Paata’s and Kakhaberber’s father was a well-known Georgian physician and scientist who Shevardnadze knew personally. He was fired the day after his sons’ arrest. Three weeks after the trial, he was summoned to see the First Secretary of the Central Committee.
Needless to say, Vazha Iverieli understood what, or more precisely who, the conversation would focus on. For the meeting, in the Central Committee of Georgia, where the fate of his sons was being decided, he deliberately chose to wear jeans. Vazha did not have a pair of his own, but found them in the boys’ room. It was not an easy task to find them since his sons’ room had been turned it upside down so many times during searches that the family gave up tidying it. After some time, he found the jeans, which smelled of his sons, put them on in front of a mirror and went to the Central Committee.
When a pass was given to him at the Central Committee, both low and high-ranking officials looked dumbfounded at the man who was going to meet with Shevardnadze wearing jeans—he was the first to show such daring.
Shevardnadze was looking down at his desk and did not hear the man’s greeting on entering. What he certainly noticed was Vazha’s jeans. Without raising his head, he pointed to a chair for the visitor to take and had a closer look at his jeans. He might have been angry and probably thought that this was a protest against the verdict passed on his children.
“You probably understand why I summoned you?”
“I don’t know. I can only guess the talk will concern my sons.”
“So, you do know.”
“I am listening.”
“No, I am listening to you.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“But you may have something to ask.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your sons, of course.”
“I cannot ask you anything for my sons.”
“Why? You have no hopes for our mercy?”
“I have no right to ask you only for the life of my children. The others haven’t done more wrong than my sons.”
“So, you are asking me to change the verdict for all of them?”
“If that’s why you have summoned me, then yes. But I cannot ask you to save only my boys, because I wouldn’t be doing the right thing to others’ parents, who don’t know you in person and cannot come here, like myself, in order to save their children.”
“The others have different circumstances.”
“We are all in the same situation now.”
“But they are about to lose one child each, while you are going to lose both, unless they are pardoned.”
“Who is supposed to pardon them?”
“Moscow.”
“Is there a chance?”
“We are doing everything in our power, but very often they make decisions and don’t consult us. Had it been up to me, you know…”
“I know,” said Vazha, despite the fact that he was not sure what this man would have done if the decision to change the verdict depended on him. Both were silent for a little while. Also, Vazha, did not tell Shevardnadze the truth, because there still was some hope to save his sons. It was Shevardnadze who broke the silence.
“There is a very little chance of altering the verdict for everyone, but I can manage to save one of your sons, at least. We have known each other for so many years and you have never asked me anything, until now…”
“I have not asked that, either.”
“That’s why I want to save at least one of the brothers. I’ve already talked to Moscow about it.”
“How’s that?”
“They’ll probably change the verdict of the one who deserves his sentence to be changed.”
Vazha got to his feet and was about to say something, but all of a sudden his throat went dry and he was unable to speak. Shevardnadze thought his guest wanted to thank him and made a gesture with his hand, as if to say “not at all.” Vazha tried again to get the words out, but without any result, so he started slowly towards the door. When he opened the door, Shevardnadze stood up, approached Vazha and, almost in a whisper, casually asked him:
“By the way, which one do you prefer?”
Vazha understood that he would die, right then and there, if Shevardnadze said anything more to him, so he slammed the door hard behind him. Slammed the door and left.
Whether the story was fiction or not, the author remains unknown.
After her conviction, Tina was to be transferred to a women’s penitentiary, while the others were to be moved to the dungeons of a very old prison in Ortachala where death row convicts were kept. There was only one night left in the KGB prison before the transfers were to be made. The monk approached the guard, who he had secretly given St. John’s Gospel, with his last wish:
“You won’t see me anymore. They’re moving me tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“To the death row.”
“I know.”
To wait for my execution.”
“I know.”
“Everyone should have their last wish fulfilled, right?”
“Tell me and I’ll try to help.”
“You know which cell Gega’s in?”
“Yes.”
“And Tina?”
“Yes, I know the girl’s cell too.”
“Can you let them see each other?”
“Tonight?”
“It’s the last night here. They will never be able to see each other again. This is my last wish, too.”
“The women’s floor isn’t my zone and I can’t go in there without a key.”
“Love opens all doors.”
“When can we talk about that book, Father?”
“After you open the first door of love. It’s right here, on the upper floor…”
“Are there many such doors waiting for me?”
“Many, but some of them you are going to open more easily.”
“The first door is always more difficult, isn’t it Father?”
“I’ve meant to ask you for a long time and I keep forgetting. How come you work here? It keeps surprising me and I keep forgetting to ask.”
“I’ll tell you that when I come back Father.”
The guard looked at his watch, then smiled at the monk.
“I’ll go upstairs now. It seems a good time, Father.”
“It’s always a good time, always,” said the monk, more to himself.
He made the sign of the cross as the guard walked away. The guard consulted his wristwatch again and quickened his step. He strode down the passage, turned right, went up the stairs and noisily put St. John’s Gospel on the table, in front of his superior, who had fallen asleep at the desk.
“What’s this?” asked the superior as he looked at the cover.
“It’s a book.”
“I can see it’s a book.”
“I’ve confiscated it from a prisoner.”
“Will prayers help them now? My grandfather was a deacon and what? Nothing. He spent his whole time praying in church and now he’s lying in the churchyard, at the end of our village. I wish he’d lived long enough to see what a great man I have become. He’d only been to the city twice.”
“Sir, I need the key to the upstairs toilet, I have to take a prisoner up there. His stomach’s upset and his toilet is clogged. The plumber won’t be in until tomorrow.”
“Which prisoner?”
“I don’t remember his last name, the one who’s here because of the cannery case.”
“Is he one of yours?”
“Yes, one of mine.”
“What did you feed him, then?”
“His own canned food.”
The superior laughed heartily and took out the key from his desk drawer.