Oswald's Tale (34 page)

3

The Good Boy, the Good Man

Stepan’s parents were poor peasants who worked on a small collective farm in the Gomel region of Byelorussia, but Stepan, who started school at the age of seven, was always an excellent student.

Since he thought highly of his teachers, he began at an early age to dream about becoming an instructor himself. He was very good at math, and assiduous in his studies. Often, he would come to school before classes started, and if any pupils had been unable to do their homework, they came running to him.

Such desires continued in adolescence. He found his teachers to be among the most decent people he knew; they treated children well—at least those who studied. That influenced his decision. When he graduated from high school, he wanted to go to the Pedagogical Institute in Minsk. Yet, he couldn’t stay there without financial help from his parents, and they were without that kind of money. So, he had to find a subject at this Institute that would provide him with a stipend large enough to live away from home. Therefore, he decided on journalism. That stipend was decent. But then, war broke out.

He was seventeen. In Byelorussia, adolescents born in 1923 and 1924 were not yet subject to conscription. Instead, they were given small-caliber rifles to use in case German paratroopers tried to land among them, and they were organized to drive livestock east to the Sorzh River, where green grass and wetlands abounded. In these marshes they lived and learned how to milk cows. Stepan still remembers the first German he saw, a pilot in a plane just overhead, and he and the other adolescents had to hide because, in those first days of war, Germans were chasing not only soldiers but civilians, and were even shooting down on livestock. Stepan remembers bullets hitting the ground—explosive bullets. Earth flew about. That was when he first experienced the terror of war.

His father was called up at the beginning, and immediately disappeared. There was no news until Stepan’s mother received a letter from his father, who was now in a Soviet military hospital. A machine-gunner, he had been seriously wounded. His arm was crushed. Only after Byelorussia was liberated could he return home. And at home he stayed until he died, in 1960.

As for Stepan, he was allowed, once it became clear that the Germans would occupy all their territories, to leave the marsh and return to his village, where he lived, like the others, in all kinds of hardship until Byelorussia was liberated, in November 1943. Soon afterward, he was drafted. The war was at its height and there was no time for training. He, too, was assigned to a machine gun, number one in a four-man team, and in an unheated barn they taught him to use it, and sent him straight into the fighting at the front. Whenever you sat on duty, if there was a sound, you pulled your trigger. You didn’t know whether you’d killed a German or not. Then you sat some more. You heard a whine, and a shell flew by—would it blow up right overhead? Once you knew that it was going to explode on someone else, you felt better. That’s what his defense line was like.

He was wounded and spent three months in a military hospital, then went up again to take part in several battles, and wasn’t demobilized until early 1947. When he returned to his parents’ village, he had, of course, to decide where to go. Central Statistics Board in Minsk, he read, was organizing courses, so Stepan took along a few necessary documents, and was enrolled in the program. His math helped him.

Since his dream was still to be a teacher, he didn’t wish to be in statistics, but there wasn’t much he could do about it, and soon he received his first official job. It was in the Gomel region, as District Inspector for Central Statistics. Immediately, due to shortages of personnel, he was one of the top three men, not a bad position. Still, frankly speaking, it was not a job he wished to keep for life. Two years, however, after going to work there, he was invited to the Central Office of State Security, where a department head made an official offer: Would Stepan like to work for them? He replied that he didn’t know whether he was qualified. Return answer: “You shouldn’t think that we’re going to hire you now. We’ll send you away for training.” That was in 1949, and he was sent to a school in Byelorussia.

Up to this point, Stepan Vasilyevich had had a most nebulous idea about the activities of State Security. But by way of his class work, which was based on the analysis of already documented KGB cases, he became very interested. As he puts it, “An otherworldly world began to open up.” Some of it seemed equal to advanced mathematical propositions. He embarked on these studies with pleasure, and never thought again about being a teacher. Instead, he was immersed over the next two years in absorbing every bit of instruction he could employ in his practical work. He did have a high opinion of most of his teachers. Then he entered practical work.

By the time Oswald’s case came along, he had already had ten years of working for State Security and a good performance record as a developer.

When asked to analyze himself, he would say that he’s a modest person who has never tried to get ahead of others but he is, by nature, hard-working, assiduous, and inclined to analysis. That he can say about himself without reservation. During his time in KGB he was known for sticking with a case once he started. He never made hasty decisions; he thought things out, and tried to base conclusions on concrete materials, not speculation. In addition, he did not drink and did not smoke. He was—he says with a smile—“morally reliable.” Then he laughs. “I was never particularly interested in girls. Most of my attention was devoted to work.”

In 1953 he married. He and his wife have two children, a daughter and son. His son, he mentions, did not follow in his father’s footsteps. If he had, it would not be permissible to tell you, but since he didn’t, one can say so. His wife also worked all these years for the Central Committee of Komsomol as an instructor in a sewing workshop. While you could not let anyone know, particularly any girls you took out, that you were working in Counterintelligence, when he married his wife, it was different. He was able to tell her, but that was because he had been introduced to her by a co-worker in KGB who happened to come from her village. In such a situation, he could hardly keep it secret. For that matter, he did not want to. In 1953, they worked sometimes until two in the morning. What would a wife who did not know his occupation have thought if he returned home that late? Yet, to this day, his wife is aware of no more than that he is an operative. Same goes for his children. He’s one person who can keep a secret.

When asked what his normal working day was like, he would say that in winter he usually got up early, a habit since childhood—never rose later than seven o’clock; shaved, washed, had his breakfast, and walked to his office. Living approximately three kilometers from Minsk KGB headquarters, he’d take a quiet street to Gorky Park, then up a hill and over Yanka Kupala to Lenin Prospekt. He usually walked home as well. Did that for exercise. His system. He would also arrive by eight-thirty instead of nine, and would then spread out all his necessary documents in order to organize his work for the day.

Stepan’s office on the third floor was occupied in those years by himself and another officer. They each had their own table and their own safe. A normal working day would begin with documents; of course, there were always people to meet and conferences with superiors, sometimes staff meetings, but these only took place if really necessary, since they tended to distract people. It was considered better if Stepan approached his boss in private or, preferably, solved a problem himself. You couldn’t bring up everything at a staff meeting, because you had to maintain security. That his office was shared with someone else did not, however, present exceptional difficulties. If you run a tight ship, joint occupation is not difficult. As soon as Stepan was finished using a document, he would put it in his safe. Nor did he have any curiosity about what his colleague might be working on. That was your rule. You’re not allowed to ask questions, and it’s not a matter to feel hurt or offended about. Each man had his own safe; each man was responsible for what was entrusted to him.

Toward the conclusion of his labors on Oswald’s case, he can say that he was promoted. It was a natural matter. During his entire time of service, he never skipped a grade, and each promotion was achieved by honest hard work: Junior Operative Officer; Senior Operative Officer; then Assistant Director of Department. At that point, he was given his own office. Now, people came to see him in order to solve one or another problem, yet even so, his friend, who had started at the same time as himself and was working at the same level, was made Major, which was the appropriate rank for an Assistant Director of Department. Stepan, however, was not promoted. Six months went by. He did not feel comfortable drawing attention to himself, but finally he decided that he must. Sort of joking, he said to his friend that maybe he wasn’t so good at his job, and his friend said, “Stepan Vasilyevich, I’m not going to waste time arguing with you. They didn’t make you Major—well, find out why. You haven’t done anything wrong.” He went to Personnel politely, made inquiries, and his boss started to apologize. They had forgotten. Bureaucrats. Of course, no one could see his rank, because they didn’t wear uniforms.

In his office, there was one large window that looked out on the courtyard, and that was much to Stepan’s preference. As far as he was concerned, too much din came from the windows which had access to Lenin Prospekt. One minute a car screeched, the next minute someone yelled, a militia-man blew his whistle—it was distracting. He liked quiet.

As for his leisure during the working day? It could be summarized easily. On a normal day, they’d usually eat inside. At that time, they had what he calls a wonderful cafeteria. Also, there were gazebos in the KGB courtyard. Many of those who lived close by went home for lunch, but those who dwelt further away ate in this cafeteria, which offered beefsteak, cutlets, bottles of 20 percent cream for tea, and some kind of salad. Afterward, for their remaining half hour, some people would shop. Or sit in the courtyard. At that time, you could relax under a shade tree. At two o’clock, it was back to work.

There was no fixed routine on that. It wasn’t as if one did one thing before lunch, then another afterward. There were no established parameters. You could be on your job until ten or twelve at night, or leave after a normal day, and things could come up in any file at any time, so a day at work might vary emotionally. It was rarely monotonous. There was always a question of which matters to solve first. His superior, for example, might give instructions, but after Stepan thought about it for a while, he could come to still another conclusion. So, he would go back and coordinate, in order not to disobey his commander’s rules.

It was a creative process. A matter might be resolved in a month, or it might take a year—or years. You didn’t look to find results in a given period—it didn’t happen that way. Unforeseen circumstances usually arose. Who, for example, could have predicted Oswald’s marriage to Marina? Sometimes a task cannot be resolved, no matter how hard you try.

Asked if one of his digressions from work was playing chess, he says: “Playing chess, checkers, or dominoes was not appropriate—only for loafers. It was different if you smoked in order to wind down a little—there was a place where people who needed their dose of nicotine could go.” But he was not in that category. Whenever he felt tired—although generally he was full of energy and health—he would visit a co-worker, someone he was close to. They would talk for ten or fifteen minutes, then go back to their desks. And when he had a little time after lunch, he did like to play chess, but was hardly what you would call one of the strongest players, merely third class. He did it for pleasure. During summer, on lunch break, he would play volleyball. While not tall, he was good at defense, and his hook shot was pretty good. He relaxed that way.

KGB workers would often hang around after work. Some would stay to play chess and then justify it to their wives by saying it was necessary for work. But he almost never lied to his wife. And he never delayed that long; he didn’t abuse his domestic privileges. Played a game, had a laugh, washed up, went home. Usually, when she knew he would be late, his wife timed her dishes to match his arrival. In fact, she wouldn’t eat by herself, even if sometimes he came very late. To this day, such a tradition still stands. He comes home and says, “Why didn’t you eat?” and she says, “I was waiting for you.” “Why did you spend all that time waiting?” Her reply: “I can’t do it alone.”

Of course, whatever his wife cooked, he was happy to receive. He would come home and eat with gusto. Everything was fine, and he would get rid of stress that way. Leaving work, you see something interesting in a store, you go in, so on. Their domestic life was a little easier because his wife worked too. So, they put their children in a twenty-four-hour kindergarten for five days a week. Only during weekends did they see their kids. On Mondays, they brought them in to work. There was a bus waiting that took children of KGB personnel to the outskirts of Minsk, where there was a nice kindergarten located in a
dacha
that had once belonged to a former Minister. While it made things easy around their house, you could say that in terms of the children’s upbringing, these weren’t your best conditions. Still, kindergarten was strict, and his children did not turn out spoiled—that’s good, too.