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.