Mildred had frequently invited him to their home for supper. Bessonov had left Berlin so suddenly that Arvid had no chance to offer help or say goodbye.
They heard nothing more of Bessonov until early March, when the newspapers listed him as a defendant in the Trial of the Twenty-One. Prosecutors claimed that he belonged to a “Bloc of Rightists and Trotskyites” who had conspired to assassinate Lenin and Stalin, to commit espionage, and to collude with the governments of Germany and Japan in order to overthrow the Soviet Union. Arvid was deeply upset by the news. Bessonov was a good friend, and Arvid knew he was already lost. No defendant was ever acquitted in Stalin’s show trials.
Two days after Bessonov’s trial began, Mildred was reading the Berliner Tageblatt over breakfast when a familiar name leapt out at her from a column on international diplomacy. “Boris Vinogradov has been recalled to Moscow,” she said, dismayed. “He’s been accused of collaborating with the Nazis.”
“Poor fellow.” Arvid sighed, removed his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache. “He put a target on his own back with that foolhardy visit to Martha in December.”
Mildred nodded soberly, searching the column for more details, finding none. The last time she had seen Boris’s name in the German papers had been shortly before Christmas, when the German press reported on that same ill-fated unauthorized trip. While Boris had been away from his post, the NKVD had raided the Warsaw embassy and had found incriminating documents in his office, or so they claimed. “I wonder why the Soviets waited so long to recall him.”
“Perhaps all their jail cells were full. Perhaps he was still useful to them for a while. I hope he disobeyed the order and fled. He must know that if he returns to Moscow, he would be signing his own death warrant.”
From what Mildred knew of Boris, he did not fear his superiors and would have readily obeyed their summons. “Martha always said that he was unshakably loyal to the Soviet Union,” she mused aloud. “I can’t imagine he betrayed their secrets to the Nazis.”
“If he believes his innocence will protect him, I’m afraid his trust is misplaced.” Arvid’s voice turned bitter. “My friend Bessonov was loyal, for all the good that does him now.”
“I wonder if Martha knows.” With a sudden pang, Mildred realized that it was her responsibility as Martha’s friend to break the bad news to her before the American press did. “I’ll write and tell her.”
“There’s no need. Martha has probably forgotten him by now.”
“Nonsense,” Mildred protested. “I think she truly loves him. She wanted to marry him.”
“I’m sure she did at the time, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already found someone new.”
“Oh, Arvid, that’s unkind.”
“I’m sorry, Liebling. I’m not feeling particularly kind today.” He rose from the table and kissed her on the forehead. “Forgive me.”
“Of course,” she said, watching as he headed down the hallway to their bedroom. She tidied the kitchen as he got ready for work and kissed him tenderly when they parted at the door. She knew he was not as cold or unfeeling as his words suggested. It was his frustration coming out, his anger at his powerlessness to help his doomed friend.
Alone in the flat, with only the distant sounds of traffic passing outside and other tenants moving about the building to keep her company, Mildred poured herself a second cup of coffee and settled down with a notepad, a pen, and the New York Times. The paper was several days out of date, but it was the most recent edition she had and it was essential for her work. Earlier that year, the Berlin publisher Rütten & Loening had hired her as a reader and consultant, advising them on American novels they might wish to acquire for translation. This often involved scanning American newspapers for book reviews and announcements of newly released works, copies of which publishers eagerly sent her, all for the price of a stamp and an official request on Rütten & Loening stationery. Her astute recommendations must have impressed her employers, for they soon began offering her translation projects as well, with a commensurate increase in pay. She missed teaching, but her new job was intellectually stimulating, it filled her hours, and it supplemented their household income, and for that she was grateful.
She was at home working on a translation of Walter Edmonds’s Drums Along the Mohawk when a radio announcer