“And you have siblings?”
“My sister was in Denmark, and my brother is in New York.”
“Are you in touch with them?”
“No.”
Of course, Zaytsev knew that maintaining ties with relatives abroad was suicidal. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to have been informed about Aleksandr and Vladimir’s only post-emigration meeting, in Berlin in 1928.
“Do you believe Kaplan would have been capable of a provocation against a Soviet officer?”
“No, why would he do that? He was a decorated veteran of the Great Patriotic War.”
“As I said, the matter is under investigation, I am not at liberty to discuss the details.”
“Well, no, I don’t believe that. If he was with a patient, he would have been focused on discharging his duties as a doctor. I know this because I trained him.”
“Did he have religious, fanatical views that would have prompted him to sacrifice himself in order to dishonor a Soviet officer?”
“Nothing in our interactions would have suggested that, and I am afraid I am unable to speculate. I wouldn’t want to lead you in the wrong direction. What does all of this have to do with me?”
“You were his friend, and he died on your operating table. Your notes from that surgery have been examined thoroughly, and they are too thorough, as though someone is trying to cover tracks.”
“Cover tracks? What tracks?”
“I read that document myself, and I can tell you what I thought: I thought that you killed him, Sasha. The admiral, Admiral Abrikosov, said that Kaplan declined to provide treatment for his mother and kept looking at his watch, causing the admiral, who was grief-stricken, to inflict a superficial wound. Sasha, you are a doctor, can you imagine a doctor refusing to help a dying patient? The ambulance driver confirmed that his wounds were superficial when he arrived in the hospital, and then he ended up on your operating table.”
“What are you saying?”
“That Kaplan’s wound, as described by witnesses, was not as severe as the wound you say he died of. It’s so laughable that we returned the dagger to Admiral Abrikosov, with our sincere apologies.”
“Are you really saying that I killed him?”
“Yes, actually, we are starting to come to this conclusion.”
“I did nothing of the sort. Why would I do that?”
“Because it was a part of your long-standing plan, dating back to Stalingrad.”
“But, Comrade Zaytsev, I remind you again that Dr. Kaplan was of Jewish nationality. The newspapers tell us that Jewish doctors are killing people of Russian nationality. In this, shall we say, hypothesis of yours, why would you think I killed another Jew?”
“Simple! Sometimes you have to kill one of your own, so people won’t think you are killing only Russians.”
“To cover tracks?”
“To cover tracks.”
“I see. So you hypothesize that Kaplan and I were German spies, recruited in Stalingrad?”
“It does look as though you were, when you put all the pieces together. They recruited Kaplan when he was pretending to evacuate the wounded, and he recruited you.”
“Would it be helpful to you if I reminded you that Germans killed millions of Jews, presumably including Dr. Kaplan’s family, plus about forty of my distant cousins? It should be in the dossiers.”
“Yes, and this is exactly what gives you cover.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“And we cannot, at this point, rule out the possibility that other intelligence services were involved.”
“Really? You can’t rule this out? Which ones?”
“America, England, the usual.”
“May I remind you that they were our allies during the war? Why would they be working with the Germans to recruit Dr. Kaplan?”
“Yes, we thought of that. Because even then they could foresee that the wartime alliance was fleeting.”
“So the Americans were in a secret alliance with Germany to recruit a Soviet medic in Stalingrad?”
“And pass on messages to you, from Jewish agencies in New York. And Denmark was collaborating with Germany, I should remind you.”
“Oh my … I don’t even know what to do with Denmark. I am not clear on my sister’s whereabouts, alas, so I can’t help you. What do you think my motivations would be in doing all this?”
“To undermine the Soviet Union.”
“There is only one flaw that I see: you have left out the whirling dervishes. I don’t know how you can work them in, but I think you can. Let me ask you this, admittedly from a doctor’s perspective: do you actually believe all of this, Comrade Zaytsev?”
“Does it matter what I believe?”
“I guess not. Will you be arresting me now?”
“No, not now. We want to give you the opportunity to confess your crimes and surrender publicly, at the hospital staff meeting, which will be attended by journalists and members of the public.
“You will come to the meeting as though you are a member of the audience, then you will rise and take the podium and you will make a full confession, and you will point out other members of your secret organization, who will be there.”
“I don’t have a secret organization, so I am afraid I can’t help you.”
“We will refresh your memory. We will have the names of individuals involved. We will share it with you before the meeting.”
“You want me to falsely accuse good people. That’s indecent. And I don’t understand why you wish to make a spectacle of this. Why wouldn’t you handle my arrest in a customary way, by sending a Black Maria to my apartment in the middle of the night? Is this something new? I’ve never seen this before.”
“You are very perceptive, Sasha. Yes, we want this case to become more open, more visible than it has been. As you’ve read in the newspapers, we are unmasking conspirators, but it’s all been done in secret. We are uncovering conspiracies, but the people don’t know what we are doing. Now we are in a different place in this operation. We want the people to see us at work. We want their support, even their participation in defending the motherland from outside elements. And, Sasha, you are going to see many things you haven’t seen before. The situation is about to change dramatically.”
“I am sure I will. But just to make sure I understand, what am I being offered, should I agree to take part in this spectacle?”
“I am not authorized to make any offers. But you are welcome to take a week to think.”
“What if I say no?”
“Then you will be letting me down. And yourself. I said you were a sensible man. I vouched for you.”
Kogan thanked him. At home, he packed Dusya’s suitcases — she had two — and when she returned from work, he told her to go.
There was no point in having her share his future, like the wives of the Decembrists. Kogan urged her to testify against him — even plead for his execution — when the time comes, i.e., if the organs of state security choose to produce the dance of jurisprudence. Tanets umirayuschego evreya. The dance of the dying Yid.
The idea that the wife must share her husband’s fate is utterly absurd to begin with. It might have been easier to convince her to reject the idea of self-sacrifice had their marriage been good. She would have accepted this as a token of love. Alas, their love was a thing of the past.
Their marital fidelity was among the victims of that war, but that wasn’t the worst of it. He had a succession of “front wives”; she a succession of “front husbands.” The war ended, but normalcy didn’t return. Or maybe it did return, but in a changed form, with neoplasms hanging off its innards.
There was a long tail of complexities, but they still took care of each other, out of duty, perhaps. And now he told her to go, liberated her. He knew exactly where she would go, and it was, oddly, just fine with him.