel—Modernism on full display.

  “It looks,” said Bobby, “as though a gentleman named Alexander Kirk will be here by May to serve as the chargé d’affaires.”

  “Then who’s running things now?”

  “Yours truly,” said Bobby. “Actually, to be fair, there are three of us holding down the fort for the time being. It’s only for a few months. But with the climate the way it is, the Nazis tightening the screws, Lord knows when Adolf Hitler will do the unthinkable. This is a man who is wholly evil.”

  “Sounds like Joseph Stalin,” I said.

  “Believe me,” he said, “Hitler’s much worse.”

  “Maybe they’re equally evil.”

  “No,” he said.

  “Then I’ll just put it this way. Stalin has shown me, very clearly, how absolutely evil he is. I’m glad you didn’t notice earlier the piece of my ear that is missing.”

  “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  “Let’s just say you should completely disregard the cable I sent you, Bobby.”

  “Come again.”

  “Loretta and I are not ge
tting a divorce. We never moved to Leningrad. And I have just gotten out of hell. I can’t waste another second not telling you this. The unthinkable happened to my family beginning seventeen months ago—August of 1937. We were all arrested for being so-called counterrevolutionaries. Stalin has had me, Loretta, and both children locked up in his barbaric labor camps for almost a year and a half—James and I in Magadan, Loretta and Ginger on the other side of the country in Kirovsk. It was only days ago at a Leningrad hotel that I took a proper bath for the first time since leaving Moscow. I should be dead.”

  Bobby pulled the car to the side of the road, busy morning traffic buzzing past. He kept both hands on the wheel and we sat there with the engine idling. The shock on him was obvious; his eyes fixed straight ahead, his mouth agape. I looked down at my damaged hand and reminded myself once again what I’d always believed. Stalin was never going to release my family. He was going to use me up, call me back to the labor camp with the promise of releasing Loretta and the children, only to then execute us all. I felt it in my bones.

  I also believed he was going to eventually kill Commander Koskinen, Director Pavlov, Colonel Zorin, and everyone else working for him, just as he had executed Sergei Kirov and the previous Dalstroi director, Eduard Berzin. According to Commander Koskinen, Stalin had also executed other prominent political leaders: Grigory Zinoviev, Lev Kamenev, Nikolai Bukharin, and Alexei Rykov.

  “Listen,” I finally said. “I know you are shocked to have heard all of this, but I want to be very specific. Time is of the essence, Bobby.”

  He turned to me, tears in his eyes, the blood gone from his face, and slowly nodded.

  “I will tell you all of the details about what exactly happened—the camp I was in, the beasts I had to brawl, the commander who helped me send letters, a guard I had to kill, how a sick bastard made me believe Loretta and Ginger had died . . . and whatever else you want to know, but right now I need to ask you something.”

  “Ask,” he said. “Please.”