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. Colonel Shwartzman and I have some serious matters to discuss.”
Under Svetkov’s disapproving gaze Pechko aborted his laugh with two deep choking breaths and rose to leave. Beneath the chandelier he bowed awkwardly toward his superiors and, breathing unevenly, marched self-consciously out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Turning to Grisha, Svetkov remained serious, but softened his expression as if he were dealing with a respected comrade. “Colonel, forget that silliness. A simple problem needed a simple solution. I called you in for something really very important.” Svetkov paused, as if searching for the right words. “Some cases are so delicate”—the word seemed to discomfort him—“that only the most senior investigators can be trusted with them. It’s no secret that no one here has had your experience defending the revolution. We are relying on you to make use of that formidable experience. This is a case that demands an old Chekist. Unfortunately, we have only one left.” Svetkov delivered his charge and sat back with evident relief.
Stimulated and flattered by Svetkov’s appeal—he had never known him to be so respectful for so long—Grisha sat up straighter to receive the particulars. Svetkov, however, said no more. He simply sat back and nodded very soberly, as if he had already delivered all the details.
“How long has the case been under investigation?” Grisha asked.
“A few days. It was entrusted directly to me, and I am giving it straight to you to handle,” Svetkov answered and again fell back into his chair.
“Perhaps we should start with the file,” Grisha suggested.
“There isn’t any,” Svetkov answered.
Although Svetkov remained silent, Grisha looked at him for an explanation.
“It is that delicate,” Svetkov explained.
“Then how do I proceed?”
“The prisoner himself will explain everything.” Svetkov seemed nervous and frightened by the case, but Grisha felt the thrill of a formidable challenge.
“When do we start?”
“In a few minutes he will be brought here,” Svetkov answered.
“Here?”
“This demands the strictest secrecy. You will use my office with all its resources at your disposal. Needless to say, you will be relieved of all other duties until this business is completed.”
Svetkov rose from his chair and made a few haphazard attempts to stuff his billowing shirttails into his pants. These unsuccessful thrusts merely flattened the dirty garment against his body. Removing the tunic that he had been wrinkling with his own bulk from the back of his chair, he put it on. Svetkov even made an effort to brush his hair with his hand.
Grisha wondered what prisoner could elicit such respect from Svetkov.
“Sit here behind the desk. It wouldn’t make sense otherwise,” he suggested.
Grisha rose and took the seat of Svetkov, chief of the Lubyanka. As he passed his nominal superior, he was surprised to find that the man was sweating.
“Whatever you need, Tatiana will get for you. She is a good girl. Thoroughly reliable. She has been briefed as to the investigation, but she knows nothing of the case itself. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Grisha answered.
“Then have her send him in.”
Grisha picked up the phone and heard the severe, efficient “Yes?” of the new NKVD secretary.
“Send him in,” Grisha commanded crisply.
Svetkov crossed the
