ather Grigori, I have so many sins to confess. I’ve told you a lot of them already, but there’s still more. If I tell all, perhaps I can start down the road to redemption.

One September morning, I looked to my left and my lips opened in shock. My sinful eyes stared at a tall man with pale skin and slicked-back dark hair. He was as slim as I remembered him. As he walked closer, a tense breath blew out of my mouth. I put my hand through my hair.

The man opened the rear door of my cab and sat in the back seat.

“Tyi gavaryu russki (Do you speak Russian)?”

“Da (Yes).”

“Good, take me to the corner of Avenue X and Coney Island Avenue,” he continued.

I looked ahead and nodded. I glanced quickly at my rear view mirror. Major Ivan Dzhugashvilli, Committee for State Security, Fifth Directorate, Spectorsky Unit. The Americans called it the KGB. We had served together in that unit.

I pulled the car from the side of the street and headed down Ocean Parkway.

I turned my eyes away from the rear view mirror to avoid looking at him. My eyes glanced quickly at the mirror to see if he was looking at me. I saw him staring toward the street.

Good, I told myself. He doesn’t remember me.

We rode without speaking until we reached Coney Island Avenue. We had only seven blocks until we reached Avenue X. My spirits rose. If I got there, I told myself, I’d be safe. Ivan had been silent throughout the trip. Thank God he didn’t remember me.

I pulled up to the side of the road at the intersection of Coney Island Avenue and Avenue X.

I looked at the rear view mirror and noticed his eyes staring at me.

“Ten dollars, sir,” I said.

His brooding, dark brown eyes continued to stare.

“I know you from somewhere.”

“What do you mean?”

Play dumb, I told myself.

“You look familiar.”

“Sir, I’ve never seen you before.”

“But I’ve seen you. I don’t know where though.”

He took several bills out of his wallet and lifted them toward me with his left hand. I continued to look forward. I lifted my right hand to take the money.

As he was about to pay me, his hand stopped. “Wait. Sergei? Sergei Ulyanov?”

I looked toward the hack license near the dashboard with my name and photograph imprinted on it. Like an idiot, I had forgotten to hide it.

I sighed. “Yes, it’s me.”

“You remember me? Ivan Dzhugashvilli.”

“I remember.”

“How are you?”

“Fine, Ivan.”

“It’s been a long time, Seryozha.”

“I know.”

“What are you doing now?”

“As you can see, driving a cab.”

I continued to look away from him.

“It’s nice to see an old comrade. Maybe I can help you sometime, Sergei.”

“That’s fine, Ivan. I’m doing well.”

Ivan turned his eyes toward the other side of the street.

“I have to go,” he said as he handed me the money, “but let me give you my number. Maybe an old comrade can help you.”

I said nothing, hoping he would leave quickly.

I felt a piece of paper entering my hand.

“That’s my number, Sergei. Give me a call sometime.”

“Good luck, Ivan.”

He left the car and crossed the street. He didn’t look back at me. His eyes were focused on the medical center ahead of him.

I glanced at the crucifix hanging from the rear view mirror.

Help me, Lord, I prayed. Keep me away from all that.

I crossed myself. “Amen.”

The next morning, I got a message on the cab’s CB.

“Seryozha, go to Neptune and Ocean Parkway.”

A pain formed in my stomach.

When I got to my destination, Ivan stood at the corner with a huge smile on his face.

When he got into the car, he gave me a pat on the shoulder.

“Seryozha.”

“Ivan.”

“Same place as yesterday.”

After I had driven several blocks, Ivan said, “Listen, Seryozha. I run an organization. You should come work for me. I could use someone like you.”

“Thank you, Ivan,” I said without turning my head toward him, “I’m happy where I am.”

“But you were so good at what you did. You were the best.”

“Ivan, I’m not proud of that.”

“You should be. We could do such good work together. I’d pay you very well. You’d do much better than you’re doing right now.”

“Thanks, Ivan. I’m staying where I am.”

When we reached Coney Island Avenue and Avenue X, Ivan got out of the car and stood next to me. I opened the window.

An icy smile covered his face. He moved his head closer to mine.

“Sergei, one day you’ll come and work for me. Call me when you change your mind.”

Ivan moved his face away from me and turned to cross the street. I watched as he reached the other side and entered the office. I took a deep breath and drove down the street.

The following week, Ivan continued to take my cab to his office. My future salary went from $500 per week to fifteen hundred. He said that he needed a man as disciplined and skilled as me.

One day, Ivan stopped taking my cab in the morning.

For the next three days, Ivan left me alone. I crossed myself and thanked the Blessed Virgin. It seemed like a miracle. I had been spared the temptations of Satan.

One morning, I was driving my car on Brighton Beach Avenue when a message came over the CB.

“Seryozha, come to the office.”

A puzzled look came onto my face. “Why?”

“Volodya wants to talk to you.”

I arrived at the office and found out that I was fired. When I asked why, I was told that Ivan had visited.

I left the car service office and walked down Brighton Beach Avenue lost and confused. I looked toward the sky and saw gray clouds moving rapidly over me. I headed for my basement apartment on Brighton First Street. I looked around my studio apartment. The walls seemed to enclose me. I sat in my kitchen chair and stared at my bed and books. My meager possessions, I told myself. They were about to become more meager.

I spent the next three weeks looking for another job. My few words of English and lack of skills limited my choices. I tried several of the Russian-owned car services but they told me nothing was available.

I came home from another futile job hunt and found an envelope under my door. I opened it and found a note and five one hundred-dollar bills.

I looked at the note and began to read. “Here is this month’s rent, Seryozha. It’s not too late. My friends at INS want you to know that. You have twenty four hours to run or come with me.”

I read and reread the part about the INS. I was illegal so I took that threat seriously.

But, I decided not to give in. There had to be another job. I could move to a different apartment under an assumed name. I would find a way.

I decided that my last hope of finding a job was the Russian restaurant scene in and around Brighton. I didn’t need English to wash dishes and wait tables in my native language.

I left the apartment the following morning and saw a dark-haired stocky man wearing a black dress jacket on the other side of the street. I saw him fold up a newspaper as I approached. He stared at me. For a man doing surveillance, he was very clumsy. When I did his job, my target never knew he was being watched. What an amateur, I told myself.

I proceeded with my job hunt. My shadow came with me. I went to many of the Russian restaurants in the area. Each of the places told me they weren’t looking for anyone. I told them I could wash dishes. I would clean the floors. They told me no. It was unbelievable to me that they didn’t need anyone to mop their floors. Maybe Ivan had gotten to them, too.

I came home that afternoon and saw my shadow waiting for me again.

I found another note under my door.

“Restaurants are no good for a man of your talents. You have until 8pm.”

It was now five o’clock.

I could see that Ivan had ambushed and surrounded me. He had made sure that I couldn’t get a job. I was down to my last one hundred fifty dollars in the bank. That was not enough to run from Ivan and the INS. My English was still weak and there wasn’t enough for a plane ticket back to Moscow. For the moment, I was captured.

I got down on my knees and prayed before the crucifix on my wall.

“ Lord, let me remain your servant. Help me to stay true to you and our Lord Jesus Christ in my hour of trial.”

At 7:59pm, I picked up my phone and called Ivan.

“I’m glad you decided to join me, comrade,” Ivan said.

I had an urge to say, “You didn’t leave me much choice” but I kept those thoughts to myself.

One week after I had joined him, Ivan sent me on what he called an “enforcement mission.”

He ran a special kind of business. Ivan secretly owned ten medical clinics in Brooklyn. He joined up with a number of doctors and formed medical service corporations in their name. Ivan provided the money and the doctors did the treatment. Ivan and his people staged accidents and sent phony patients for acupuncture, physical therapy and other kinds of treatments. He even managed to get people hurt in real accidents. His doctors treated them and had the patients sign documents assigning their rights to payment from their insurance companies. Ivan told me that New York State had passed something called the No-Fault Law in the 1970’s. This law allowed people in car accidents to get paid up to $50,000 in medical expenses through their car insurance policies. Once the patients assigned their rights to payment, he sent the bills to the insurance companies. He generally overcharged for the treatment his doctors provided or charged for medical services that were never given. The companies often paid and if they didn’t, his lawyers sued for the money. The doctors would get paid by the insurance company and would take their forty percent. Ivan’s sixty percent gave him an income of over half a million dollars a year.

One of the doctors, Yehuda Katz, had stopped paying Ivan his sixty percent. This had been going on for about two months. Katz’s secretary told Ivan that the doctor was planning to return to Israel. He had just sold his house and was planning to vacate it in several days. In his last monthly payment, Dr. Katz had given Ivan twelve thousand dollars. Ivan’s accountant noticed that this was less than the fifteen to twenty grand Dr. Katz normally gave each month. The doctor said that business had slowed down. Ivan learned from Katz’s secretary that the doctor had taken three thousand each month for himself. The guy probably thought Ivan wouldn’t miss a few thousand here or there. Ivan managed to miss it and decided that an enforcement mission had become necessary.

When I got the assignment, I asked Ivan, “You sure you want me for this job?”

“Of course I want you, Sergei. I remember when we broke up demonstrations in central Moscow. This’ll be easy for you.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. Roughing up dissidents and shoving them into vans was something I wanted to forget.

I was sent with a tall, slim Russian-Israeli named Arik Semyonovich. Arik had worked for Ivan for over two years. I think he had been sent on this job to watch me.

Arik and I arrived at Dr. Katz’s house in Sheepshead Bay at six-thirty on a Tuesday morning. At seven, we saw a pudgy man with graying hair opening his garage door. Arik looked at me and jerked his head forward.

We walked quickly toward the doctor. We wanted to get to him before he could enter his car. He must have heard our footsteps. He turned to face us. His eyes widened in fear.

Arik said something in Hebrew and kicked our prey in the stomach. Dr. Katz screamed. I did not hesitate. I kicked and pummeled the poor doctor with my arms and legs. The doctor screamed as Arik and I battered him.

When we saw the doctor laid out helpless on his driveway, we stopped hitting him.

Arik said something else in Hebrew and began walking away. I followed behind him.

As we drove back to the medical center on Coney Island Avenue, I said nothing to Arik. I could not stop thinking about what I had just done.

When we reached the office, I went immediately to the bathroom. I got down on my knees. I felt the hard linoleum against my pants. I put my hands together. I crossed myself.

“Lord, please forgive me. I’ve committed the most terrible sin.”

Four days later, Ivan gave me another enforcement mission.

I waited for Andrei Semyonov, Dr. Katz’s billing clerk. It was nine o’clock on a November evening. He walked alone down Coney Island Avenue. When he turned on the corner of Avenue M and Coney Island Avenue, my boot bashed into his face. He fell to the ground. I kicked him in the groin. My boot swerved back toward his face and smashed his nose. Blood covered his chin and his right cheek. I then kicked him four times in the stomach. My teeth clenched together and my eyes narrowed. I kicked his right arm before stopping.

For a moment, I stared at his inert body. I looked at him the way a hunter stares at his dead prey.

My eyes returned to his face. “Semyonov, that’s for taking our money.”

As I turned away from him, I heard faint moans coming from his mouth. I kept walking though they lingered in my ears.

I headed for my car and drove back to Ivan’s office.

I went inside and sat down on one of the waiting room couches. Semyonov’s moans still echoed in my ears. I sighed. My eyes stared toward the floor. My lips quivered.

The sound of stamping feet caused me to look up again. It was Ivan. Like the recruit I had been in the old days, I rose to my feet and stood erect.

Ivan smiled and stood close to me. “It’s done?”

I looked away from him. “Yes, Ivan.”

“Anyone see you?”

“No, it was dark and we were alone.”

Ivan put his right hand on my shoulder. “Good work, comrade.”

With his other hand, he thrust an envelope into my left hand. I looked down and saw the green dollar bills.

“Go home, Seryozha. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I quickly looked into his eyes and turned away. I walked out of the office. As I left, I sensed Ivan’s stare behind me.

When I got home, my eyes glanced at the crucifix on my wall. Holding the envelope in my left hand, I crossed myself with my right. I then tossed the money onto my kitchen table, grabbed a pot from one of my cabinets and began making my dinner.

Ten days later, I did another enforcement mission on Dr. Katz’s son, Avi. When I had finished, Ivan gave me another envelope with one thousand dollars inside it.

I returned home that night and looked at the crucifix. Instead of crossing myself, I looked at it for several seconds and then proceeded to make dinner.

Two days after this last enforcement mission, Ivan called.

“Sergei, I want you to practice your profession.”

Ivan wanted me to hit Vadim Bukharin, the head of a rival gang. Bukharin and his men had tried to muscle in on Ivan’s centers and get protection money. It had been understood that the Coney Island Avenue area and the surrounding streets were Ivan’s territory. Bukharin had violated that understanding by trying to expand into our area. Ivan had apparently decided to cut the head off the monster.

“Ivan, why me?”

“Because this won’t be easy, Seryozha. Only you have the experience.”

“Ivan, you know it’s been a while.”

“Nobody forgets how to kill, Sergei.”

“Do I really have to do this, Ivan?”

“Yes.”

I went to the office and picked up the materials I needed. I put a plastic handgun and ammunition into my coat pocket and headed home.

When I reached my apartment, I put the gun on the night table beside my bed and went to sleep.

As I slept, I dreamed that I was walking down a street in central Moscow and saw a group of people staring at me. They had formed a circle surrounding me. Their faces looked familiar. I turned my head to look at them. Who were they, I asked myself. My eyes widened as it hit me. My mouth opened. I put my right hand against my mouth.

They were my victims from the old days. I stared at them. To my left, I saw a young man in his twenties. He was Igor Semyonovich, a dissident. I looked to my right. I saw a young, pregnant woman. It was Tanya Abrasimova, the wife of a local Party boss. Beside Abrasimova stood a little girl, her daughter.

The people pointed fingers at me.

I tasted something sickening and sweet on my hand. I pulled my hand away. Blood. I looked down at my shirt and pants. They were stained with red. I put my hands against my shirt and pants. I looked at my hands again. They were both covered with blood. I looked toward the gray, cloud-covered sky and screamed.

I woke up at that moment. I gasped for breath. I turned my eyes toward the gun on the table and stared at it for several seconds. I looked away and got up.

I got dressed and looked for Boris, my landlord and a fellow Muscovite.

I couldn’t read a word of English so I asked Boris to find Bukharin’s phone number in the telephone book. I got it and dialed.

I heard the sound of a woman at the other end of the line. “Alyo.”

“Tell Vadim,” I said in a fake Ukrainian accent, “something is coming in the morning.”

I quickly hung up and prayed that he would take the warning.

That night, I went to Vadim’s house and did my surveillance.

I disguised myself in the green outfit of the Waterworks Delivery Company. I borrowed a stolen van with the Waterworks insignia that Ivan and his men often used for jobs like this one. I set off the next morning for Bukharin’s house in Manhattan Beach, Brooklyn.

I arrived there at dawn and parked my van one block away from my target’s home. My right hand shook violently as I crossed myself. I grabbed the gun in my jacket pocket and attached a silencer to it. I put the gun back in my pocket. I walked to the house and stared at the large brick structure before me. I studied the building. Two floors and five windows faced the front lawn. I looked toward the back of the house and saw a backyard with a fence at the end. It would be easy for Vadim to escape. During my surveillance, I realized that a second man would be needed to cover the backyard. But, I knew that the job would be a success if I asked for help. However, it also occurred to me that failure might be as deadly to my body as success would be to my soul.

Too late to turn back, I told myself. I had already told Ivan I was going that morning.

I stepped onto Vadim’s front lawn and walked up to his door.

I rang the bell. “Waterman, I here to deliver,” I said.

“Bastards,” I heard a man shout.

I turned in the direction of the voice and saw Vadim pointing a gun at me from a second floor window. I jumped toward the lawn. The sound of shots rang in my ears. They bounced harmlessly against the ground. I rolled on the ground for a few seconds and stopped. I pulled out my gun and aimed toward the window. Vadim had disappeared.

I got up and ran toward the house. I took cover behind a large bush in front of one of the first floor windows. I kept my eyes on the second floor.

A few seconds passed and I heard the sound of a car ignition being turned on. It came from the garage. With my gun pointed ahead of me, I headed slowly in that direction.

I heard the sound of a car accelerating. I moved back slightly. The car smashed through the wooden garage door. Pieces of wood flew toward me. I ducked. The car sped down the driveway and headed for the street.

I turned myself toward the car and aimed low. I fired twice and hit one of the front wheels. The car slowed down. I fired again and hit one of the back wheels. The car came to a screeching halt. I got up and ran to the front of the car. I fired through the window and pumped three bullets into Vadim’s brain. His body slumped to his left and blood from his head oozed onto the window.

I stared at his lifeless body.

After a few seconds, my training kicked in at that moment and I ran to the van. I made a swift three-point turn and sped down the street.

“Sergei, you did well,” Ivan said when I reported to him at his apartment on Neptune Avenue. “You haven’t lost your touch.”

The night after I’d done the job on Vadim, I went to a liquor store on Brighton Beach Avenue and bought a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka. I came home that evening and drank a little bit of the stuff.

After a while, the little bit soon became a lot. Eight days after the killing of Vadim, Ivan gave me another contract. I terminated an enforcer in Bukharin’s gang. On the evening after I did that job, I went home and finished another bottle of Stolichnaya. My daily dose soon went from a bottle to a bottle and a half. The thought of these last two terminations and the many before them sent me running to my new friend.

One December night, I ran out of my supply, so I went to a nearby bar. I drank sixteen shots of vodka in two and a half-hours. When I had finished, I staggered toward home. The frigid air blew against my face. A winter storm had blanketed the ground with snow.

After fifteen minutes, I found myself standing in front of my landlord’s house. The snowflakes covered my hair. Pieces of snow swirled into my eyes. My eyes blinked to try and keep the snow from blinding me. My hands shivered from the cold. I could not take another step toward my apartment. My eyes began to close and the world went blank.

Several hours later, I felt a hand slapping my face.

“Sergei, what the hell?”

It was Boris.

“Wake up, Sergei.”

I let out an alcohol-scented moan.

Boris’s face made a grimace.

His large hands grabbed me from the ground and lifted me up.

My eyes widened when I saw it was still nighttime. Boris put my right hand around his broad shoulder and walked me back to my basement apartment. When we entered the apartment, he led me toward my bed. He lifted me up and laid me down on my stomach.

“If you throw up,” he said, “at least you won’t choke.”

I looked up and saw Boris’s dark brown eyes looking down at me.

“Sergei, you have to stop drinking like this. Back home, this is fine. Here in America, you’re a bum.”

My lips could barely form the words to a reply. “Thanks…Boris.”

I closed my eyes to sleep.

When I woke up, I turned my body over and lay down on my back. I stared at the blank, white ceiling above me.

At that moment, I knew what I had too much of. It was time to bring it to an end.

As the days passed, a plan formed in my mind and I began looking around for the necessary materials. I continued to work for Ivan. I terminated two more men in Ivan’s war against the Bukharin gang. Ivan gave me a thousand dollar bonus for each successful job. He could not be more pleased. I barely slept for that month and a half. As the days passed, vodka replaced orange juice as my breakfast drink. Finally, I met the man who sold me the necessary stuff.

The day after I bought the needed materials, I reported to Ivan at his apartment on Neptune Avenue. I had been doing this twice a week since the termination of Bukharin. I had become part of his inner circle. We sat in his living room and I reported to him about my activities in the past few days. After several minutes, the phone in his bedroom rang. Ivan left to take the call.

After he’d gone into the bedroom, I opened my jacket and headed for the chairs by the front door. I attached electronic bugs to the bottom parts of each of the chairs. Beside the bugs, I put pieces of plastic explosive. I wired them and set them for detonation. Sweat poured down my forehead. I looked toward the bedroom constantly.

As I leaned over one of the chairs, my necklace came out from under my shirt. The crucifix at the end of it hung near the floor. I grabbed it with my right hand. I stared at the cross for a moment. The sound of Ivan’s voice made me turn my eyes from the crucifix to his room. I put the cross back into my shirt and returned to my work.

I put the final explosive in place. After I finished, I sat down and waited for Ivan to finish on the telephone. I buttoned my jacket and wiped my forehead with a handkerchief.

I had hired a prostitute named Vera to make the call. Ivan and I knew her from the Odessa Club on Brighton Avenue. I had often been tempted to buy her services. I thought she would be good for this job. When I heard Ivan finally hang up the phone, I checked my watch and saw that she had kept him for over seven minutes. Vera had skills.

Ivan came out of the bedroom and I rose from my chair.

I saw the excited look on Ivan’s face. I thanked the Lord for that harlot from heaven.

He walked toward his desk and opened one of the drawers. He took out an envelope full of cash and handed it to me.

“Here, send this to our people in Moscow.”

I nodded my head.

“I may have another mission for you. Come see me at the clinic. We’ll talk.”

“Thanks, Ivan.”

He put his right hand on my left shoulder and looked into my eyes. “It’s so good to have an old comrade here. You’re doing well, Sergei.”

I gazed into his eyes. “Thank you, Ivan.”

“Go,” he said, patting me on the shoulder.

I left the apartment. I did my errands for Ivan that day and waited for the evening to come.

At 2 o’clock the next morning, I beamed the message “Iron Feliks” to each of the boys. This was Ivan’s code to be used in case of an emergency. Each of the men would receive the message on his beeper. I knew that when they received it, they would go immediately to Ivan’s apartment to get further instructions. I sent the message twice to make sure they all received it.

I got into my car and began driving down the Belt Parkway.

I listened to the bugs as I continued down the Parkway. Ivan’s men would arrive within a half-hour.

At 2:35 a.m., I heard the bell ring in Ivan’s apartment. The boys rang it for five minutes until Ivan opened the door.

“Semyon, what the fuck?” I heard Ivan’s voice saying.

“Sorry, Ivan. We got your message.”

“What message?”

“There was an emergency and we came. You sent the message to everyone.”

“I didn’t send any fucking message. It’s two-thirty in the morning. Christ, what’s Ruslan doing here? He’s supposed to be doing the job on Bronshtein.”

“Ivan, I don’t know.”

A pause entered the conversation. “Where the hell’s Seryozha?”

I grabbed the remote control from the pocket in my shirt.

“Oh, shit.”

I pulled open the switch and pushed the button.

The sound of an explosion shattered my ears.

I threw down the headset. Hopefully, I told myself, they had all been there.

As I headed down the Parkway, I crossed myself and drove on.

I looked onto the horizon and saw the dark night covering the landscape. The moon from the night before had disappeared. The emptiness of the black sky seemed to stare back at me. I looked around and saw no cars travelling beside me. I was alone on this road. I looked toward the crucifix on my dashboard. I hoped that our Lord would stay with me on this journey. Perhaps He might even forgive me.

Father, pray for me, will you?

 

[END]

© 2005 Naim Peress - Contributor's Bio

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