Assassination of E. Hemingway

By Chuck Waldron

For a fan of historical fiction, An Assassination of E. Hemingway has it all, a thriller filled with conspiracies, revolutions, double-dealing, lies disguised as propaganda, assassination, and wars.
Pasha, the central character, made his choice between Trotsky and Stalin. That choice cast a forty-six-year shadow over him from 1917 in Petrograd, Germany, Spain, Mexico to Cuba in 1959. Dealt a bad hand, Pasha played it to the end, with a bit of help from some friends.  
Internally, Pasha started to have misgivings about his passion for the Revolution and international Communism. Doubts gradually eroded his convictions. Outwardly, Pasha faced an evil life-long nemesis and, at the same time, the long reach of a KGB death warrant.
What will be the consequence of that choice made back in 1917?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BooxAi
• Release date: Jul 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9789655780147

Book preview

Prologue

If you’re reading this, you may - perhaps - need a translation if your Russian isn’t up to the nuances.

В течение длительного времени, мертвая точка. It means, for a long time, dead.

They’re coming for me. It’s only a matter of time. I don’t even bother locking the doors at night. If they want me, well…

Fate? Chance? Destiny? Please do not mourn for me or celebrate my life. I’m quietly living out my string. I made my choices and am at peace with them. Can many say the same?

I’m too drained for philosophy, speculating, wondering if my life was the result of accident or fate, or perhaps both, if I think about it.

Passing on a sidewalk, you might have noted my bushy eyebrows. Years ago, I gave up trying to tame them. That, along with my dark skin, might’ve suggested Slavic to you, and you wouldn’t have been far off the mark. I was too short to be called tall and too tall to be called short. My best attribute was looking like an everyman, someone you would pass without remembering.

I’ve been known by many names, of course, but that was the nature of my profession.

Maybe my beginnings will help you understand me better. There’s a saying when I was a young boy in my home village. "Ничего хорошего в Одильск никогда не приходит, Russian for nothing good ever comes to Odilsk.

Born on 4 February 1899, what did anyone know about the whirlwinds of change that the next century would bring?

The collective memory of those events is now swept into the dust-bin of history.

My name is Slavsky Pavel. My Patronymic, Ivanovich. My Papa and friends called me Pasha. My home was on the other side of the mountains, our Russian version of what you Americans would call living on the wrong side of the tracks.

My small village of Odilsk was perched on a dirt road, a motley collection of huts. None would be mistaken for a dacha. Looking east, I could see for what seemed like hundreds of miles stretching over a vast plain. To the west lies a forest so dense it was difficult to walk through. Giant trees and dense undergrowth made hiding places for our version of hide and seek.

The village was there because of those woods. Men from my village hewed trees, cutting them to be shipped to the Tzar’s warehouse. The Tzar made lots of money from the wood. The woodcutters, not so much

My first memory? From the beginning, I’ve lived with guilt, drawing from that wellspring of Ruskey entrenched melancholia. I was told I’d killed my mother. She died three days after I was born. I grew up hearing the whispers, blaming me. A heavy burden for a young boy to carry, eh?

I remember another day. 15 January, a few days away from my sixteenth birthday. Maybe it started with a neighbor who coveted our backyard for a vegetable garden. It could have been someone with a grudge, angry at my father for some reason. My father could be an unpleasant man when he was drunk, which was most of the time.

It didn’t matter, the who. What mattered was what.

It may have been the Tzar having an itch he wanted to scratch with our tiny village. In any case, the Cossacks turned up one day. They couldn’t have been looking for Jews. The last pogrom sent them packing a long time ago. Well, there was one exception. The young man was a village secret, my close friend Mikhail was Jewish. His parents and brother weren’t so lucky. Their vanishing during the last pogrom remains a mystery.

The Cossacks rode in, looking grand, sitting back-straight, sunlight flashing from their daggers.

Look at that pair, Papa said in a low voice. Then my father turned strangely quiet as the event unfolded. He pointed with his chin towards two men on horseback, following the Cossacks. I still remember their eyes. They looked like marbles as they glanced in my direction. Hard piercing eyes, black as coal.

Okhrana, Papa whispered, sounding exceedingly sober. See the way they looked at us? He moved to shield me from their view. It will get dark soon. Then, you leave. Pack all you can carry.

I heard something in his voice. Fear? Papa was never afraid of anything or anyone. Now I heard and smelled his fear. I nodded my understanding.

Go through the forest. Keep walking west. The sun reflected from the moisture forming in the corner of his eye.

Is he crying? Yes, he is.

Remember the forked tree, the one divided by a lightning? I nodded, Turn left and follow that trail into the forest. Walk until you come to the mountains. After that, cross over and keep going west. Be careful who you ask for help.

We all knew the dreaded Okhrana. The Tsar’s secret police could arrest someone who looked at them in the wrong way. My father apparently did that.

I looked to the west, seeing ominous-looking clouds flooding over jagged mountains, seeping through a pass formed by two peaks, snaking down a valley between trees, marching in a direct line towards Odilsk. A wall of threatening black clouds framed the storm heading our way.

The sun went into hiding, and darkness came quickly that night. My father handed me a leather bag. It’s all the coins I have, he said. His voice was soft, unusual for him to appear sober. They are coming for both of us, but you will be gone. Stay gone, my son.

Chapter 1

January 1915 - Odilsk, Russia

Pasha knew his father’s instructions were important. His Papa would roar like a bull when he was angry or wanted to make a point. This night, however, his father spoke in low tones, as if emphasizing their importance.

Follow the stars. The stars are your friends. Remember what I say, Pasha. The stars are your only friends. Keep going west. Do you hear me, Pasha?

Yes, Papa.

"The Cossacks will hunt you down if you stay on roads, but they are afraid of the forest. That will be your advantage.

Once over the mountains, approach with caution. Muzhiks are the peasant farmers breaking their backs tilling the Tzar’s land. They will have no love for the Tzar. Avoid villages. Some nosy Babushka will point the finger at you in exchange for a coin from the Okhrana, the not-so-secret police. Take this map I made," handing Pasha a folded paper.

Pasha said nothing, staggered by the fervency in the old man’s words. He unfolded the crude map, studying a trail marked by his Papa.

The bastards are afraid of the forest. You and I know better, my son. Use their fear of wild animals and imaginary creatures they fear lurk in the dark.

Follow the rough paths through the trees. Nobody lives there. Search for water. The forest is blessed with small streams. The timberland provides the food you will need. You knew how to find nourishment. When you reach the far side of the trees, you will see mountains. Turn south until you spot the way between the two peaks shaped like a camel. Cross over and keep hiking west.

Pasha watched his father wipe the moisture from his eyes but pretended he didn’t notice.

I made that route once when I was your age. It’s an arduous trek in the dark months of winter. Look for a town with many churches. The town is called Solikamsk. Ask for the Mad Priest named Gennady. If he’s still alive, your uncle Gennady will help you. Now, go.

Uncle? Mad priest? Did I hear correctly?

At the first sight of the rising moon, Pasha lifted his bag. He never forgot his father’s body-hugging embrace. The young man turned away and stepped out the back door. He breathed in the earthy scent from the neighbor’s two mules. They didn’t look up from the feeding trough as Pasha vanished into the graying dusk.

Pasha paused at the edge of the forest. Shifting his carry-all, he turned for a final look at his village and a sight that would scar him for life. He used his hand to part the tall grasses. He witnessed Cossacks drag a man to the middle of the street. Even in the dimming light, he knew it was his father. They began striking him with rifles and repeatedly kicking him. Pasha watched until there was a disturbing flash of light, followed by the sound of a gunshot. His father’s body lay on the road, motionless.

Pasha pulled his hand back, the parted grasses closed like a stage curtain.

Struggling to cope with the sight of his father’s murder, he made a vow of revenge.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness. He looked up. Using the stars as a guide, he headed into the thick forest. Pasha, the son of a woodsman, vanished quickly into the darkness. He soon set at a steady pace.

He wouldn’t need a calendar or watch, even if such things were available. Darkness enveloped the Russian north in mid-winter. The cold was tolerable for a young man born to it. Trees with broad spreading branches kept the bone-chilling wind at bay. Moving facilitated blood flow, helping maintain his body temperature.

Pasha knew that if he kept this pace, he would have the advantage over anyone following him into the trees. In their irrational fear, they would wait for daylight. In January, darkness lasted nearly nineteen hours. That gave Pasha a considerable head start. He walked at a steady pace. Each hour puts more than three miles behind him.

Once, he stopped at the sound of a nearby animal scurrying away.

Advancing, he sniffed for the odors of forest creatures. Those unfamiliar with the woods at night might be tentative and afraid. Young Pasha advanced as if he was on a city sidewalk.

He knew the woods also had dangers, but that was the risk he had to take.

He stopped when he sensed the unique scent of a bear. Pasha kept still, listening to the beast sniffing and pawing for food. The bear seemed unaware of a human’s proximity. Glancing up at tree leaves fluttering, Pasha understood the reason for his good fortune. He was upwind from the animal. Finally, the bear’s footsteps evaporated into the surrounding trees. When it was safe to do so, Pasha let out a long breath of relief.

Inhaling cold air and expelling vapor, Pasha kept trudging until the first light. When the first traces of sunlight streaked through canopied leaves overhead, he stopped. His legs throbbing, pain impossible to ignore. He consoled himself, knowing he no longer needed to push himself as vigorously.

Using his carry-all as a pillow, he lay back watching a large raptor, a Norther Goshawk. He smiled as it glided in graceful circles, watching for prey.

Pasha slept, bathed in the subtle warmth of sunlight.

In five hours, darkness would return. He needed to be on the move again, but he was confident nobody was close behind.

But images of his father’s murder pushed restful sleep to the side. Still, Pasha couldn’t cry, his emotions locked away.

The following night, Pasha was glad he maintained the demanding pace that first night. Each mile put a significant distance from those hunting him. The forest was his chief advantage. Cossacks looked grand on horseback, but such horses were no use in a thick forest without clear trails, especially at night. They were bred for galloping across the vast expanse of the wide-open steppes.

Now, moving among oak, birch, spruce trees, and dense undergrowth, the near-impenetrable forest calmed Pasha. The thick woods were inaccessible to anyone unfamiliar with them. Taking no chances, however, he continued to force himself at a punishing pace. Five days later, Pasha stepped into the sunlight, leaving the shadowy woods behind.

Pasha stood in awe of the snow-covered mountains. He had never been this close before. Cloud banks swept between peaks as if an unseen dragon was on the other side, blowing streaming vapors west to east.

Gathering kindling, he started a fire, no longer worried about being detected. Pasha used his knife to deftly skin the rabbit he’d trapped. He held the meat over flames.

He felt overwhelmed at the scale of the mountains. He stared at the map his father made for him, with a V mark to indicate a place to cross. When the rabbit was cooked, he paced back and forth, chewing on the meat, wiping drippings from his growing beard. Then he saw it. Two mountain peaks formed an almost perfect Vee, just like the mark on his father’s crude map.

Resting two more nights, he set off, plunging his feet through the top layer of snow. He tried to ignore the cold. It seemed like being attacked by a swarm of bees, biting hard pellets striking his face.

No turning back. From here on, it was one foot beyond the other. Then one more after that.

He imagined his father making this trek. Pasha’s tears turned instantly into frozen beads.

Moving and stumbling down the western slope of the mountains, Pasha didn’t look back. He tried to put the memory of his mountain crossing behind, a blur of cold, wind, snow, and ice.

Reaching the mountain top, he’d faced the wind and stretched out his hand. It was too cold to celebrate. He was caked with snow, looking like an albino nailed to a crucifix. It was foolish. Time to move on.

More distance from Papa.

Each step and stumble down the west-facing slop brought warmer temperatures. Soon he was walking along a dust-covered road.

Pasha carved a mark on his walking stick each night. It was a woodsman’s trick to keep track of time. He’d cut fifty-three marks into the wood when he stopped at the last farm. He had no way of knowing he’d pushed himself at a brutal pace for over nine hundred miles.

His beard, grown long, was filthy with dirt. His leather boots, now worn through, added to Pasha’s limp from a recent sprain.

He could tell they were wary, but invited him in. He’d asked how he would know the town. When you see rising church spires in the distance, that will be Solikamsk. You will recognize many churches, the peasant woman said, her husband nodding in agreement.

Pasha, heeding his father’s counsel, had approached the farm with caution. Papa was right. These people held no love for the Tzar. Farmers he met along the way were all suspicious at first. Strangers always brought with them an element of peril.

We toil and farm the land. The Tzar takes the crops and meat. Saying this, the old woman, with a face like a raisin, spat into the fire. The man nodded, exhaling smoke from his pipe, forming a cloud around his head.

They don’t leave us with enough to live on, the old woman said. They don’t care about us as long as we meet their quota.

We have our ways, the man said. Crops and game are hidden under rocks and places they don’t know about.

Shush, the Babushka said. The Okhrana has big ears.

Rest tonight, she told Pasha. Follow the road tomorrow. It leads to Solikamsk, on the banks of the river Karma.

What about Cossacks? What about Okhrana? Pasha asked.

Not so much on our side of the mountains, the old man said. It’s the Army you need to worry about. They have orders to conscript men your age. Although you can see them coming for miles with all the dust, they stir up, get off the road quickly. Lay flat. It makes it impossible to see you among the sunflowers, grasses, and wheat.

The next morning, Pasha encountered people moving in the opposite direction. Heads low, they mumbled what might pass as hello, or not. Russians rarely looked strangers in the eye, and peasants never did so.

Now, on the edge of the town, he wondered. Was it true? Did Papa have an uncle here? If so, was Uncle Gennady still alive? Entering town, passers-by gave him sullen, suspicious glances. Pasha did the same, not trusting them either. It was ingrained. Russians had long ago learned to avoid eye contact.

Pasha entered the town market square. Dust clouds swarmed around his feet like a swarm of mosquitoes.

A tall man strode toward him, cassock billowing in the wind. He was a black priest, called that because of the color of his robe. The scowling priest tried holding his robe together with one hand, his skufia with the other, while cursing the wind.

Noting theskufia, a hat worn by lower-ranking priests, emboldened Pasha. He held up a hand to stop the man, obviously annoyed to be delayed.

Reverend Father, I’m looking for my uncle, a priest here. Will you help me, please?

When the sour-faced priest heard the name Gennady, he looked like he wanted to spit.

I don’t know why that man wasn’t defrocked long ago, the priest said. A troublemaker. Hah, I know he’s being watched by the—. He didn’t finish. Still, if you are indeed related, search for the dilapidated wooden church, pointing toward the river. If the termites haven’t chewed it to the ground, he will be there in all piety, handing out food to beggars.

With that, the priest with the red skufia strode off, looking as if he had a sign on his back saying "Жопа." Pasha laughed at the Russian word for arsehole.

The wooden church wasn’t as decrepit as described, but it was no rival to the grand churches in the center of town. A man in a blue cassock stood in the center of a crowd. He ladled soup into gourds, while an aide at his side handed out slabs of bread. Pasha stood back, watching.

No one started eating until the priest held a slab of bread over his head. In the name of our almighty redeemer, he began. After the blessing, people ate slowly, as if knowing it may well be the last.

There was no mistaking the man. Pasha, feeling light-headed, stared as if seeing an apparition.

Uncle Gennady and his Papa were twins.

Chapter 2

April 1915 – Solikamsk, Russia

As if sensing a new presence, the priest in the blue cassock turned his head, cocking it to one side. He stared at Pasha's features and slapped a hand to the side of his face. A smile flickered like the first small flames of kindling ready to burst into flame.

He rushed over and grabbed Pasha in a great bear-hug, lifting the boy off the ground.

My God, he cried. I know you! You have to be Pasha. You look like...He frowned, wavy lines wrinkling his forehead, his hand covering his mouth. …your father." It sounded like a question, but the priest knew.

The Cossacks, Pasha answered. No further explanation was needed.

How long since you've had a proper meal? You need to put on some weight. You look like a broomstick.

Pasha looked over at the tables. They're so many. I don't want to take from them.

My nephew, the priest roared to the crowd, wants to know if we have enough food for him.

This was greeted with laughter. The Father is making a joke, someone yelled.

He feeds us with loaves and fishes, another added.

I'm preparing more soup, and I have bread fresh from the oven, a voice from what looked like a kitchen.

Pasha and his uncle tore a portion of a loaf of bread into two pieces. They scooped a slight hollow in the dough. They followed an ancient tradition of salt onto bread. We serve bread to welcome you, salt to toast a long friendship.

"Khleb da sol! Bread and salt!"

Bread and salt, Pasha replied, smiling for the first time since….

He couldn’t remember the last time.

Uncle Gennady, Father Gennady, rushed into the kitchen. Returning with a ceramic jug, he roared. "Vodka! Nostrovia!

Pasha wondered if his uncle was always this loud. "Nostrovia, cheers, he replied.

"Za fstrye-tchoo. To our meeting, nephew."

Tell me about your journey, nephew, Uncle Gennady said later. They were alone, at a table in the kitchen. The warmth radiating from the cooking oven chased away any evening chill lurking at the open door. "You crossed over during the winter months. That is samyy opasnyy, the most dangerous."

"Ne tak uzh i plokho, not so ba…," Pasha started to say. His Uncle raised his hand and waved it in front of him to indicate he wasn’t hearing such nonsense.

I know better. I've made that treacherous journey. It’s precarious even in excellent weather. The truth, nephew.

Papa and I watched the Cossacks ride into Odilsk. They looked grand. Then father warned me. He told me the way through the forest, thickest in all Russia. He said Grass-landers, his name for people who tilled the fields, wouldn't know the ways of the trees. He drew a map and told me about the pass, the young man paused.

As soon as it was dark…they dragged him…gunfire, Pasha said, unashamed of his tears.

Uncle Gennady closed his eyes, his face wrinkled in pain. Father Gennady gave the sign of the cross and told Pasha to go on.

"It was familiar until I got to the mountains. I had to put on my heavy coat, my fur hat, to protect me from the cold and wind.

Before starting over the mountains, I spent time hunting, wrapping meat for the days ahead. Pasha chuckled. I had two skins for water, but soon they were frozen solid. He shrugged. You know the Russian way. We don't linger on unpleasantness. It was one foot ahead of the other until I was laughing as I slid down the other side. I did have one or two bruises from hitting rocks, but I was delighted to be over the mountains.

His Uncle got up and carried a samovar to the table. Soon he was pouring out thick liquid. Tea and honey, chay i med? They sat in silence, finishing their tea.

Papa warned me about strangers, Pasha finally said. Papa said farmers might be helpful, but guarded. They would have little love for the Tzar.

Uncle Gennady tilted his head back as a roar of laughter ricocheted around the brick walls. No love for the Tzar, he said. "No love for the Tzar. A funny man, your Papa.

But peasants gave me shelter and what food they could share. There was always bread and salt. They told me how to avoid the soldiers on this side of the mountains, how they're conscripting men to serve in the Tzar's war against Germany. I’d never heard about a war. I know I wanted no part of it.

That’s why it’s dangerous for you. Remain out of sight. As much as I love this nephew who walked into my life, you must walk out again. The priest brushed tears from his face and beard.

Why, Uncle?

"Too many people think your father and I have dangerous ideas, dangerous to those in power. If they connect you to me, the police will begin snooping.

I only talked to one person here, Pasha said. "A Black Priest. He described the scowling man he met earlier.

"Blyad, fuck, Gennady said in a low growl. If anyone turns you in, it will be him. He hates me for feeding the needy and providing shelter to the boatmen and peasants. He stood and motioned Pasha to do likewise. Holding his nephew in a long, tight hug, he whispered. I will sleep and ask God for a scheme to get you away from this danger tomorrow."

Feeling a hand on his shoulder, Pasha was immediately awake, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He raised his fists in self-defense.

Easy, nephew. Uncle Gennady helped him up. We can’t delay.

Pasha looked out at a layer of mist over the river, spreading like a curtain, hiding the city. He heard the sound of boats grinding against the pier.

Dawn is hours away, Gennady said as a bear of a man entered the kitchen. The two men held up their right hands in a sort of gesture or salute, then hugged.

This is the nephew I told you about, pointing to Pasha.

You look like a strong lad. We can use men like you. Zovi menya Kalya, call me Kalya."

Pasha wondered, "We can use men like you. What did that mean?"

Listen carefully, nephew. Change is coming. You can be part of it or merely swept up by it. The Tzar’s days are numbered, seeing the shock on Pasha’s face. Many of us have prepared the way. That’s why I’m a danger to them. I know what awaits me, but I have to stay. I can’t abandon those who need me here.

Pasha noticed Kalya put a hand on Gennady’s shoulder as if to say, I know.

"Kalya will hide you on his boat. In the days ahead, he will tell you more about the coming change. You must make this journey for me. I’m too old. With you to continue, I will die knowing that my blood will flow through the coming revolution. I recognize a surprise in your eyes. Trust me, nephew. Your Papa would have been proud.

Little was said by way of goodbye or needed to be. Pasha and his uncle were of a people who spoke little, their emotion expressed by the sadness in