“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.” The general turned toward a Robotron computer terminal on his desk.
Bogdanov noted the letters he pecked on the keyboard with his two index fingers: KUSNV and LATA33. She smiled and hurried out the door. The logon and password would grant access to the highly guarded SOUD system of joint acquisition of enemy data. Every Warsaw Treaty intelligence network fed data into the system, providing precise descriptions of enemy agents and their suspected contacts. KGB paranoia limited access to only the highest-ranking counterintelligence officers. Now Bogdanov was among the privileged.
CHAPTER NINE
The Party is always right. The Party. The Party. The Party.
– EAST GERMAN COMMUNIST SONG
GERMAN STATE LIBRARY, EAST BERLIN
FRIDAY, APRIL 21
Faith dashed into Jürgen’s office, a room the East Germans called the “medicine cabinet” because it housed what the Party believed should be kept out of reach of its children. The walls were covered with books and a mezzanine sagged with the weight of thousands of censored tomes. The air was heavy with the scent of a used bookstore; Faith could smell the pages yellowing. Jürgen closed the door and cleared a stack of books from a chair for her. His eyes were red and Faith thought she smelled whiskey on his breath. He picked up a blue and white packet of Sprachlos cigarettes and lit one before she could object. He had recently gone through a rough divorce and it seemed to Faith he wasn’t recovering very well.
“You might be interested that this morning I sent a protest letter on behalf of the library to the Party’s Central Committee. Colleagues at all major libraries are also sending their objections about the recent censorship of Soviet periodicals. Right now I’m finishing up an appeal to Moscow for assistance.”
“I thought you were the library’s chief censor. What gives?”
“Read this over and see what you think.” He pushed a piece of paper across the table. “You haven’t heard, have you? They banned the last issue of Sputnik because of an article criticizing Stalin. Sputnik-not even a solid intellectual magazine, definitely telling of the cultural level of our Politburo. I’ve heard they’ll decide day by day if they’ll allow Pravda to be sold. Imagine our Party censoring the Organ of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the SU. The world’s coming to an end. It can’t happen.”
She picked up the letter and read it. It reminded the Soviet government of the clause in the GDR’s constitution promising eternal friendship between the two countries and requested a symbolic intervention to pressure the East German government to follow Soviet reforms. Not once in the history of the Cold War had the East German communists defied the Soviets, and not since the worker uprising of 1953 had the passive East German public taken a stand against the government. Cold War melodrama didn’t get better than this. Faith was almost hooked. In fact, she was inspired.
She saw a way out.
Jürgen picked up a coffee pot from a hotplate where it had spent the better part of the day, judging from the burnt-coffee smell. He poured her a cup. “I’m meeting a rep from the university library in a few minutes to jointly deliver the letter to the Soviet cultural attaché.”
“Mind if I tag along? This could really turn out to be big-the beginning of a political thaw here. Besides, as a guest researcher, I have an interest in access to research materials.” And I have an interest in public contact with the Soviet government.
“I don’t know. But then, Americans don’t seem to be the class enemy anymore, do they? In fact, word has it Honecker’s doing his best to court your government for an invitation for a state visit to Washington.” He wrapped a plaid scarf around his neck and put on a brown beret.
“I’d rather not carry this package with me to the embassy. Do you mind keeping it for me?” Faith pulled a small bundle from her bag.
“No problem. Give it here.” He tossed it onto a stack of books on the floor. “I suppose this means you’re coming along and you don’t want the coffee.”
Ten minutes later, they met Jürgen’s colleague on Unter den Linden in front of the Bulgarian Cultural Center. The woman feigned interest in a display of an automated carpet loom, the Balkan state’s latest contribution to the industrial revolution. He introduced Faith to her and they marched to the embassy.
The Soviet embassy was a granite cereal box built in the heyday of Stalinist architecture. Through the spiked wrought-iron gate, a bust of an angry Lenin snarled at passersby. He was no friendlier to Faith and her friends.
A sentry radioed their arrival and let them in. Both librarians remained silent while they waited in the cavernous lobby. A photograph of Gorbachev hung on the wall across from Faith. His bright eyes stood out as welcome contrast to the usual dullness of Honecker’s. Soviet Woman, Moscow News and a pamphlet about the Autonomous Republic of Birobidzhan, the world’s first modern Jewish state, were scattered on an end table. Faith leafed through the Birobidzhani propaganda documenting Soviet generosity toward its Jews. It included rare photos from the depressed Zionist outpost beyond Siberia.
The prospect of entering Soviet territory and meddling in East German affairs was precisely what had tempted Faith to go along. If the East Germans wanted her to smuggle something into the Soviet Union, they wouldn’t tolerate any contact between her and the Soviet government. Getting caught in the middle of a petty international squabble over a youth magazine might compromise her beyond usefulness. She hoped.
A tall woman with short black hair in loose curls and wearing a smart tweed businesswoman’s suit approached them. She introduced herself as Tatyana Mikhailovna Medvedev, the cultural attaché. Her youth astonished Faith. Faith was used to the pre-Gorbachev days, when embassy officials were somewhere between their late sixties and their state burial, not in their early thirties.
The attaché ushered them up a curved staircase to her second-story office. An enormous cherry desk dominated the airy room. Its marble floors were covered with hand-knotted Bokhara carpets. On the walls, paintings of Lenin proselytizing to the masses hung near a dusty photograph of Gorbachev joking with factory workers.
The librarians sat in front of the desk and Faith took a seat behind them. She twisted a loose thread on her sweater as she wondered how cold it really got in Siberia. The librarians explained their concerns to the official and handed her their letters.
“My government regrets the censorship, but we can’t be of any assistance to you. An integral part of our new thinking is not to intervene in the domestic politics of our allies,” Medvedev said in a clipped Berlin accent, and then threw up her hands in a very male gesture.
“Your position’s clear. I suppose we shouldn’t take up any more of your time.” Jürgen’s head drooped and he stood to leave.
The attaché walked with them to the door and then paused. “I spent most of my youth in the GDR. My stepfather was a diplomat here from fifty-three to sixty-eight. Off the record, I wish I could help. The GDR’s a second home to me. In fifty-three my father sent in tanks when Ulbricht asked us to stop the workers’ strikes. If I could, I’d send in troops again to atone for his sin.”
Medvedev made direct eye contact with Faith and held her gaze.
“You’re an American, my staff informs me.”
“Professor Faith Whitney. I’m very interested in your government’s reforms and the possibility of exploring a student exchange focusing on the change.”
“Then let’s meet to discuss it.”
They made arrangements for the next afternoon. The way the attaché looked at her, Faith wasn’t sure if she had just set up a business appointment or a date.