any longer. “I’m sorry,” I blurted out, “Maybe I’m mistaken. Are you talking about our Marshal Rokossovsky?” From another side of the table Garrik signaled me to stop talking, but it was beyond me.
The patriarch scratched his temple, gazed at me, and smiled slightly.
“Yes, young lady . . . I defended Marshal Rokossovsky in a military tribunal.”
“What?”
“I defended Marshal Rokossovsky,” Jacob repeated.
Suddenly, everyone at the table wanted to hear the story.
“Please, tell us about the case . . .” Jacob was sitting still.
“Please tell us the story,” the guests continued asking.
Galya as a host had an obligation to resolve a dilemma. “Jacob, you can talk freely in my house. You’re surrounded by friends who know the environment and the consequences.” Galya assured him.
A wise man, Jacob had been listening more than talking all evening, but now the situation had changed. We all awaited his story. A long pause ended when Jacob, looking around the table and meeting the eyes of each guest, finally nodded and waved his hand.
“Marshal Rokossovsky was a lucky man. He was brought in for trial before the military tribunal,” Jacob began.
For me, a young defense attorney, the military tribunal was a scary institution. “The military tribunal is the worst place to be charged with a crime!” I exclaimed.
“You are a lucky girl too. You didn’t work as a defense attorney in the thirties.” Jacob’s face became stern, his gray eyes so sharp that they were drilling into me.
“There were only two possibilities at that time—a military tribunal or the ‘troika.’ Do you know what the troika means?” He asked me. I had some idea, but I did not answer the question.
“The troika was formed by the three members of the NKVD, the security agency that combined the KGB and the MVD. Those three men brought charges, rendered judgments, and executions. The administrative proceedings were secret, and the accused had no rights to a defense counsel. Do you know, young lady, about the fate of our brilliant poet Osip Mandelshtam?” He continued drilling into me with his gray eyes.
I felt as if my questions had irritated Jacob. My answer was timid and careful. “If I’m not wrong, he was exiled to Siberia and died there.”
“Osip Mandelshtam was sent to a labor camp as a ‘person to be socially dangerous’ by the three-man special board of the NKVD called the troika. Our great poet had no right to defense counsel or appeal, despite his complete innocence. I could participate in the case because Rokossovsky was brought for trial before the military tribunal, which meant a court proceeding, not the administrative one. He was charged with many different crimes, including collaboration with foreign intelligence. But the most unbelievable thing for me was his admission of all charges. I was in total shock when I saw his signature on each page of the interrogations.” Jacob asked Galya for a glass of water. He drank it slowly. In a dead silence we could hear every sip he took.
“To make a long story short, let me describe the atmosphere in the courtroom of the military tribunal. I remember everything. Between the two windows of a big hall stood three wooden armchairs with their backs to the wall and in front of them a huge black writing desk with green fabric in the center of it. In the armchairs sat three judges, all high-ranking military men with typically Slavic faces. The chairman, in the center, a gray-haired man wearing eyeglasses, had been an experienced professional lawyer, older than the other two. To the right of the judges was a table for the military prosecutor, to the left a table for me. Facing all that was an enclosed wooden structure, like a cage up to the chest, for the defendant.” Jacob paused, took a few sips of water, and continued.
“On the huge desk, in front of the chairman, was a dossier—a file with all the evidence and interrogations. When the formalities were taken care of, the chairman addressed Rokossovsky:
“‘The accused will stand up.’ Rokossovsky did.”
“‘How do you plead?’” Silence.
“The chairman repeated his question, “‘How do you plead, accused?’”
“‘I plead not guilty,’” Rokossovsky answered.
The chairman began turning over the pages in the dossier.
“‘In front of me is a protocol of your interrogation, where you admitted to all the charges. Is this your signature?’”
“‘Yes.’”
“‘If it is your signature, it means that you pleaded guilty in the preliminary investigation when you were interrogated. Why are you changing your plea in court?’” Silence.
The chairman closed the dossier, put his hands on it and slowly pronounced, “You have a right not to answer my question. But I’m asking you for the last time. Why are you changing your plea?” The question hung in the air of the soundless courtroom, where everyone was waiting for the answer.
“As Rokossovsky’s defense attorney I couldn’t intervene, it was not permitted, but my heart was going out to the man behind the wooden barrier. He stood like a monument of a proud soldier. There was no fear in his eyes, no confusion on his face. He looked straight into the eyes of the judges. He did not say a word. It seemed that time came to a halt in the courtroom of the military tribunal. After a while, I turned and gaze at Rokossovsky. He interpreted it as a signal to start answering, but he did not say a word. He opened his mouth; in the dark, bloody opening, there were no teeth . . . not one . . .” Jacob stopped talking and dropped his head.
I do not know what happened afterward. As if lightening hit my stomach, I felt overcome by nausea. I ran to the bathroom so fast that I knocked over my chair.
In the tiny bathroom I vomited. When, finally, I returned to a vertical position and glanced in the mirror, a strange young woman looked back at me, her hair in disarray, her frightened sweaty face covered with red spots, and her blue silk blouse completely wet with sweat.
It took some time for me to pull myself together. When I returned to the living room, the guests were quietly drinking tea. They acted as if nothing had happened and did not even look at me. It was late, and Galya called for a taxi. We said goodbye and left for the railroad station.
We again took the midnight train, this time back to Tallinn. Lying down in the compartment, I could not sleep, recalling Jacob’s final words: “In the dark, bloody opening, there were no teeth . . . not one . . .”
As the midnight train carried us home, something essential had changed inside me. I was returning from one beloved city to another with baggage on my shoulders—I was carrying the burden of truth.
CHAPTER 3
Show Trial
The waiting room of our law firm had always been overcrowded during morning hours. When the two women entered my cubicle, I was on the phone. Pointing to the two chairs on the other side of my desk, I continued my conversation while unobtrusively looking them over. Presently, I hung up.
“What can I do for you?” Neither has replied.
The older one fiddled with her gloves, her dark hair and fashionable clothes at odds with the tension on her face. The scent of her French perfume resembled mine. She was embarrassed by something, and instinctively I knew it had nothing to do with whatever had brought her to my office. There was something else, not yet clear to me.
The girl was different. Wearing a blue sport jacket, her blond hair tightly woven into two braids, she gave me the look of a small cornered animal—a look of fear and hopelessness. In spite of the difference in appearance, they appeared to be mother and daughter. From their expression and posture, I could see that they were locked in conflict. The table lamp on my desk revealed the tension and anxiety on their faces.
It