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.