David Yaron
The Red Collusion
Dedication
This book is dedicated to three close and beloved individuals who are no longer with us, and I feel their absence every day. First of all my father, a loving and caring father and grandfather, a noble man, wise and knowledgeable, and at the same time modest and unassuming; and also to my mother, who was his complete opposite — that is, she was a dominant woman, a socialite whose captivating presence could not be ignored, as well as the unique sense of humor which so characterized her. The book is also dedicated to my cousin, Elliel Yossi of blessed memory, a remarkable fighter pilot with an equally remarkable sense of humor. Yossi and I were the same age, and together we shared many unforgettable experiences; he was like a brother to me in every way.
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The 500-year old Novodevichy convent sits by the Moscow river. It is home to Russia’s most revered cemetery. Some 27,000 sons and daughters of Russia, military heroes as well as cultural icons, rest in peace completely, some since the days of Ivan the Terrible. The cemetery’s elaborately decorated tombs, sculpted in stone and granite in the image of the dead, nestling amidst dense, manicured greenery, lend it the air of a museum of Russian history. Muscovites enjoy occasional visits to the Novodevichy Cemetery, as do other Russians from all over this vast country, who are referred to condescendingly by the locals as “tourists”. Both tourists and locals follow the custom of leaving colorful bouquets on their favorite heroes’ graves.
Built some eighty years prior to the tumultuous events of this story, the cemetery reflects the Russian love of order and discipline. It is divided into sections according to the deceased’s occupation in life, with one area allocated to writers and others to musicians, playwrights, and masters of all the arts and sciences.
In the autumn of 1971, Nikita Khrushchev, the Soviet Union’s indisputable leader in the eleven transformative years preceding 1964, was laid to rest in Novodevichy. He was buried secretly, and his death went unreported in the media by order of his successor, Leonid Brezhnev. In fact, the entire cemetery was locked to the public for ten years just to stop his grave from becoming a pilgrimage site for his many admirers.
Just a few steps from Khrushchev’s Grave, another grave had just been dug, for another great leader of the Soviet Union. The bouquets adorning the fresh grave of Comrade Vladimir Petrovich Yermolov, the General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, were piled so high that they exceeded an average man’s height. Thousands of people stood at attention in the cemetery while a small contingent from the Red Army Choir solemnly sang the Anthem of the Soviet Union. It was the revised version, having been rewritten twelve years earlier to eradicate any mention of Joseph Stalin, the ruthless dictator who had led his nation to a costly victory over Nazi Germany. Unlike Stalin, Yermolov had been loved, not feared. The ceremony was broadcast live throughout the eleven time zones of the Soviet Union. On hearing the national anthem, people from all walks of life, throughout the land, stopped their activities and stood in silence in honor of their beloved leader.
When the ceremony was over, the master of ceremonies requested that the crowd remain in place while world leaders left the grounds. As the crowd slowly dispersed, an elderly, slightly bent gentleman leaning on a cane remained in place. Dressed in a gray suit, he raked his fingers through his thin white hair from time to time to protect it from the wind. Beside him stood a young officer dressed in a blue Air Force uniform sporting a shiny golden star insignia set between two blue stripes, indicating his rank of major.
Occasionally, members of the crowd approached the old man, some having a brief word with him.
“Father”, said the major to the man by his side, “It seems that even though you left the KGB seven years ago, there are still quite a few people who respect you very much.”
The older man smiled wryly.
“I’m not so sure of that, son. They may be expressing their gratitude for my retirement”, he suggested, only partly in jest. He took his son’s arm. “Let’s go now. If we’re lucky, we might pass by some of the great sons of our glorious nation.”
The two walked slowly from the fresh grave along the high red wall, not unlike the more famous wall of the Kremlin. Here, the less distinguished were interred on four levels resembling miniature Soviet city blocks.
“Father”, asked the young man. “Why isn’t Secretary Yermolov buried inside the Kremlin, as he deserves? You were very close to him. Was that his wish?”
“Yes, son”, replied the aging former chief of the Committee for State Security, otherwise known as the KGB. “It was his specific request when he fell ill. At one of our last meetings, he clearly said that he did not want to become a tourist attraction after his death. Of course he said it with humor — he always had a sense of humor. He wanted to be buried here in Novodevichy, as he did not wish to have politicians as his neighbors. ‘They will bore me to death,’ he joked. ‘I prefer the company of Anton Chekhov, Nikolai Gogol, Sergey Prokofiev.’ He may have even mentioned Rostropovich and Shostakovich.”
“Was Yermolov fond of classical music, like you?” the young man wondered.
“Yes, son. He loved good music, just as he loved all the arts. He was especially drawn to writers and playwrights.”
The two continued to walk arm in arm on the narrow path along the red wall. They stopped by a tomb bearing the bust of a man holding a violin set atop a tall marble column.
“Father, you seem tired. Do you want to rest for a while?”
“Well, I’m not tired, but the feet… the feet are not what they used to be, you know.”
He looked at the bust of the man. “It will be a great honor to rest beside David Oistrakh. He was one of the greatest violinists of the twentieth century. See for yourself — it says so here. He died fifteen years ago.”
Nodding, the young man looked down at the marble slab.
“Father, at the funeral today, I heard for the first time that General Secretary Yermolov was also a hero of the Soviet Union. I’m confused. He was not a military man. What did he receive that honor for? And why didn’t the public know?”
The retired KGB chief just nodded. “Come, let’s go to the gate. Forgive me, son, but this is a long and complicated story in which I too was involved. I’ll tell you about it some other time, when the time is right.” He looked into his son’s eyes.
“Have I disappointed you, son? Let me try to cheer you up with a joke that relates to this situation.”
“I’m always happy to hear a good joke”, bantered the young man. “Maybe some of the nation’s heroes buried around here will enjoy it as well.”
“Well”, continued the father, “it’s a Kazakh story about a father and his son who were leading a camel through the Kazakh desert. They walked for hours without saying a word. At dusk, just before sunset, the father asked the son, ‘Why are you quiet son? Why aren’t you asking me questions as you always do?’ The son answered, ‘Why does the sun always rise in the east and set in the west?’ The father said, ‘I don’t know.’ Several minutes later the son asked again, ‘How can the camel walk for days in the desert without drinking water?’ The father again replied, ‘I really don’t know, son.’ The son became discouraged over his father’s failure to answer his questions and continued walking in silence. Several minutes later, the father asked his son, ‘Why aren’t you asking me any more questions? If you don’t ask, how will you learn?’” The former KGB chief’s son barked a laugh.