Chapter Three
THE JOURNEY BEGINS

Mikhail parked his black sedan in the courtyard of his apartment complex and along with Tolik hurried to the back entranceway and up the stairwell. It was now totally dark, as the night had taken over what was left of Tolik’s Moscow. On their way up the steps to his apartment, Mikhail realized that this was probably not necessary, in all likelihood; the police had no inkling yet. The problem was that fear of consequences had taken hold, and Mikhail more than Tolik felt it.

Entering the small cramped kitchen/living room, they greeted Olga, and Mikhail drew her into the privacy of their bedroom to talk. After a few moments of questions and arguing, under the soft murmur of conversation, they reappeared. Tolik could not understand what was being said, as he shifted his weight in an uncomfortable manner. Olga looked at him and retreated into the bedroom.

Mikhail embarrassed, apologized to Tolik and sat in the soft comfort of his easy chair, inviting Tolik to sit in the divan. Tolik for the first time all day felt the pangs of hunger and Mikhail went to his small refrigerator and retrieved some cheese and bread, with a bottle of vodka. Setting two glasses on the small table in front of them, he instructed Tolik to lie out all the papers “Viktor” had given him.

Mikhail took out a wad of bills, $100 each, total value of $1,500 U.S. currency and gave them to Tolik. Mikhail explained that the money was counterfeit, and would not be detected inside of Eastern Europe. He should not spend it too freely for fear of drawing attention to himself. Along with that was an “Official” letter that introduced Tolik as “Yuri Petrov” Foreign Trade Delegate for the CCCP. It included an official seal and letterhead that lent great credence to Tolik’s disguise. Along with that was an official passport to travel outside the CCCP with authorization to travel to Bialystok, Poland, needing only his picture and signature, which Tolik removed from his own official work document, pasted the photo on and signed it. Finally, Mikhail gave Tolik a Nagant Pistol, a Russian revolver from the tsarist days, but very usable. Along with some shells, Tolik protested the weapon, but Mikhail convinced him that he might need it in a tight spot. Tolik was complete. Tomorrow morning they would meet Nikita Ivanski and hopefully all would be put in motion.

Tolik had lingering doubts, hidden in the back of his mind was the fear that he could not pull this off. He felt suddenly alone in the world, wondering what would become of him. Carefully he packed away everything he received that evening from Viktor in his coat pocket. He placed the gun and the money inside the suitcase between his clothing, removing just one of the bills. He fully realized he needed to get used to “Yuri Petrov”, burying Tolik AND Anatoly Ivanovich, maybe forever.

The next morning greeted Mikhail dark and cold, it was 3:30 A.M., and Mikhail gently tugged Tolik awake. Looking up at Mikhail, his eyes fighting the brightness of the glaring lamp, Tolik wondered if this would be his last day on earth. Mikhail offered him a cup of black tea, and Tolik began to stir about feverishly, remembering all that he needed for the journey ahead. Together they left the apartment in the early morning, before dawn and were on their way to the Collective Farm No. 45 outside the western district of Moscow.

The wind chills that morning made it feel like -13 degrees Fahrenheit outside. The car windows where frozen with ice crystal patterns that decorated each of the surrounding windows. There was no heater to operate, but the edges melted from the constant scrapping by Mikhail. Tolik kept himself bundled and wondered how Mikhail could handle himself so fluidly, not shaking or shivering in the morning cold. The drive was a 45-minute one from the outskirts of the city to the collective. As the cityscape turned to the rolling fields of the countryside, Tolik bid one last glance behind and sat back, lighting a cigarette.

Mikhail, feeling the cold up and down his spine, reminded Tolik that he must stay the course, as it was now too late to turn back, to do so would invite suspicion and cause Mikhail problems. Tolik understood and concentrated on the forward motion of the car.

As the sun peeked out from behind the horizon, the sky showed a pinkish hue, that mysteriously turned to grey then almost black. In the distance, Mikhail could see a truck situated near a warehouse and some people standing or moving about. As they got closer, a very tall peasant was loading large containers of gasoline onto the back of the truck. Piled on the truck in crates were root vegetables and large planks of freshly cut lumber, piled on top of each other, making the truck look dangerously overloaded. The man looked to be in his late 60’s, a full beard and moustache, with an Ushanka Mouton leather hat, boots made of leather, and an animal skin coat of some kind. As they got out of the car, the man approached them, and as he got closer, Tolik noticed his hands looked knurled and weather beaten, as did what peeked out from his beard and bushy eyebrows, his legs bowed.

“Greetings, citizens, I am Nikita Ivanski of Collective #45, and you must be Yuri Petrov, Trade Delegate for the CCCP,” extending his large hand towards Tolik. At first, Tolik was taken aback by the greeting, the largeness of the man and the strange name he was being called for the first time. Tolik felt small and inconsequential in the presence of this large man. Reaching out, Tolik could feel the strength of a powerful man, one who toiled the fields and lived the land.

Mikhail, greeted Nikita with a nod, and motioned Tolik to the car to retrieve his belongings. As they got to the car Mikhail said: “So long my friend, but not goodbye. Maybe someday, we will cross paths again, no? A tear started in Mikhail’s eye and Tolik stood there holding Mikhail’s hand and forearm, speechless.

Mikhail broke off the moment and climbed into the car, which was idling and sped away. Tolik followed it with his eyes until the rear lights of the black sedan no longer were visible. Turning toward Nikita, his heart sank, and his head began to hurt, thinking of what may lay ahead. Picking up his suitcase he slowly moved to the truck and stood at the side door, while Nikita took his bag and tied it to one of the side panels on the rear of the truck.

“It is time for us to go. Smolensk is a long drive, 375 Kilometers, and I need time to unload and turn back home, all in one day’s time. The party has no time for slackers it seems. And I don’t like the looks of the sky” said Nikita, staring into the distance.

Tolik sat in the front seat of the old 1923 AMO canvas covered cab of a truck. The thin tires resting in the snow, as it idled, shaking and rattling. The roof of the canvas top was torn at the corner where the windshield post met and the floorboards were missing in spots where one could see the road. The cold seat was a bench type, with the shift standing starkly between the driver and himself.

Slowly the truck began to pull away and the cold air penetrated through the cab, as Tolik shifted his legs away from the draft of the floorboards. Slowly the truck built up power and drove away. Tolik stared out the window at the rolling countryside, viewing the collective farm, the peasants gathering about for the morning tasks-at-hand. As the morning progressed, the sky had become darker and threatening, as the distant heavy grey overcast loomed.

One by one the towns and cities passed the little truck, Vnukovo, Dorokovo, V’az’ma, Dorogrobuzh until finally, Smolensk. Winding through the towns and forests, the truck belied its condition and stood the test of the heavy burden it carried. Tolik tried to avoid conversation with Nikita, the little he said, the better. Just outside of Dorogrobuzh, Nikita pulled over the truck and while it idled, broke out a large kettle of soup, and some bread and dried fish. About to start a small fire on a small portable stove, he offered some to Tolik, Tolik declined and lit a cigarette, walking into the woods to relieve himself of the morning tea.

After his impromptu lunch, Nikita and Tolik climbed back into the truck, Nikita started the engine and continued the trip in silence. Soon the sky opened up a flurry of soft large snowflakes, as they danced on the cold metal of the truck. Sitting still, not driving, made Tolik feel even colder. Around noontime, as they approached Smolensk, Tolik spotted the tall spire of the Assumption Cathedral, peeking up between the tall pines that greeted the visitors. The snow was now about an inch thick on the ground, when the city was in full view. The small truck labored until it got to the massive four-towered train station where it abruptly stopped. “This is as far as I go Comrade, my instructions were to leave you off here.” Tolik swung open the door and went to the sideboard to untie his bag. When he was done, he waved off Nikita and entered the station. A shudder overcame Tolik, and he wasn’t sure if it was the weather or not.

Inside the station house, Tolik could smell the steam heat rising and people scurrying around the building, suitcases and porters everywhere. A small man who just peeked out from behind the small caged window manned the ticket counter. The ticket agent was in full command, giving direct answers and checking documents while receiving money for fares. The wooden paneling had just been waxed, and the smell of the fresh wax reached Tolik’s nostrils. Tolik looked around and found a seat on a long bench, sat and pulled out the only food he now had, an apple from his pocket. He spotted a huge black stove and
wanted some of the tea that sat in a big kettle. After eating his apple, he reached for a cigarette and lit it. It was time for Tolik to purchase his ticket.

As Tolik approached the ticket window, he noticed the big doors of the entrance way opened up. Two policemen entered, and seemed to be looking for someone or something. Tolik inched closer to the window and kept his head straight toward the ticket agent. Nervously he waited on the long line for his turn, hoping not to be disturbed. Suddenly there was a tap on his shoulder. One of the two men, a large beefy type, dressed in a dark grey overcoat, and peaked cap addressed Tolik.

“Comrade, may I see your travel documents and identification?” Tolik realized that Nikita must have alerted the police. Nervously Tolik reached for his side pocket and withdrew his wallet, presenting the policeman with his papers. Glancing at Toliks Identification, the policeman said: “Please come with us.”

Leading Tolik through the large waiting room, Tolik is escorted past the ticket agent window and behind the staircase to a side door. Legs growing weak, Tolik follows, entering the small room tucked under the staircase, Tolik notices a small holding cell and desk with a two chairs on either side of the desk. Pointing to the chair opposite the desk, the policeman instructed Tolik to sit down. Tolik rested his suitcase on the floor next to the chair and sat. The tall beefy policeman, sitting behind the desk introduced himself as constable Petri and his partner as constable Nikolai, while scanning Tolik’s documents. Behind Tolik stood Nicholai, hovering almost on top of him.

“You are Comrade Petrov, Yuri Petrov? What is your business in Smolensk, Comrade?”
“I am on my way to a trade conference in Poland.”
“Poland? You have authorization to travel there?”
“If you look in that bill fold, you will see my passport and authorization, comrade.”
Peering through the papers, the constable stops at the travel and work permits and immediately stood. “There seems to be no reason to delay you comrade, please excuse us for this inconvenience. I will see to it myself that you get the necessary accommodations on the next train out to the border. If you will kindly wait here, I will get you a first class accommodation, and then Nickolai will escort you to your car.”

Tolik leaned back in his chair and pulled out a cigarette. Dragging in the smoke, a sense of comic relief overcame him. Stifling a laugh, he realized his legs were tight with tension and straightened them out, under the desk. After ten minutes Nickolai, the second constable reached for his bag and asked Tolik to follow him out to the platform.

Waiting on the tracks to load was the long train of cars, steam rising out from under their carriages, doors opened and porters and station workers moved about. Tolik escorted to the first car was led into a first class car where sitting in the same compartment was a gentleman, staring up as Tolik entered. The constable swung Tolik’s suitcase onto the overhead rack and bowing, with a small tip of his peaked cap, left the car.
Looking up from his paper, the gentleman introduced himself as Boris. Tolik, now mindful of the need to maintain his new identity, simply answered; “Yuri.”

Boris was a slight man, perhaps about 45 years old and thin. Black circular rimmed glasses framed his eyes, and a newspaper spread out in his hand, offered the other hand to Tolik. Seating himself opposite Boris, Tolik realized the comfort of the accommodations, and thought, some of the old Tsarist tradition still lived on.

Being unable to carry a conversation with strangers and having something to hide, Tolik slid back in his seat and closed his eyes, feigning sleep. But sleep would not come to Tolik, as he twisted and turned, shifting his feet and folding, then unfolding his arms.

Looking up from his newspaper in his hand, Boris asked if anything was wrong. Tolik, somewhat defensively replied: “No, comrade, it has been a long day already and I am just tired from the drive from Moscow to meet this train.” Reaching into his side coat pocket to alleviate some tension, Tolik opened his billfold, and realized that the $100.00 bill he had was gone. Perhaps that Constable Petri had helped himself in what appeared to be a bribe! Tolik became more fitful. He wondered if Boris was a plant, a member of the NKVD, perhaps some kind of watchdog for the party or government. Maybe Petri had sold him out after taking his money, and his help was a pretense to get rid of Tolik.

Boris had seemed to go back to reading his newspaper. Oddly, Tolik could see his eyes peering just over the pages of the Izvestia, and became more worried. At that moment, the train started to leave the station, as steam engulfed the window and station platform outside. A slow jerking movement that gradually became smoother as the distance increased from the Station House. The door to the compartment opened up and the trainman inquired if everything was in good order. Boris never moved his head, and Tolik, nervously nodded his assent.

“Comrade Yuri, what is your business in Bialystok, assuming that is where you are going?” Tolik, shifting his weight answered: “I am traveling for the Trade Commission as a delegate.” Replied Tolik, his head hurting more than ever, the palms of his hands starting to sweat. Trying to act casual, Tolik asked: “And you Comrade, what is your business there?” Drawing a cigarette from a shiny silver cigarette case from his side pocket, Boris offers one to Tolik, who accepts it. Tolik reached for some wooden matches in his pocket, retrieved one and stroked it against the post of the window. Leaning forward, he lit Boris’ cigarette then his own and waited for a reply. “I am with the People's Commissariat for State Security on a mission to evaluate the border for the People and make recommendations to Moscow.” Replied Boris. Flashing a shield, Boris waits for Tolik to reply. Tolik realizes he might be in eminent danger of exposure. “ I thought you might have some official business for the people since no one asked for you ticket.” Continued Boris. “Yes, replied Tolik, but excuse me, I have never heard of The People's Commissariat for State Security before!” “Yes, I know,” replied Boris, it is a new administration for the People, soon you will hear of us, believe me.” With that, Boris chuckled and drew on his French cigarette.

Tolik wondered if all the party apparatus was this well supplied with western “goods”. Traveling on a first class car, a fancy cigarette case with imported cigarettes and well-dressed, made Tolik disgusted.

Chapter Two
MAKING A CONNECTION

Igor Nickolai Rosenthal lay awake in bed all night. Twisting his round short body, he disturbed his wife. Svetlana arose and went to the kitchen to make some black tea. It was 4:00 A.M.

Staring up into the ceiling, arms behind his head in his pillow, Igor reviewed how best to procure a travel document. Work permits for someone who doesn’t exist would be risky business. Tracing in his mind the procedure once again, Igor arose and decided he would head to his office earlier than usual. Putting things in motion himself, and involving no one would be how it would work best. He reached over to the nightstand and drew a cigarette, lighting and inhaling deeply, drawing on the cigarette while blowing out the smoke in one motion, he knew where all the documents lay. He had access to all the necessary stamps to make it official. If only he had stayed sober one day more in his life, this wouldn’t be happening, he thought to himself.

Rosenthal figured that besides the necessary travel documents, he would need to secure a safe passage through Russia and Belarus, and a good reason for someone to cross the Polish border without suspicion. Searching his memory, he recalled a farmer outside of Moscow, Nikita Ivanski. Nikita Ivanski a peasant is a third cousin of Svetlana’s, once a month drives a truck to Smolensk, where he trades produce from the collective which he is a member. The trip is an all day affair, and from Smolensk, a rail pass could be obtained to travel to Brest, in Poland. Once permission was granted to pass through the Soviet occupied Poland, the rest would be up to Mikhail’s friend, and he, Rosenthal would be clear. He could get all the necessary documentation in a few days, and meet with Mikhail, his debt paid to him.

Across Moscow, Mikhail was deep in sleep, having been drunk the night before, Mikhail was unmovable. Mikhail slept the sleep of someone who brought hope to the dark world. Even a little hope to lift one from despair was a small triumph in itself.

The sun, peeking into the bedroom and settling in his eyes, Mikhail finally arose from his drunken stupor. It was mid morning! Hurriedly he dressed himself, and without saying goodbye to Olga, ran down the stairs of his flat. Jumping on to a subway that would whisk him off to his factory, Mikhail could now collect himself. The train was not very crowded with mid morning riders. Mostly government workers on their way to some assignment, and babushka women, weather beaten faces, traveling from marketplaces with worn canvas bags in hand traveled this mid morning. Reaching his stop, he bounded up the stairway to the street above. The cold air attacked his face, and he buried himself in his coat. The sun was bright for that hour of the morning: the snow glistened. Peeking out of his fur collar, he found his way to The People’s Factory #17 and climbed the broad white stone staircase. The warmth of the entry was inviting. Mikhail was home, in a way. His first order of business was to talk to Tolik.

Mikhail found Tolik busily at work in room 307, and tapped him on the shoulder, as the noisy sewing machine clattered to a stop. Suddenly silence overcame the room. Tolik looking up at Mikhail, a look of anticipation on his face asked: “You have news?” His heart racing, Mikhail instructed Tolik to continue running his machine. Bringing his mouth close to Tolik’s right ear, Mikhail said: “I met with someone in a very high place. Who, I won’t tell you. It is best if we all know as little as possible. He will try to arrange the necessary documents for you to travel. He can’t promise me anything, and I won’t promise you. But if all goes well… in a few days… we may hear something.”

Tolik stopped running his machine. Looking up at Mikhail, a sense of joy and dread, all at once, overtook Tolik. It scared the hell out of Mikhail.

That afternoon, while Mikhail was on a loading dock, supervising the arrival of buttons, he was summoned to the phone, where on the other end awaited Rosenthal. “Comrade, after the party meeting this evening, meet me at my apartment. Come alone.” Instructed Rosenthal. Mikhail nodding his head said: “Yes, I understand.”

Leaving the Hall of Worker’s Brotherhood that evening, Mikhail decided to take a different route to Rosenthal’s apartment. Being it was dark; Mikhail figured he would travel by subway and tram, which would enable him to know if anyone was following him. If someone were, he would break off the attempt to meet Rosenthal and go instead to a cinema. There was a need for caution now. Once, more than one comes to dance, there may be more than one to cut in, thought Mikhail. One can’t be too cautious.

Convinced he was alone, Mikhail climbed the steps to Igor’s building and then the stairway to Rosenthal’s apartment, looking behind him from time to time. From one of the apartment’s doors, came a young lady who bounded down the stairs past Mikhail, forcing him to squeeze himself against the stairway wall to allow her to get by. Continuing up the stairway and reaching the landing, he knocked on #3B. The smell of cabbage came from behind the door as Rosenthal asked: Who’s there?” “Mikhail,” was the answer, his voice soft and belied his huskiness.

Slowly the door opened, and Igor Rosenthal, peeked out and saw it was Mikhail, letting him in.

The next morning Tolik was again at his workstation in room #307 of the People’s Factory #17. Busily he worked on the hemline of Comrade Spasky’s fat wife’s formal dress. Mikhail opened the door and faced Tolik from the entryway. Staring silently at Tolik, Tolik sensed someone and looked up. Mikhail, with a flick of his head, a soft nod invited Tolik to follow him. Whispering softly to Tolik as they walked toward Mikhail’s office, Mikhail broke the news that Tolik had been waiting for. In his office, Mikhail left the door open to avoid suspicion. With few words, Mikhail told Tolik to be ready that evening at the front of Gorky Park, near the entry gates to the park. Tolik was to pack a suitcase with the bare necessities only. He was to meet a “Viktor” who would be standing by one of the gates, under the street lamp with a newspaper in his hand. He instructed Tolik to bring a folded newspaper tucked under his arm when they met. He was to say: “The sky looked clear this morning”, and Viktor would respond: “Yes, the weather seemed positive!” Viktor would slide an envelope into Tolik’s newspaper and leave. Mikhail then told Tolik to look for Mikhail’s car and get in. Tolik repeated to himself the order of instructions, satisfied that he was ready.

Tolik was beside himself with joy. Yet, his heart raced and a large amount of doubt and fear surfaced. Going back to his sewing machine, Tolik realized he had little time to do anything other than follow instructions, and not draw suspicion upon himself.

Rushing home that evening to his little apartment, careful to avoid seeing anyone including his apartment mates, Tolik’s mind raced a mile a minute. He needed to catch his breath, but was afraid that if he did, someone would reach out and grab him, exposing his plan to leave Mother Russia. He needed to concentrate on each step in his instructions from Mikhail’s contact, and not waver once. Reaching the door of his apartment, he slowly opened it and peeked inside, being sure not to meet the other tenants. He did not want to explain or have eye contact with anyone who would ask any questions. Fear was beginning to grip Tolik like a vise. With fear came giddiness in eager anticipation of getting out of the country, before anyone knew what happened. Besides, if anything slipped up, not only he, but also Mikhail and his contact would all be in danger.

Entering his room, he wished he could lie on his bed and sleep a restful sleep. Instead, he knew that now sleep would be a luxury, that rest could only come in short spurts of time. Slowly but deliberately, he took his needles and tape measures, along with cigarettes and the last apple he had. Packing a small cheap cardboard suitcase he had pulled out from under his small bed, he carefully placed the suitcase on the bed and packed his only suite, along with the one he was wearing, another pair of shoes, ties and all his underwear, and left the building for the last time. Stopping at a kiosk along the way to the subway stop, he bought a newspaper and hurried along to the rendezvous with Viktor.

The night chill was becoming a freeze; the late afternoon had turned grey and dark. Walking along the broad avenue toward the entrance to Gorky Park made Tolik feel colder than it was. People were hurrying by in large overcoats and boots. Trudging through the now sloppy old snow, people passed without looking at him. Arriving at the Gates of the park, Tolik looked about. He could see no one with a newspaper in his hand, and his heart sunk. “Perhaps no one will show up”, Tolik thought. “Maybe there is danger lurking about, or the contact Viktor was arrested! Maybe the NKVD knows!” As Tolik started to turn around toward the broad entryway leading away from the park, something caught his eye. Standing near a kiosk was a thin man dressed in a grey fur coat and about 6 feet tall, reading a newspaper under a street lamp. Tolik’s heart began to pick up it’s pace and race as Tolik approached the solitary figure. “Could this be the mysterious Viktor?” Could he be a set up man for the NKVD? Tolik approached slowly, with his racing heart that settled in his mouth, dryness overtook his throat. Standing to the man’s left, facing the kiosk, Tolik uttered his rehearsed line: “The sky looked clear this morning.” The emotion drawn from Tolik, the words came out slowly and with great difficulty. Mechanically, the man answered: “Yes, the weather seemed positive, citizen.” With those words, the man lifted his newspaper and slipped a thick envelope out from the pages of the paper and slipped them into Tolik’s folded newspaper under his arm. Viktor turned and walked away, Tolik, still stood there, a sigh of relief and joy ran through his body. Turning slowly himself, Tolik left the park and headed toward the roadway, his eyes searching for Mikhail’s black Kadet. Slowly pulling along side Tolik, Mikhail, with his window rolled down called out to Tolik to get in.

Once in the car, Tolik opened his coat and breathed another sigh of relief, looking at Mikhail he reached for a cigarette. Mikhail now began to give Tolik more instruction. My friend, you will stay with me this evening, then tomorrow, before dawn you will meet with Nikita, a member of a collective, who will take you to Minsk. When we get to my place, you will open the envelope and follow the instructions, remembering every detail, follow everything to the letter, Anatoly Ivanovich. Exhausted, Tolik nodded in agreement and took a long drag on his cigarette.

TOLIK'S ODYSSEY

Chapter One
FINDING A WAY

The morning dawned grey and dark. Snow had gently fallen when Anatoly Ivanovich, Tolik, as his friends like to call him, master tailor of The People's Factory #17 peered out of his grime-caked window. It overlooked the Zoo Park from his third floor walkup. No. 10 Protochniy Pereulok was an old building. Built in the late 1840's for Moscow's textile business it showed each and every day of its age. The red brick was crumbling. Snowflakes were catching on the chipped and worn corners, having built up throughout the night. A freezing icy wind swept down from the north.

Huddled in a flimsy blanket, Tolik went to the small stove in the dimly lit kitchen. He put on the old black cast iron kettle to boil water for his morning tea. “Today is Monday” he thought, and wished it were Sunday, looking forward to Sunday and sitting in the coffee shop with his friend Mikhail. It would be better than this. Having to share an apartment with a streetcar operator whose shift started late in the day, and a porter who worked in a school for party bigwigs, and a party functionary, caused Tolik to tip-toe to avoid awakening the two men. It was 4:00 A.M., and Tolik wished to get to the shop early. Today Mikhail would bring in the new bolts of satin, but storage was in short supply. Mikhail Anton Tyevski: good friend, Party member and boss of The People's Factory #17 would bring his large self to bear. Tolik would ask him for a big favor.

Gently pouring the hot water into his teacup, he deposited the rest into a white basin. Tolik dipped some cold water then his arms into the basin of hot water. He grabbed the small wafer thin piece of soap that had lasted for over a month and used it to scrub his lean 5'6” frame. When he had rinsed himself off, he carefully wrapped and saved what was left of the soap. After combing his wavy, dirty-blond hair, he dressed for the arduous trip by foot down to the broad avenue called Novinskiy Boulevard to board a streetcar to Factory #17 on that cold March morning.

Descending the steps of his building, his mind raced forward. There were the two dresses that were needed by Thursday for a final fitting on Friday. Bolts of material needed to be moved for Mikhail, and there was the Party meeting set for Wednesday evening at 7:00 P.M., and one must not forget, to meet with Comrade Spasky about his overbearing fat wife's gown. He wished he could go somewhere warm, with palm trees and warm, blue ocean on that cold morning. Perhaps to bask in the sun, feeling the warmth that he hadn't felt in Moscow since he had come to this God forsaken city over three years ago from Wilna. As he opened the door leading to the street, a cold blast woke him from his dream-like trance. Back to reality, he hurried up the boulevard, struggling and slipping through the newly packed snow. Cold was biting his nose and cheeks as he waited for tram #303, the first on the line this frigid morning, to take him to his own little private hell.

The party always comes first, he thought. He is the servant of the people, working for the good of Mother Russia. But where is the milk and honey? Milk and honey? Hah! All he carried today was a small piece of goat's cheese, a slice of black bread and an apple that he paid too much for. Another crowning achievement of the People's Paradise sponsored by the glorious Soviet Communist Party!

Upon arriving at the factory, Tolik climbed the wide grey and white steps. Following the shoveled paths to the door, the street was still lit by the tall street lamps Wind tossed the speckles of falling snow through the light. Swinging open the big metal portals, he quickly stepped inside and danced off the snow from the tops of his boots. Factory #17 was a large brick three-story building, and Tolik was assigned to the top floor, room 307, a large dreary room of the People's factory. He climbed the two flights of stairs to his tedious job.

Inside he took off his coat as he marched to his cutting table, stopping, he placed it over a chair back. Going to the small wood stove, he grabbed some pine logs and placed them carefully into the big, black mouth of the belly of the stove. Splashing some kerosene on the kindling, he lit a fire to start the process of heating the cold, damp room. Removing his gloves, he placed them into his fur hat. Finding a sweater he kept on the back of his chair, he slipped it on and began to work. It was 6:00 A.M., and no one except the watchmen had arrived yet, so he worked in relative peace.

In the early morning silence, a glass of tea next to him, flashbacks of conversations and laughter kept coming to mind. Tolik recalled his weekend and the pleasure it offered in contrast to this dreary place. Tolik was in despair, slowly growing darker as the morning progressed. Bent over his worktable, his glasses sat over the end of his nose. A steady rhythm of the sewing machine filled the air. Tolik lamented his lot in life. The dreariness of Russia, the long hours of working six days a week, the mandatory meetings Party leaders insisted on, the day to day lack of goods, and the daily failure of public services. Not to mention the lack of women in his life. Even in a big city like Moscow, it made him resentful. It was hard enough as a Jew. Now it seemed that a Jew in Russia, even a party member, was seeing less and less progress and more and more oppressive action towards his ambitions. Besides, what he really wanted was to be a rich man, not wanting anything, not needing anything or anyone. This secret consumed Tolik day and night.

As the morning drifted by, there was a sudden commotion. The big freight elevator rose up, the heavy metal doors slid open. There with 3 workers stood Mikhail Anton Tyevski-Factory boss, and friend of Tolik. A good Communist who believed in socialism, Mikhail was also a life long friend. Behind Mikhail stood large bolts of satin. In big brown cardboard boxes, they stood wrapped tightly, and wet from the snow. Mikhail, his face red and matching his ruddy complexion and hair, ordered the men to move the boxes to a side wall and immediately came over to Tolik.

Slapping Tolik on his back, Mikhail laughed, “Anatoly Ivanovich, do you never take a short day? Must you show up even your boss? The morning has hardly started and you have nearly done a day's work! You need a women to keep you home on days like this my friend.”

“Yes, then I would have the factory boss banging on my door, disturbing my sweet revelry Mikhail Anton Tyevski.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself, my friend. You are young yet, time is on your side. Me, I must court this old lady called The People's Factory #17!”

Tolik looked searchingly into Mikhail's eyes, and said; “I must speak with you my friend.”

A whispered “What is it?” came from Mikhail's mouth, and a worried look that drew him closer to Tolik.

“Mikhail, I must leave Russia, this place, this feeling of doom. There are rumors that we will be at war with the Germans again, and all men of any age, Jew and non-Jew alike will be fodder for Stalin's cannons.”

“Tolik my good friend, keep your voice to a whisper! These walls all have ears. Be careful what you say, even in jest.”

“Mikhail, my parents are dead, I have no life here in Russia, the war will come, and all of us will suffer more than our share. I need to get away. The party does not give, Mikhail, it takes, it demands. I cannot sacrifice. I am weak, unable to bear the burden of more sacrifice. Can you help me to get away?”

“And where would you go… and why?”

“I don't know, somewhere away from here, away from the madness of war and Europe, far away from Russia. Maybe… maybe I could get to America or Canada. The war will not reach there. Can you help me?”

“ That is a big “maybe” my friend! Let me think about it Tolik,”

Mikhail thought to himself: Your Father was a good man, Tolik. He took me in during the revolution, and saved me from starvation when I lost my parents.

“But why Tolik? Why leave Russia? She is your home, your life, your roots. Tolik looked away, too ashamed to tell him he wanted to be so unpatriotic.

“I will do what I can”, said Mikhail, exasperated. “But remember, it places me in grave danger; after all, I am a factory boss, and a member of the party in good standing. If word got out… Besides, what will I say, surely they will notice that Anatoly Ivanovich, master tailor is missing?”

“You don't have to tell them anything, Mikhail. One day I was here, the next day: gone. Do you own responsibility to every factory worker in your charge?”

“Give me time, Tolik. Meanwhile do what you always do, at least to avoid suspicion. We will talk some more tomorrow my friend.”

Returning home that evening, Mikhail climbed the steps to his small three-room apartment. Greeting his wife Olga: he lit a cigarette and made a call to one of his old party cronies. Comrade Rosenthal, Security Commissar of Moscow; a Jew, is on the other end of the line. .

Mikhail: “Igor? Mikhail Anton Tyevski. How are you my friend?”
Rosenthal: “Good, good, where are you, you old scoundrel?”
Mikhail: “ In my lovely dacha by the Black Sea. Can we get together tomorrow evening, I have a need to discuss with you. Perhaps I can convince you to join me in some good vodka and salmon?”
Rosenthal: “My friend, say where and when. Any fish is good if it is on the hook!”
Mikhail: “Hah, you and your fancy proverbs. Tomorrow at 7 P.M., meet me at the English Tea Room, in the foreign sector.”

Mikhail hung up the phone, and wondered if anyone was listening in. He could be sure that nothing was said that could incriminate him, but one never bets even on a sure thing in Russia.

Tomorrow he may be able to tell Tolik of a plan being in the works. Nothing more. Thinking of what Tolik had said to him that morning, Mikhail thought about his being a Jew in Russia himself. He knew he could never leave Russia while he had a wife, two children and a high profile position for a Jew in the Party. To put his wife through the rigors of emigration, or his sons the embarrassment of a disloyal father, could only lead to punishment for all of them. Besides, he doubted his wife would approve of such plans. Could she even be trusted? Survival in Comrade Stalin's world is a crapshoot, so he thought.

The next morning Mikhail returned to the factory and went immediately to visit Tolik. He found him staring out his third floor window, deep in thought.

“Anatoly, why are you so pensive this morning?”

Tolik turned half way to view Mikhail, and looked for a few moments with a blank face.

“Mikhail, anything?”

“No, not yet my friend, I need a few more days to set things in motion, if I can.”

Tolik returned to his window view and lit a cigarette. Deeply inhaling, he returned to his worktable and went back to work. Tolik's brow furrowed and his eyes casts downward in thought. Mikhail went to an old wooden desk and reaching in the bottom draw, pulled out a half filled bottle of vodka. Slamming it down on the table in front of Tolik, Mikhail said:

“Tomorrow I will have news for you of some kind, Tolik. Maybe good…maybe not. Let's drink to news.”

That evening, Igor Rosenthal summoned his driver to his office. “Josef, take the night off, I am going out with a friend this evening, and will not need your services for the rest of the day.” Dismissing Josef, he rose from his desk and waddled his enormous 5”8” frame to the coat tree facing his desk. Slipping on his hat and coat, he immediately left his office and descended the staircase of the Ministry of Security in short quick steps. Standing in the street, as dusk settled in, he waited for Mikhail. The gloom of winter seemed to set in more when he was without his car and his trusted Josef. Soon the headlights of the black sedan appeared, and sitting behind the wheel of the 1939 Kadet sat Mikhail.

As they drove to the English Tea Room, Igor looked at Mikhail and asked;

“Well, what is so important that you take a man away from his life?”

“Ah, my friend, patience, life's problems can not be solved in a short time. A Jew's problem will take eternity.”

“ Are you mad Mikhail, I have obligations to the party. Doing favors is not good in this climate.” Resigned, Igor inquired;

“What is it this time, Mikhail?”

Arriving at the English Tea Room, Mikhail parked his car a few blocks from the restaurant and invited Igor to go first, secure a table, and he would join him after a few minutes. Igor entered the crowded restaurant, as a maitre' d escorted him to a table.

“There will be another joining me, thank you”.

Igor sat and waited, and soon Mikhail entered and waved like it was the first time they were meeting that evening.

Sitting in the noisy restaurant, Igor, watched as Mikhail removed his coat and sat next to Igor. Leaning in Mikhail lit a cigarette and offered one to Igor, who waved him off. Mikhail looked for the waiter's eye and ordered some vodka and a plate of salmon.

“Igor, I need your help. I have a very dear friend who wishes to leave Russia, and soon.”

“Is he in some kind of trouble?” inquired Igor.

“No, but he is desperate to get away.”

“Why doesn't he apply for a visa?”

“Who would give a visa to a master tailor, with no business abroad, Igor?”

“What do you want from me, Mikhail Anton Tyevski?”

“You have connections, can you arrange for him to get a visa out of the country?”

“Mikhail, you ask a lot. As you cooked the porridge, so must you eat it. If I am caught doing that, I will be shot!”

“Igor… Igor remember when you needed me to cover your story to the party bosses about your ILLNESS, when you were so drunk you couldn't stand, when they investigated why you had lost so much time? When…”

“All right Mikhail, I get your meaning. Give me a day or two and we will meet again. You cannot break through a wall with your forehead, as they say.”

“Comrade Igor Rosenthal, you and your old sayings, my good friend. Drink up to success.”

“Success maybe a two edged sword my friend.”

Across town at the same time, Tolik sat in his drab bedroom, a single light bulb unadorned suspended from the ceiling. Smoke curled upward, and dimmed the brightness of the bulb. A cigarette hung from Tolik's mouth. Tolik, his brow furrowed, sat staring at his shoes.

“Maybe soon” he thought, he could make plans to go to America, and realize his dream. To live and become rich would require some sacrifice.