21
MR4 Labor Camp - Kirovsk, Russia
November 1938
THE MR4 LABOR CAMP WAS FAR CLOSER TO FINLAND THAN THE Soviet city of Leningrad. James and I had arrived in late November, having taken the ship south from Magadan to Vladivostok, and then the weeks’ long train ride across the country to Moscow. From there we’d taken a different train north to Leningrad. Once there, NKVD put us in the back of a cargo truck, where we had to endure more travel—a fifteen-hour drive north to Kirovsk.
There had been one big difference in our travel arrangements this time, however. We’d been kept in a decent cabin aboard the ship, and our train rides had been normal, the two of us given our own compartment aboard a car that was carrying free hires going home from the various camps.
The guards aboard both the ship and trains had been ordered to feed us three good meals a day. In fact, we had been accompanied by one particular blue top during the entire journey. He had checked in on us periodically from his adjacent ship cabin and train compartment. It was clear he had one job to do: make sure the American spy reaches his destination in one piece.
Four days after I’d met with Director Pavlov back at Magadan, Bobby had responded with a cable that confirmed what I’d predicted. His message had been short and specific. He had mentioned how sad he was to have heard about my pending divorce, but had gone on to say, “I can’t tell you how excited I am to see you on the first of January in Berlin. I will have a new visa and all of your embassy credentials waiting for you at Vitebsky Railway Station in Leningrad. You will be departing at 8:00 a.m. on December 29th. We have much to discuss.”
Ever since the Kremlin had learned of my spy proposal, James and I had found life much more livable. Both of us had gained about ten pounds over the last month and a half, but I was still concerned about James’s health. He was no longer having dizzy spells or coughing, but every few days he’d have these fits with breathing. He needed to see a proper doctor.
Our first day at the MR4 Labor Camp was spent in a small, vacant room inside a commander’s barracks. Our accompanying blue top had turned us over to a young guard named Osip. He couldn’t have been any older than twenty, not a hair on his pale face, but the rifle he was shouldering made him look just dangerous enough. And as he sat in the chair by the door, James and I moved about, sorting through the bags full of clothes and toiletries they’d given us. There was one bunk in the room and we had our items placed on the bottom bed.
“I can’t wait to trim this thick, ugly beard with these shears and then use this blade and cream,” I said to James in Russian, out of respect for Osip. “You haven’t seen your daddy clean-shaven in over a year, son.”
“There is a small mirror and sink in the toilet closet over there,” said Osip, whose soft Russian words sounded like those of a twelve-year-old. “But as soon as you are finished shaving, leave the scissors and blade on the sink for me to take. You can have it again whenever you need it.”
“Thank you,” I said, running my fingers through my beard.
“Also,” said Osip, “there are many guards stationed just outside this barracks. Don’t get any ideas.”
I nodded and continued sorting through my bag, nothing but thoughts of Loretta and Ginger on my mind. MR4 wasn’t actually in the town of Kirovsk, but rather about half a mile away. And, of course, the men’s camp was separate from the women’s. Snow-covered mountains surrounded the entire area; the town itself was situated on the shores of a stunning lake. We’d been able to see the town when the cargo truck refueled before dropping us off.
“Excuse me,” I said, turning again to Osip. “Would you happen to know when we will be able to see my wife and daughter?”
“I am going to take you to see Colonel Zorin in one hour. He can answer all of your questions. There is a tub room down the hall. After you shave, go bathe. Your boy can wait here while you meet with Colonel Zorin. And make sure you eat a second helping at every meal. Zorin’s orders! You only have one month before you leave for Berlin, and you must look normal. Right now you still look very much like a skinny, sick zek. Your comrade cannot be allowed to see you like this.”
Later that day, Osip accompanied me across the camp toward the north section, my new blue wadding coat keeping me plenty warm in this welcomed twenty-five degree weather. MR4 was considerably better kept than Magadan but had fewer barracks. Osip had told us about the open-pit mines in the surrounding area, and about the grueling schedule the zeks were forced to work mining for apatite. The moderate climate allowed for plenty of snow, but a zek freezing to death was highly unlikely.
When we entered Zorin’s barracks, I could instantly tell this was a man who didn’t spend his time worrying about comfort. There was nothing in the entire office except for a desk and two chairs. There was no fireplace, no bookshelves, no pictures on the walls save for the large one of Stalin behind his desk. There were no windows, no rugs, no cabinets, no art.
All I saw when we entered the small barracks was a tall-looking, olive-skinned man sitting and writing with his head down like he was the busiest person in Russia. He sported a thick black mustache and wore a gray tunic with red piping around the cuffs and collar. His visor was also gray, with a red band and red piping, all of which was accentuated with gold embroidery. He appeared to be in his thirties.
“Perevodchik is here,” said Osip, prompting Colonel Zorin to look up and put his pen down.
“Come and sit,” said Zorin. “Osip, please stand outside and wait.”
He exited and I sat. Osip had introduced me as Perevodchik, which was the Russian word for “interpreter.”
“I was told by the Kremlin that you speak six languages,” said Zorin in an abnormally deep voice, his Russian spoken so slowly and loud it was easy to understand.
“Yes,” I said. “Six.”
“That is why your code name is Interpreter. Let me first tell you something that I am certain you would like to know. That way you don’t have to ask. The Kremlin has advised me to tell you this. Your wife was originally arrested for a simple reason. She was sending letters to a famous Russian painter named Natalia Goncharova, who now lives in Paris. Did you know she was writing letters to her?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, here is what she said in the last letter that was intercepted by NKVD before she was arrested.” He held up a sheet of paper. “She wrote, ‘My husband and I believe in freedom of expression. We have taught this God-given right to our children as well. We love the Soviet people, but the State should not be allowed to repress the ever-evolving, creative ideas of an artist. No one country should have a monopoly on art. You have inspired me with your bravery, Natalia, so much so that I now feel it’s in my family’s best interest to return to Paris.’”
He set the paper down and looked up at me. “Your wife went on to say more, but this was enough to brand your entire family counterrevolutionaries. So, now you can focus on the job at hand, spying for our Great Stalin. Yes?”
“When can I see my wife and daughter?” I boldly asked.
“Let me explain this up front to you, Perevodchik. The work here at MR4 is grueling. Your wife and daughter spent most of their time hauling stones in wheel barrels. At first they were quite terrible at it, but after I had them slapped around a little, they got strong really fast. You should also know that your wife kept asking about you and your son, too. But, unlike you, she was never told where you were. Why give her hope, you see. Anyway, your wife and daughter learned how to work hard. But your spy plan should have been thought of sooner.”