Leningrad, USSR -8 June 1973
THE Neva River’s hypnotic pattern of gray-green waves captivated Mikhail Lev Aronovich so much so, he had to stop on the bridge risking a late arrival at Shostakovich Hall. He imagined himself swimming underwater, sliding past his troubles, his fears, his doubts—the ease in his movements, liberating. Awakened from his trance by gusts of wind whipping through his graying hair, he lifted his eyes. His gaze swept along the horizon to the Winter Palace darkened against a backdrop of a bleeding violet sky.
He welcomed this time of year when the sun never set, when the city finally woke up from its long, darkened days. Taking in the last of his cigarette, Mikhail threw it to the pavement and crushed it under his shoe. He glanced at his watch. It’s getting late, he thought. With one hand, Mikhail held onto his old leather briefcase; with the other, he curled his fingers around the neck of a wrapped bottle of cognac.
He strode from the bridge past The Bronze Horseman fashioned after Peter the Great, the horse trampling the serpent of treason; hastened his steps through Decembrist’s Square, where a bloody battle had once taken place between rebellious officers and an autocratic Tsar. As he approached Saint Isaac’s Cathedral, Mikhail looked up at its golden dome, testimony to a bygone era when religion had a place in society. It’s always the same. Whoever is in power crushes the will of the people. The thought dampened his mood as he turned the corner to Malaya Morskava Street, its pavement eclipsed by the jagged shadows of the buildings that flanked its length.
His footfalls took on the evenness of a metronome, a reminder of his daughter Natalia’s piano practice years back when she was a child. Andante, the metronome had willed her delicate, determined fingers to adhere to the moderate tempo of a Bach Invention. Andante, slower, Mikhail stepped in tempo to his daughter’s piece. Like her mother, Natalia had practiced until every nuance was mastered. He would often stop whatever he was doing, listen to her play, and find her so absorbed that nothing stood between her and the music. As her practice continued, her pieces gained speed. Channeling Natalia’s tempo, he quickened his pace to an Allegro Moderato.
Mikhail recalled that morning’s call with Natalia when she phoned him at work. Following the pleasantries, she said, “Papa, try not to be late this time. The competition begins at seven-thirty tonight.”
“Natashka,” he said, “don’t you worry. I’ll be there in plenty of time,” adding a calm to his voice which masked his anxiety.
“How can I not worry?” Natalia asked. “Remember Moscow? You arrived just before intermission and even then, you seemed so...preoccupied.” Static hissed through the line, and Mikhail could hear what sounded like a phone booth door slam on the other end.
He wished he could tell her everything. She was an adult, after all. He cursed himself for never finding the courage to tell her the story of how his life had taken a dangerous turn long ago. And he certainly wasn’t going to say anything to her over the phone.
“I won’t be late this time, Natashka, I promise. And afterwards, we’ll celebrate,” he said.
As Mikhail spoke, he fidgeted with a pile of notes on his desk interspersed with a week’s worth of Pravda newspapers, a typewriter, and the latest report from TASS. A colleague at the next desk raised a brow in Mikhail’s direction. Their boss had just entered the room speaking with a stranger dressed in a gray suit. His boss kept his focus on Mikhail, whose stomach suddenly recoiled as he recognized the stranger as a man who had followed him on the trains the night before.
Mikhail’s hand tightened around the receiver. “I’ve got to go,” he said.
“Proshchay...Papa.” The hesitation in Natalia’s voice echoed Mikhail’s fears.
“Proshchay, moy dragotsennyy.” Mikhail said goodbye to his precious one.
He checked his watch. It read 19:10. Nyet! Agitated he couldn’t keep a simple promise to his only child, he quickened his pace.
Not far behind, footfalls blended with his cadence, and he felt his skin prickle. Despite his desire to run, Mikhail willed himself to slow down. The footfalls from behind slowed—to his exact pace. Not daring to look back, he stopped short and pretended to adjust his briefcase. No one passed him.
Mikhail resumed his walk. Within the block, he came to a café popular among the city’s intelligentsia and commuters. If he ducked into the café, he might lose any stalkers. Before he entered, he stopped at the café window thinking this might confuse his follower. Glancing at the reflection in the window for anyone suspicious, he saw a tall man with a thin frame and a creased, worn expression etched between his brows. The man’s cheeks were gaunt with shadows. A moment passed before he registered that the person looking at him was his own reflection, no one else. How he’d aged these last few months! Mikhail sighed and entered. His eyes swept the back for an exit. None! Patrons waited for tables or gathered around the bar, smoking, downing shots of vodka, freeing up a week’s worth of built-up tensions through chatter.
At the bar, Mikhail kept an eye on the entryway while he ordered a drink. He placed his package and briefcase beside him and lit a cigarette. His stomach rumbled—he hadn’t eaten anything since morning, a meager breakfast of weak tea, black bread, and kippers. He started to feel nauseous, overcome by the smoke and his hunger. Two gray-suited men entered, one calm and measured, the other straining his neck forward, impatient. KGB. Mikhail lowered his head and looked away. He recognized the first man from earlier—the same guy who spoke to his boss that morning at Pravda. He allowed his shaking fingers to pull the cigarette away from his lips, crushed what was left of it into an ashtray, then picked up his belongings. It was time to move. He followed a boisterous crowd on its way to a table, until he was close enough to blend in with another group on its way out.
Outside, he mingled with the crowd until they dispersed. A burning sensation rose in his chest. Keep it together! Natalia must be playing by now, he cautioned himself. Mikhail’s fist gripped the neck of the cognac bottle. Footsteps pounded behind him, quicker this time, not coordinated with his own. One more block until Nevsky Prospekt.
On the street, a black Volga slowed down ahead of him and stopped at the curb. A short man wearing a black leather bomber jacket jumped out. Before Mikhail could register what was happening, a muscular arm wrapped around his neck from behind, choking him and dragging him backwards as his heels scraped the pavement. Mikhail gasped. Piercing spasms shot through his neck and down his back. He saw flashes of Natalia’s past performances. Why of all nights, were the Chekists after him tonight? Another attacker yanked Mikhail’s briefcase from under his arm and knocked his wire-rims from his face. He still had the cognac. In a desperate attempt, Mikhail tried to smash the cognac bottle over the leather-jacketed man’s head, but thick fingers pried his own from the bottle’s neck; he saw Leather Jacket sneering as he drew a knife from his pocket. Mikhail envisioned a brutal ending.
“Nyet! Not that way!” came a shout. The knife disappeared. One of Mikhail’s assailants smashed the bottle of cognac onto the concrete and threw him down with it. They all swarmed over him, kicking his every centimeter from knees to crown. He recoiled. One of his eyes swelled shut, and the mixture of liquor, broken glass, and the metallic smell of blood overwhelmed him.
“Mikhail Lev Aronovich. What a piece of work,” said an amused voice. “We’re on to you. You’ve stolen the Brezhnev document. Where is it if not in your briefcase?”
Mikhail knew if he survived this abuse, his only recourse depended on his resilience and ability to protect a document that could threaten the lives of many people.
The voice mocked him. “Guess what. Your samizdat articles are trash. But the Brezhnev document!” The voice paused. “What a fucking hypocrite. It’s beyond me how you were almost editor of Pravda.”
Mikhail groaned inwardly. He would never risk putting the others in danger.
“Let me tell you something, Zionist Yid. Where you’re about to go, you better use your tongue as freely as your pen or you’ll be missing out on a lot more than your brat’s recitals.”
Mikhail’s body convulsed with violent coughs. He’d rather die before disclosing anything to these savages. Within seconds, his assailants dragged him into the waiting Volga. The life Mikhail had lived, enlightened in truth, darkened in fear, spun before his eyes from the images of those he loved to Leningrad—its glory, its war-torn terror, its vibrant colors, and white-nights, until every dueling image vanished.
