“So you think the accused are all guilty, is that it? Rats, traitors and morons?”
He has raised his voice; I begin to feel nervous, but I recite my lesson: “Why shouldn’t they be? They’ve confessed.”
Paul studies me with a kind of horror mixed with condescension I had never seen in him before.
“There’s a big difference between you and me. You’re too young to understand. There’s this difference of age between us, which is expressed by another difference no less essential than the first: I know.”
“You know what?”
He makes a gesture as if to pour himself a glass of cognac, but doesn’t. “It’s a game, Paltiel. A cruel and terrible game, but a game nevertheless.”
“So what? One more reason for you not to get upset. Is the game cruel? Well, one day it’ll be over.…”
“Not for the accused, Paltiel. And I know the accused. And the accusers too, I know them all, for heaven’s sake.”
He gets up, paces about the room, sits down again, seizes the bottle and says, “The worst of it is that either the one or the other have betrayed the Revolution. Either way, it’s horrible and hopeless.”
I am hypnotized by the bottle Paul is turning in his hands. He looks at it, but doesn’t see it; he sees something else, something my eyes cannot grasp.
That evening he speaks to me more frankly, more openly than ever before. Sheina must be getting impatient—I told her I would be away for just an hour—but I can’t help it; she will feel, she will know it was urgent for me to come here, to remain here. After all, I cannot abandon a friend who needs to unburden himself, offer himself. As a rule Paul is guarded about his private life. We, his colleagues, know no more about him than on the first day we met him. Where does he come from? What is his background? Is he married? What makes him sad or happy? All I know is that he is highly placed in the apparatus; that he performs some more or less public functions and others that are entirely secret. What kind of man is he in private life? Where is his Achilles’ heel? For the first time, he is opening up. And I shrink back on my chair, make myself tiny, afraid he’ll stop if he sees I am there in the flesh in front of him.
Wolfe, Petya, Paul: the evolution of a given name, the flowering of a destiny. That is what I learn. It takes my breath away. So Paul and I are linked by the same origins. Wolfe: a Jewish child from eastern Galicia, educated in poverty, his conscience inflamed by rebellion. Fervent, dangerous friendships in Vienna, where a chance meeting catapults him into the stormy world of conspiracy. Finished, the past with its Sabbath songs; finished, the warm household where a widower surrounded by six hungry children glorified the heavens and God’s grace. Finished, the Hasidic kingdom where masters and disciples invented reasons to hope, to believe, to beg for faith by singing.… Long live the Revolution, long live the World Revolution!
Then came special courses, illegal trips, intelligence training, familiarization with the closed system of the Komintern, and then of the Military Intelligence abroad, the Fourth Department. Now called Petya, Wolfe made his way into the nerve center of the Party, the one connected to the outside world. The Revolution was young and pure. Like Petya. The most ambitious dreams seemed possible and necessary. No more hatred among nations, no more oppression, no more ruling class, no more profit, no more hunger, no more shame: life was an offering of friendship, a thrilling call to solidarity. Petya took up with Tartars and Uzbeks, fell in love with a White Russian then left her for a Spaniard. This universe in flux where Jews and non-Jews embraced one another, where all cultures are equal, where all religious beliefs are mocked, this universe made him proud and strong. Gratefully he accepted his first mission to the West: Paul, messenger of the Revolution, went to Germany invested with unlimited powers. His was the right to destroy everything in order to rebuild everything, to abolish everything, to make a clean slate; he considered himself authorized, indeed commanded, to dethrone kings and gods, and in their place, to elevate mankind, a frightened and hungry mankind.
Wolfe, Petya, Paul: the history of a legend in three phases, the history of an ideal in three movements.…
As he talks, the rhythm of his speech gains in intensity. He describes his village and its artisans, his father’s helplessness in the face of helmeted, booted gendarmes demanding bribes; he recalls the last time he observed the Day of Atonement or attended a Seder; he flares up as he relives his encounters with the Just Men of the Revolution. Usually so lucid, so restrained, he expresses himself now like a drunkard. He becomes intoxicated in front of me; he is getting drunk without drinking.
I feel closer to him than ever before.
“The powerful, cleansing breath of the World Revolution, you felt that in those years,” says Paul. “It was the dawn. The birth of a movement whose breadth equaled its depth. We made it a point of honor to throw all the capitalist games—and everything there is a game—into the garbage can. Rank, titles, distinctions—we didn’t give a damn about them. You could visit anyone without having to announce yourself. Trotsky, for instance: I saw him at the War Commissariat without even going through his secretary. He was still our hero then—not yet a traitor. He transfixed me with his piercing, friendly eyes: ‘Well, comrade, tell me, have you read a good novel lately?’ I was flabbergasted: A novel? Me? In those times? The world was on fire, the masses in upheaval, and Trotsky expected me to talk about literature! Oh, how proud I was. There, I thought, was the real Communist humanity, a simple Communist meets one of the armed prophets, one of the chief actors of the Revolution, and what do they talk about? A novel I have not read, for the simple reason that I never could allow myself to read any novel. I told him that. He asked me how I spent my time. Courses in theory, political training, practical work, languages, propaganda.… He did not hide his dissatisfaction: ‘I’ll have to pass a word to the people in charge,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘We began our career with reading; on this point there’s no reason for you to be different.’ Whereupon he launched into an astounding analysis of the revolutionary dynamics in literature, quoting novels and plays, with some parentheses for music and the arts. It was the finest lecture I’ve ever been lucky enough to attend. And all that while he was at the head of the Red Army.…”
That meeting had left its mark on him. I envied him. I was about to confess this to him, but he stopped me.
“And once,” he went on, “I also had the honor of making the acquaintance of Comrade Stalin—who was not yet our beloved leader and father. One commissar among others, that’s all he was. If my memory serves me, he was in charge of national minorities, not of the services to which I was attached. But, I no longer know why, the two of us at the head of our class, before going on our mission, were received by certain top leaders. Puffing on his pipe, Stalin watched me without a word. There I stood, trying to hide my uneasiness, sweating, afraid of fainting, when finally he spoke to me. ‘Comrade Petya! What’s your real name?’ I guessed it was a test: he had my dossier spread out on his desk. ‘Wolfe Isakovich Goldstein, Comrade Commissar,’ I answered, stiff as a telegraph pole. ‘Good,’ he said, exhaling smoke. ‘Good, so Petya is Wolfe Isakovich. Tell me something—do you know the Bible?’ That question dumbfounded me even more than Trotsky’s about the novel. ‘No, Comrade Commissar. I have no desire to read the Bible. I am not interested in stories that the rich use to oppress and trick the poor.’ ‘Well, well,’ said Stalin, starting to clean out his pipe. ‘You’re a Jew, your name is Wolfe Isakovich Goldstein, and you’ve never opened the Jewish Bible. I studied it at the seminary.…’ ‘But I did open it, Comrade Commissar, a long time ago.’ ‘You opened the Bible without reading it?’ ‘Yes, without reading it.’ Stalin was savoring my embarrassment; entangled in my responses, I did not know how to extricate myself. ‘One might think you’re afraid of confessing,’ said Stalin, letting a fresh puff of smoke escape. ‘You must never be afraid, not under a Socialist regime. Comrade Wolfe Isakovich. The innocent have nothing to fear, right, comrade?…’ That was true, and how!
In the Soviet Union, only the criminals, the White Guard assassins, those nostalgic for the White terror had to be afraid—not their victims nor their conquerors. I believed that, Paltiel, I believed that. I still believe it, but … there are … there are, you know what there are. Trials … deviation, opposition, sabotage: those words are knives. Lenin’s companions—traitors to the fatherland of the Revolution? Double or triple agents? Is that conceivable? If it’s true, we’re done for; and if it’s not …”
Paul was speaking—and becoming a different man before my eyes. Once again he was Wolfe.
Finally, it was I who began to drink one glass after another. I emptied the bottle, and for the first time in my life I collapsed like the last of the drunkards at the Liyanov fair.
So I plead guilty, Citizen Magistrate, to having caroused in a capitalist city in the company of a former friend turned enemy of the people, and to having succumbed to intoxication in his presence.
By tacit agreement, during the weeks that followed, neither Paul nor I ever referred to that night. Paul became more and more taciturn; he was being recalled to Moscow. He was not the only one: the Komintern was recalling its agents by the hundreds throughout the world. We could not have guessed it was in order to liquidate them. Yet Paul’s intuition told him something was amiss. He could have refused and sought shelter with influential friends in France, but that was not his style. Besides, to trick him, they had not summoned him to report immediately, but had allowed him six weeks to prepare himself. That reassured him. I spent those weeks almost constantly in his company. He was calm; so was I, and even more than he. I thought he would go to Moscow, meet his superiors, gather some explanations, and return; and then I too would understand. Nevertheless, from the very depths of my being, the old question kept surfacing: Will I see him again?
Could I have guessed that the moment he arrived in the Soviet Union he would fall into the hands of your people, Citizen Magistrate? That they would fling him into prison? Which one? This one perhaps.
I remember our final evening. A dinner for two in a Latin Quarter bistro. We spoke of one thing and another, activities suspended, contacts to renew, German comrades to rescue and hide. We were taking stock; we were satisfied with each other. I asked him about his return to France. Would he stay on in the same section? Would he keep me on his staff?
He did not answer right away. He scanned the room, glanced at the street to make sure we were not being observed, and said to me in a toneless voice, “I’ve got some advice for you. Follow it and don’t ask too many questions.”
“What’s that, Paul?”
“Don’t wait for my return.”
“What? But …”
“You heard me. Leave Paris. Do something else. Go away.”
I pretended not to understand. “Why do you want me to go away? And leave the comrades? And who will do the work, tell me?”
“I hate repeating myself. I have given you my advice. If you choose to disregard it, that’s your problem.”
“But … where do you want me to go?”
“Far away. As far as you can go.”
“But why? Why, Paul?”
My lack of maturity angered him. I should have understood.… He stared at me. Could he trust me? He made a decision.
“You’re too well known,” he went on. “People know that we’re close, that we’re friends.”
Like an idiot I went on arguing. “We’re friends, so what? I am proud of our friendship!”
“Don’t shout. Do me the favor of controlling yourself. The things I know, it’s better you don’t know; I hope for your sake you’ll never learn them. You have the luck not to belong—officially—to the services I represent. You can travel freely, you can go anywhere. Get out!”
His words pained and confused me: Leave? Again? When? To do what? To flee whom? And that fist inside my chest: Will I see him again?
“You are surely mistaken, Paul. You’re imagining things. You’re overworked, exhausted. So am I.…”
He lowered his head to prevent me from seeing his defeat. “Follow my advice, Paltiel,” he repeated. He paused to swallow.
“Listen,” he went on, “go to Spain. If I can, I’ll meet you there first chance I get. It’s a fight I don’t want to miss.”
He gave me the name of a liaison agent who would help get me into the Brigades and across the border. Will we see each other again? I murmured to myself. God willing we would.
“What are you saying?”
“That we’ll see each other again.”
“God willing,” said Paul, after a silence.
Wolfe, Petya, Paul: pseudonyms and passwords learned by heart; that’s what my friend transmitted to me as a farewell present, together with those few images of his youth and his blessing.
Here, Zupanev was muttering as he blew his nose, here are some words. Not mine, but yours, what I mean is: they belong to you; they were meant for you. And I think that’s funny. These words, snatched from a dead man, from death itself, in order to be repeated, transmitted and kept alive, I am entrusting to a mute! Will this farce never end?
Read these tales, Grisha, and you will learn about the life and death of a Jewish poet, your father.
He was somebody, your father. Difficult to get on with. In the beginning, during the first interrogation, he annoyed us to the point of exasperation.
I was only a clerk, you understand. Nothing more. A stenographer. I took notes. From my corner, I observed the prosecutor, the colonel, the magistrate—to hell with all these titles, anyway, they all added up to the same thing—and I observed the accused without being seen by them.
I was a piece of furniture. An instrument. Part of the scenery. The invisible man from whose attention nothing escaped. So you can believe me, son, when I tell you that he was somebody, your father.
Now don’t jump to conclusions: he did not succeed in resisting all the way: the one who will has not been born yet. Oh, yes, we broke him, as we broke those before him and those after him. The fact remains that he was, forgive the expression, a rare bird, a unique case. He held out longer than anticipated, he took punishment better than the most hardened politicians. Do you know why? Because he was not afraid of death. And that, my little one, is what is referred to in our circle as “foolish and hypocritical behavior”; everybody is afraid of death, let me tell you. Man is meant to live and meant to want to live. Only your father was different. You may be proud of him, my boy.
I remember as though it happened yesterday. That night, they had really let him have it. He could no longer stand on his feet, his body was swollen and bloody—and yet, he resisted. I don’t even remember now what the particular charge was. He simply, stubbornly, refused to sign the official minutes of the session. The examining magistrate offered him a cigarette—they all do that. Your father declined; anyway he could not have put it in his mouth, which was a gaping wound.
The magistrate addressed him with a semblance of pity: “Why are you so foolish, Kossover? Why are you so obstinate? There is nothing to be gained that way. Why are you determined to suffer? I’d like you to explain.”
The magistrate seemed truly, sincerely interested. Sensing this, your father made an effort to stand straight.
“Very well,” he said, “I shall explain.”
He spoke with difficulty: the words scorched his tongue. He swallowed his saliva, his blood.
“I am a poet, Citizen Magistrate. And it behooves a Jewish poet to safeguard his dignity.”
And you know what, Grisha? For a moment I was flabbergasted—I don’t mind telling you—and so was the judge.
From that moment on, I began respecting poets. Because of your oddball of a father. And I began reading his poems and even transcribing them, for you. Yes indeed. Your father helped me discover poetry.
You see, before that, I had no use for scribblers. How can one live with words alone, I wondered, with nothing but words? Now I know that one can.
Another discovery. Because of your fat
her I began asking myself questions which triggered more questions: How can a man spend a lifetime hurting other men, in the midst of cries and screams of horror? How can he lie down to sleep at night, rise in the morning, knowing that he is living from one death rattle to the next? You may laugh, son. I was working for a magistrate whose function it was to ask questions; but as far as I am concerned, it was your father who taught me how to ask them.
Why does one man inflict suffering on another—do you know why? I have seen executioners panting with pleasure, I have seen wretches becoming excited every time their prisoner moaned, and worse: I have seen officials to whom all this represented nothing but a job, a duty. Told to strike, they struck. Told to whip, they bludgeoned their victim and drove him into madness. They were just doing their job, approved and rewarded by the law. And yet, my boy, for the life of me, I don’t understand: How can one man hurt another? I mean, how can one man hurt another who is without defense, senselessly, without reason, I mean without personal reason? I don’t know what makes some people try to overcome suffering while others give in to it. In truth I never understood either the victims or the torturers, I never felt close to either. But, yes, I did feel close to your father. I’ll explain that to you another time. He made me care, and, listen to this: in the end, he even made me laugh, me, who had never laughed in all my life.
You listen to me, you look at me and you resent me, admit it. You are wrong. I have never struck a prisoner, I have done nothing but take notes. And I feel guilty, that’s normal. Guilty of having seen evil, of having lived with it, side by side. Sure, I could have protested, resigned. For example, I could have pretended to be ill. But I would have been liquidated the following day: I knew too much. And I wanted to live; I clung to life. That’s how I am, like everybody else. I still haven’t found a good substitute for life. Like everybody else, I am afraid to die.