A Casual Chat with a KGB Major
Gorgeous late morning in the awakened city, fresh new green, the angled rays of the sun glittering in spiders’ webs, birds twittering, the fragrance of buds, grass drenched in dew, the air cool, bees hovering around blossoming branches, Sunday, the tolling of a distant bell. Spring in Chisinau.
I was the only diner in this tiny restaurant on the north side of town, and the only thing that irritated me was the mirror in a gilt frame behind the bottles. Every time I looked up, I saw myself looking like a portrait of one of my own ancestors: Lazarus Trubman, deep in thought, in a gilt frame. I had circles under my eyes and a couple of scars on my face; apart from that, I actually looked quite all right for a man who survived four years as a political prisoner in a Colony of Strict Regime in Northern Russia.
“What would you like?” asked the barman.
“A cognac,” I said. “How’s your fish today?”
“Was caught this morning. Cod or trout?”
“Cod will do. I’d like it deep-fried with some new potatoes, please.”
The barman conveyed my order to the cook in the kitchen, uncorked a bottle of Kvint, arguably the best Moldavian cognac, and, filling the bottom of my glass, said, “I haven’t seen you in a very long time, teacher.”
“Northern Colony, four years, and it’s really a miracle that I’m sitting in front of you today.”
“We went through some horrors here, too,” he said, rinsing the glasses. “My son in particular, but it wasn’t as bad as being in a Northern Colony though…”
I nodded, sipped my cognac and listened to his story. When he finally fell silent, I said, “Sorry to hear what happened to your son.”
“He’s alive, thank God, but will probably use a cane for the rest of his life.”
“Alive is what counts.”
“Here’s to those who are not,” said the barman, splashing some cognac for himself.
He was a man of 40, tall and a bit round-shouldered, with a pair of sunken sad eyes. A tattoo of an anchor on his left arm told me he was in the Navy. His son tried to set military barracks on fire, was caught, tortured, but let go.
“Yes,” he said again, “that’s how it was when you were away.”
My glass was empty.
“Another one, teacher?” he asked.
“I’ll wait for my fish,” I said.
“Then a cigarette,” he said, pulling one out of the packet and clicking his lighter.
While I smoked, he dried the glasses. I was about to leave my country. A friend of mine, who agreed to keep my personal library, 300 tomes of Russian and European classics, until I could save enough money in America to pay for the shipment, chose this restaurant as a meeting place, and he was late.
Now my fish arrived.
“Here’s to you, teacher,” proposed the barman. “And all the others who paid for our freedom.”
We touched glasses, and he left me alone to eat in silence.
The fish was excellent, but I didn’t enjoy it: my mind was elsewhere.
The barman noticed that.
“This is the best deep-fried fish in town…”
“It’s not the fish, Kostake,” I interrupted. “It’s me.” His name appeared in my memory suddenly, and I was really glad it did.
“You remember!” he exclaimed, and a wide smile lit up his face. “Would you like some coffee?”
“I’ll have it outside,” I said. “I’m waiting for someone.”
I reached for my wallet, but Kostake forestalled my attempt to pay. “It’s on me, teacher, and the drinks, too: it seems that we both needed some hard liquor this afternoon.”
I smiled to myself: two in the afternoon always seemed to me to be a terrible hour, an hour without slope, flat and with no outlook.
We hugged, I went outside and occupied a small table next to the lilac bushes. The rain had stopped, there were small puddles everywhere, and a light breeze from the south. I checked the time: two o’clock on the dot. I smiled to myself: two in the afternoon always seemed to me to be a terrible hour, an hour without slope, flat and with no outlook. I remembered my childhood suddenly, when I was ill in bed and it was three o’clock in the afternoon, picture books, stewed apple, eternity…
“Your coffee, teacher!”
“Thank you, Kostake,” I said, inhaling the smell of freshly brewed coffee. “Why don’t you join me: it’s beautiful after the rain?”
“I’d love to, but I must go,” he said, pointing at an approaching couple.
I watched him holding the front door open for his customers and was about to try my coffee when someone’s light hand touched my shoulder:
“What are you up to these days, Lazarus, what are you up to?”
The voice sounded unfamiliar, as well as the short laugh.
I turned around to see the man.
I really hadn’t recognized Professor Oliescu when he suddenly stood there in front of me. It wasn’t just his voice, but his face, pale and utterly different. And yet I still felt I knew him. Something in his aspect could never be changed.
“Yes, yes, they can do this to you,” he said, noticing my confusion. “They and their newly invented millstones! But your prison wasn’t a vacation either, I’ve heard.”
I kept looking at his face, in silence. In reality, it was no longer a face, but two cheekbones with thin skin over them, sticking out like miniature mountain peaks, and the muscles that formed his expression, an expression that reminded me of Professor Oliescu, were so weak that they couldn’t hold his laugh for a long time. That’s why his laugh was short and much too large; it distorted his face; it seemed huge in relation to his eyes, which were set far back in his skull.
“Professor!” I exclaimed and had to stop short not to add: I was told you were dead! Instead: “Well, how the hell are you?”
“I’m great, Lazarus, I’m great!” He put up another short laugh. “It’s spring in Chisinau, nature’s crazy awakening!”
I tried to make out why he was laughing. I knew him as a serious man, as Professor of Linguistics at Chisinau State University, but every time he opened his mouth, his face formed that uncanny expression of mirth. To ask seemed impossible.
“I’m better now,” he said. “Those millstones roughed me up quite a bit, but I got lucky.”
He paused, and I had a chance to take another close look at him. Actually, he wasn’t laughing at all, any more than two cheekbones with thin skin over them can laugh; it just looked like it, and I apologized for not recognizing him at first.
“You’re not alone, my friend,” he said, “but I’ve gotten used to that.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling embarrassed. I felt an urge to leave now, but he began coughing suddenly and couldn’t stop, and when he finally did, I saw two bloody spots percolating through his handkerchief.
“Scary, isn’t it?” he said. “Not as scary though as a few other things I’m hiding under my clothes.”
“We all have our scars to hide,” I said. “Some deeper than others.”
“Don’t we, Lazarus? Scars of the century, aren’t they?”
His skin was like leather or clay, which could crack at any moment, and his belly looked like a small party balloon suspended under his thin ribs. His eyes were the only thing unchanged since I last saw him, lovely, but sunken. I glanced at my wristwatch.
“Why are you suddenly in such a hurry, my friend?” he asked with his short deceiving laugh. “How about a drink?”
He was a colleague of mine back in the old days at the university, I looked up to him and respected him more than any other professor in the country, but I really had no time for a drink: I was concerned that my friend had not arrived at the restaurant.
“My dear professor,” I said, because he was holding me by my arm. “I do have to go: a few important things must be arranged urgently.”
“Then some other time, right?” he said, and I knew for sure that this man was really already dead.
“Yes, I’d like that,” I said, finishing my coffee. “Whenever I’m in Chisinau again.”
Maybe it was a laugh, I thought suddenly, while checking the street for a taxi. Maybe he kept laughing all the time because he was still alive, standing in front of me in downtown Chisinau, despite the rumours that he had been tortured badly and died in the camp.
As luck would have it, a taxi stopped next to us, and a young couple paid and got out. I slipped into the back seat, lowered the window and said, “It was really nice to see you alive and laughing...”
“We shall meet again, Lazarus,” he interrupted. “I have a lot to tell you, enough for a thick book, and I hope you’re still a good listener.”
“I’m always up for a good story, professor,” I said. “Always up for a good story.”
I tried to distinguish the color of his eyes and couldn’t.
“In the meantime, call me,” he said, stepping back from the taxi. “It is allowed now.”
I promised and gave the driver my friend’s address.
We’re damaged goods, I thought cranking up the window, but it’s rubbish that we are dying; we’re just getting awfully tired and more often than not need bypasses, transplants, dentures, and blood transfusions. And when none of that helps, when we run out of the last ounce of strength, we move aside. In silence.
“You may take a nap,” said the driver, moving into the traffic. “It’s quite a ride.”
“Can you make it in thirty minutes?”
“I can certainly try.”
“You’ll be rewarded,” I said, closed my eyes and went back to the very beginning…
My wife always thought that someday I’d be a big success. I taught Russian Literature and Linguistics at Alecu Russo State University of Balti, a mid-size city located in the northern part of Moldavia, within the historical region of Bessarabia with which the city’s own history is closely intertwined. Then came the ’70s, Brezhnev’s time, deadly like a marsh, when everybody had to make a choice, and mine wasn’t the wisest one. Despite my reputation as a recluse, I still held regular gatherings in my apartment to entertain close friends and colleagues. The guests enjoyed slow dancing and drinks and seemed to have a good time. Not my wife though. “You used to be witty and cheerful, my love,” she said once. “Now you don’t say a word, as though you’re afraid of your plain language.” I didn’t deny it. Of course, I could make an effort to be smart and funny; it’s just I had the feeling I had said it all before and the things I really wanted to discuss were dangerous and forbidden.
I was in my late 20s then, healthy and still ambitious. I met plenty of people every day, killers and those who ordered the killings: you couldn’t tell by looking at them. All sorts of things happened around me, colleagues taken away in the middle of a lecture, neighbours disappearing, close friends no longer answering their phones, but as soon as I stepped onto the porch of my apartment, I didn’t feel like talking about it.
More than once I thanked God for television.
Of course, I could make an effort to be smart and funny; it’s just I had the feeling I had said it all before and the things I really wanted to discuss were dangerous and forbidden.
In 1980 I began conducting underground seminars and attending gatherings, organized by two Jewish professors, where we discussed the latest news channeled from Great Britain, America, and Israel. In the fall of 1981, I flew to Moscow and met with a few of my colleagues from the state university. The meeting took place in a dacha near Russia’s capital. We talked about dead friends and those who will die in the nearest future, a new distribution strategy, and the need for a printing shop somewhere in Moldavia or Ukraine, preferably in Moldavia. That was dangerous, could’ve cost me more than a professorship or advancement opportunities, but everything went fine. For a month that is.
When a month after my return I was invited by the local KGB office for a chat, it was a shock: KGB? I didn’t know what to think, but this wasn’t an institution I could ignore. In the lobby I was met by a young lieutenant who escorted me to a Spartan room—two chairs and a desk—and left, wishing me a nice chat. The wait wasn’t long. The operative who soon walked in greeted me with a smile, occupied a chair across the desk, and introduced himself as Major Anatoly Orlov. He turned out to be a well-spoken, educated man of thirty, polite and a good listener. His smile disarmed me. He knew a lot about my work, personal life, and hobbies, but talked about them casually. Everything seemed normal, somewhat uneventful. Checking something in a tiny notepad, Anatoly assured me I’d done nothing wrong, and the reason for the invitation was rather prosaic: his department was informed recently that some students from the university I worked for had been distributing printouts of BBC radio transmissions. All they needed now was to establish the names of those students.
“This is like a mountain off my shoulders, Comrade Major,” I said. “Really.”
“So, you don’t know anyone?”
“None of my students is capable of such a thing. They’re just not brave enough!”
“Great!” he said and glanced at his watch: “Look at that: almost noon!”
Then he suggested lunch at the nearby café, and I told myself that to break a bread with a KGB Major in a public eatery didn’t seem like a wise idea, but I couldn’t refuse. After all, lunch is lunch, a harmless thing. I ordered a beef stroganoff, and for the next 40 minutes there was a casual chat about nothing. Then we shook hands. Sunny day, everybody in white shirts.
Anatoly called again a week later to request another meeting, this time outside of his Spartan chatting room.
“A park perhaps?” I suggested. “There is one right next to the university…”
“I have a better idea: the residential complex on Garden Street, right behind the bookstore, apartment 603, at ten o’clock next Tuesday.”
“Next Tuesday?” I asked. “I need to check my schedule…”
“I’ve taken the liberty: your first class doesn’t start until 11:45 a.m.”
“It won’t be about my careless students I gather?”
“Not anymore, my friend; it’ll be much more productive actually.”
We chatted for another few minutes, then the line went dead. I stood motionless in the hallway, unsure suddenly of how to live my life, how to go back into the living-room and entertain my family as if nothing happened…
Then came Tuesday.
It was a nine-story apartment complex behind the very popular bookstore; it had two elevators, but I took the stairs, as though afraid of meeting a familiar face. My hands were sweaty; I wiped them with a handkerchief. I reached the sixth floor and stopped: remembered suddenly Anatoly’s remark before he disconnected the line. “The millstones of history never stop,” he said. “That’s why it is very important not to get between them. In your case, though, it’s a bit too late, my friend: your hands were already caught when I got you.” And I understood: that’s all they needed, a hand, then it was only a matter of time to get my body and mind squeezed between the millstones to grind me into a flat, blind, obedient human being. Just one fucking hand!
I pushed the red button.
The door was unlocked by a tall woman of satanic calm and undistinguishable age.
“Lazarus, isn’t it?” she said, holding the door open. “Major Orlov is waiting for you.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, “Is this…”
“You’re not lost, please,” she assured softly. She accompanied me into the living-room and walked away without uttering another word.
Anatoly stood next to wall-to-wall bookshelves with an unlit cigar in his hand, and said as though reading my mind, “Her name is Iraida Borisovna Borodina. She’s a retired schoolteacher, a great hostess and a widow. Her husband, General…”
“A great hostess?” I dared to interrupt.
“Sit down!” ordered Anatoly, ignoring my question.
And I understood: the casual time was over.
We were about the same age, Anatoly just a few months older, with a typical—milky-buttery—Russian face. A graduate from Leningrad State University, where he studied literature and Russian language, he was recruited by the KGB as soon as he completed his first two years of education. He possessed a practical mind, a good memory, and was moving quite fast up the ranks.
“A cigar?” he offered.
“I actually quit,” I said hurriedly. “Almost a year ago…”
“I’ll take it as a no, but don’t ever lie to me again!” he said in a slightly raised tone of voice. He pulled a tape-recorder out of his breast pocket and for the next half-hour I listened to my own secret seminars and the discussions I had with my colleagues at that dacha near Moscow. Then he turned the recorder off and said as if nothing happened, “The purpose of today’s meeting is to offer you a job, to point out the advantages and explain the privileges…” At that moment, Iraida Borisovna came into the living room with two cups of steaming tea and a small sponge cake on a silver tray; she placed everything on the table and walked away.
“Please, help yourself,” said Anatoly. “It’s an herbal tea from China—very healthy. Does wonders to a man’s sex drive, I’ve been told.”
I took a sip of tea, and asked, “Simply say: you’re offering me to betray my own people?”
“You’re not betraying anybody, not necessarily; at least for now, you’re a Soviet citizen, aren’t you? To defend the interests of your country was never considered a betrayal. I’m not asking you to kill people…”
“Don’t see any difference!”
“…to poison them, to knock out their teeth. Your name will never appear in any documents or be pronounced in the interrogation room. If it makes you feel better, you’ll never know what happened to them, how they were punished or if they were punished at all. As far as I see it, you’ll be a ghost, Lazarus, an invisible man. Our organization is very interested in a circle of your friends and acquaintances, Jewish in particular, with whom you have established a lasting relationship. The information about their plans, thoughts, and the contents of letters that are constantly channeled to them from around the world, especially from United States and Israel, are just a few examples of what can be used…”
“A risk-free job, isn’t it?”
“Nothing is completely risk-free, professor, even this healthy tea.”
“I’m actually a college lecturer.”
“Not for long … Any interest in advantages and privileges?”
“Not today, no.”
“We’re done then!”
“Do I have a choice?”
“To avoid punishment? Not really, but that would be something to talk about in detail at our next meeting on Monday. Time’s the same. I also want to remind you that everything I’ve said is strictly confidential and not for public discussion.”
“My wife?”
“Especially your wife.”
I looked straight into Anatoly’s eyes, trying to understand why a young man of his abilities would dedicate his one and only life to a system that is hated by every civilized country. Is it the money or the power to manipulate people’s lives? Or both?
“Don’t judge me and don’t try to understand me,” he read my mind. “I’ve chosen this life and I have no regrets. Notice this: I can do a few things for you if you decide to consider my offer. If not … well, let’s just say that your life and the lives of your close ones will change forever … and not for the better.”
I kept silent.
“Until next Monday then?” he said, extending his hand.
I kept silent.
“Is it Monday or Tuesday?”
“It’s Monday.”
“Very good.”
We shook hands.
Out of the building, I went to the nearby park and played a couple of timed chess games before my first class of the week…
Next Monday I awoke early and took a long shower. A door slammed, then another: my wife and kids were gone, so it was 7:45 a.m. I had about two hours to make a decision, hopefully the right one. I shaved, combed my hair, breakfasted. At 8:45 a.m. I was ready. I stood in front of a mirror, tried to find any doubts in my tired blue eyes and couldn’t. It was my opportunity, I told myself, to make something out of my miserable life. Anatoly was right: if not I—then it’s someone else, younger, more decisive, and braver. Survival is the name of the game.
I finally left the apartment.
Cloudy sky as usual, freshness in the air, the magic of chlorophyll.
I went on foot and soon was at the bookstore. Once inside, I asked for a telephone.
“Please be quick,” said the young freckled clerk.
“I will,” I assured her and dialed the number.
“I’m listening,” Anatoly appeared on the line.
“It’s me,” I said. “I’m not coming.”
“You shouldn’t be calling from the bookstore.”
“I know … I’m not coming.”
“It’s very understandable.”
“Hopefully, we’ll have another lunch someday,” I said. I didn’t know how to end this conversation. “It’ll be on me then…”
“I doubt it,” interrupted Anatoly, and the line went dead.
I thanked the freckled clerk and left the bookstore. A huge cloud above the nearby park finally gave birth to a light cool rain. I inhaled deeply and began walking down the boulevard, an unknown creature in a gray raincoat whose life had just changed forever.
A month had passed. On Friday, as soon as we finished watching the late-night movie, my wife was ready to go to bed, and I promised to join her after a quick cigarette.
“Are you alright, honey?” she asked.
“As alright as I can be.”
“I can change that for the better in a heartbeat,” she said, touching my arm.
“I’ve no doubts,” I said. “How about a rain-check?”
“A rain-check it is … don’t take too many though.”
On the balcony, with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of Feteasca Neagra in the other, I tried to understand why I felt restless all of a sudden. It wasn’t the movie and it wasn’t the food. What then? I glanced at my wristwatch: almost midnight. A black “Volga” attracted my attention because it appeared suddenly and stopped under a streetlight. Three tall men in shiny leather raincoats got out and walked briskly to the entrance of my apartment building.
I finished my wine and put out the cigarette. A few minutes later I heard the impatient ringing of the doorbell, followed by loud knocks.
They came for me.
I stepped out of the balcony and stopped: my wife was already in the living-room, her face white as paper, her hands visibly shaking. “Who do you think that might be?” she whispered. “It’s after midnight, for God’s sake!”
“There is something I meant to tell you,” I said, “but I guess I suddenly ran out of time…”
“KGB!” a man’s voice interrupted from behind the front door. “Open immediately!”
“You meant to say we ran out of time, honey?”
“Give me a moment, please.” I walked briskly through the hallway and unlocked the door.
“Citizen Trubman?” asked one of the three men. “I hope you said your good-byes.”
“Do you realize that it’s after midnight, Major…”
“Captain actually, Captain Samoilov,” the man introduced himself. “Did you?”
“Of course not!” I said. “You haven’t called ahead of time.”
“You’re right, we never do … Would five minutes be sufficient enough?”
I left his question unanswered and went back. My wife was still standing in the middle of the living-room, with both my daughters next to her, crying.
“I didn’t tell them anything,” said my wife. “They just seem to know things.”
“Four minutes!” reminded Captain Samoilov.
I hugged my daughters and said, “I know you are frightened, but this is the way they pick up and escort people to their commander for a chat—that’s all.”
“Sergey’s father was picked up this early in the morning,” said my older daughter, wiping her tears. “We haven’t seen him since.”
“We haven’t, I know … but I’ll be back as soon as possible, I promise.”
“One minute!”
I had just enough time to kiss and hug all three of them: Captain Samoilov’s two subordinates walked briskly toward us, picked me up by my armpits, and escorted out of the apartment.
There wasn’t any wait at the elevator: the driver of the Volga held the door open…
“We’re here!” the taxi driver brought me back to earth. “23 minutes exactly.”
“You’ve earned the reward,” I said. “What’s the charge?”
“22 rubles and 60 kopeks.”
“Here’s 40 rubles, my friend, and don’t ask me why.” I got out of the car and began walking toward the apartment building, and saw the driver staring after me distrustfully…
It’s all in the past now, but not forgotten: arrest, interrogations, tortures, time in the colony, survival. On December 4, 1990 my family and I, my wife and our two daughters, boarded a shiny Boeing-747 bound for La Guardia, New York. And today, 30 years later, my dreams and hopes are fulfilled, I’m breathing the healing air of freedom.
My interrogators and torturers? I forgave them. God won’t.
