Two for the Devil. Allen Hoffman

Pechko had been introduced shortly before Svetkov’s arrival. Grisha wanted to join in the laughter, but he felt too weary and too fearful that he might be among those marched off for disposal. Realizing that he couldn’t ignore the joke without offending Svetkov, Grisha nodded wearily in agreement. “Yes, you won’t find a larger office in Moscow than the stationmaster’s.”

      Out of the corner of his eye, Grisha saw Pechko slyly examining Svetkov for the proper response. No sooner did the NKVD chief of investigations beam his approval and begin to guffaw than Pechko nodded vigorously and returned to chuckling. Grisha felt as if he were among idiots—rather boorish ones, too. But instantly Svetkov turned completely serious and motioned him to be seated. The man could switch gears with lightning speed. It made him all the more dangerous. Grisha took a seat in one of the frayed, overstuffed leather armchairs in front of the massive desk, which had once insured an empire. Like a drunk encountering a policeman, Pechko was trying to regain his sobriety; his unsuccessful attempts made him all the more ludicrous. Grisha focused on Svetkov.

      “Pechko needs some information for his investigation,” Svetkov was saying.

      Grisha nodded agreeably. This was how the service was supposed to function. He pivoted slightly to face the junior lieutenant, who was seated on the large couch off to the side.

      “What do you know about the Jewish New Year?” Pechko asked.

      It was such a surprising question that Grisha wasn’t sure he had understood correctly. In fact, he was certain that he had not. He stared in dull amazement at his questioner.

      “The Jewish New Year,” Pechko muttered with slight embarrassment.

      “The Jewish New Year?” Grisha repeated, wondering why Pechko should be mentioning such a thing in the office of the director of investigations.

      “Yes.” Pechko nodded, a touch too aggressively.

      “What about it?” Grisha asked.

      “That’s what I want to know,” Pechko agreed.

      “Why?” Grisha asked, befuddled and anxious.

      “Why do you think! Because he has an investigation with a fanatic Jew!” Svetkov burst impatiently into their conversation.

      Welcoming the interjection, Pechko nodded vigorously.

      Grisha, too, had been recalled to his senses.

      “Major Feldman handles religion. He’s very knowledgeable,” he informed them.

      “Yes, we know, but we’re asking you,” Svetkov said bluntly.

      Grisha knew that he must not give in to an investigator. The first reasonable admission always opened a floodgate of demands and accusations. “Why?” he responded with equal bluntness.

      “Because Feldman’s not here, and you are,” Svetkov replied.

      “Where is he?”

      “Major Feldman can’t be everywhere. That’s why all of us are here to help him,” Svetkov announced sarcastically, with a shrug of disbelief at Grisha’s unreasonable hostility.

      Grisha sensed that he was making a fool of himself by standing on ceremony.

      “What do you want to know?” he asked defensively, knowing that the game was already lost. You couldn’t begin to cooperate and stop when you wanted to stop.

      “Good,” Svetkov said buoyantly, his overlarge mouth curving into a buffoonish grin. “After all, we’re here to tell the truth,” he laughed, burlesquing the NKVD line fed to all prisoners until they agreed to absolute untruths.

      Pechko laughed dutifully, but Grisha did not. It was all he could do to keep from wincing. Svetkov glanced at Pechko, who quietly controlled himself.

      “I have an old-fashioned Jew, a long coat and beard. Primarily a British spy, but he also committed economic sabotage. He’s shaky, and I want the names of the other bloodsucking profiteers. Is there any way I can use the Jewish holy day to get him to tell the truth?”

      “I don’t really see what we could do in the Lubyanka,” Grisha answered thoughtfully. After all, the Lubyanka was not a synagogue, was it?

      “What do these Jews do on their New Year?” Svetkov asked directly.

      No, Grisha didn’t like it, but he began to concentrate on Rosh Hashanah for the first time in many years. “It’s the beginning of the New Year. It’s the day of judgment for the coming year. In the synagogue they pray, and at home they dip bread and apples into honey for a sweet year. It’s a holiday, but a serious one,” Grisha concluded with a certain vagueness concerning events deeply buried under the weight of decades. He felt that he was omitting something important, but couldn’t imagine what that might be.

      “What about special wine? Do they use a special wine?” Pechko asked.

      “No, I don’t think they do. They use the wine they always do,” Grisha answered.

      “What wine is that?”

      “Jewish wine. They make it themselves. I suppose it is special to them, if that’s what you mean, but it’s the same wine they use all year for religious blessings.”

      “What do you think of Pechko letting the prisoner have some in his office to celebrate the New Year?” Svetkov proposed.

      “To create dependence and the belief that I really do want to help him,” Pechko encouraged by way of explanation.

      Grisha couldn’t help raising his eyebrows in puritanical disapproval.

      “You don’t think it’s a good idea?” Svetkov asked.

      “Who needs bourgeois superstition? We have our own Bolshevik methods, and they have been proven effective,” he answered forcefully.

      Pechko glanced at Svetkov; both looked slightly disappointed.

      “I suppose so,” Svetkov said.

      “I’ll continue then with the usual method tonight?” Pechko asked his superior.

      “Did you know that tonight is the Jewish New Year?” Svetkov asked Grisha.

      In spite of Svetkov’s barbed question, Grisha merely shook his head. There was something special about Rosh Hashanah that he was forgetting. “Oh,” he announced, like a schoolboy recalling the right answer, “they blow a ram’s horn.”

      “Why do they do that?” Svetkov asked curiously.

      “They think it helps them to become better people.”

      “Does it?” Svetkov asked seriously.

      “How should I know?” Grisha snapped.

      “Your father might have told you,” Svetkov suggested casually.

      “My father died when I was an infant.”

      “Maybe your father-in-law, the grand rabbi in America, might have told you, or his daughter, Rachel Leah, your dear wife, might have mentioned it this morning,” Svetkov speculated.

      Grisha was surprised that this insult wasn’t delivered with Svetkov’s usual obscene smile.

      “If anyone did, I don’t remember,” he responded.

      “Some things are best forgotten,” Svetkov said sympathetically.

      Grisha squirmed uncomfortably before this new, considerate Svetkov.

      “What should I do with the wine?” Pechko asked petulantly, now that he wasn’t permitted to serve it to his prisoner.

      An extraordinary grin wreathed Svetkov’s face. “Give it to me. Tonight is the Jewish New Year. I’ll know what to do with it.” He laughed.

      Pechko, slightly confused, was trying to laugh when Svetkov’s face contracted. “That’s enough of this nonsense, Pechko. Get back to work.