Leningrad Shuffle

Excerpt from Diary of a Reactionary: My Life in the Sons of Liberty by Paul Matthews (UASR: University of Colorado Press, 1983)

Leningrad was probably the coldest I ever got. Even the harshest Colorado winters could’ve never prepared me for Russia. It didn’t help that the Nazis were reportedly approaching the city. I sipped as much hot chocolate as I could. I would’ve appreciated cigarettes too, but they weren’t in the rations.

Still wore my heaviest clothing, along with the other soldiers. I was keeping prepared for any event. 3 years in basic training taught me that.

“Matthews!”

I turned to see Commissar Jeff approaching me from behind.

“The officer wants to see us. We have a new assignment.”

“On the frontlines?”

“Don’t know.”

I followed Jeff into the tent, where the officer was viewing a map of the city, with the Nazis just outside, waiting behind their lines. He turned.

“Ah, Matthews, Cooper. Sit down.”

The officer pulled out a photo of several buildings. On the far right was the Romanov Winter Palace. He then points out one of the other buildings.

“You both know what this building is?”

Jeff nodded, while I stared at the photo. Can’t say I was terribly cultured, even after my education in socialism.

“The Hermitage,” Jeff said. “One of the most famous bourgeois art museums in the world. Built by the Tsaress Catherine the Great in the 18th century.”

“Indeed! Bourgeois or not, the paintings have significant value to our Russian comrades. They sold a lot of them to fund themselves when they were still trying to build socialism. Under no circumstances can we allow objects of that value to fall into the hands of Germans.”

Jeff took the photo and looked at it.

“Cooper, you’ve done an excellent job with this squadron, rehabilitating these reactionary teenagers to proletarians, like with Comrade Matthews here. I would like you and some of your soldiers to supervise the evacuation.”

“And me, sir?”

“Well, you’re to assist Comrade Cooper directly as one of these soldiers.”

Jeff eyed me for a second.

“Think you can handle it.”

Transporting a bunch of art? Not exactly what I’d imagine when I joined, but I had a job to do.

“Yes, comrade.”

[…]

“It’s cold as hell out here!” Jesse yelled at no one in particular, shivering as we moved in the transport truck.

Across from him, George just stared him down, irritated. Or angry. He just always seemed to be intense. Emotionless. Meanwhile, Jeff, next to him holding a rifle, just chuckled.

“What’s the matter? Nothing like it back home?”

Jesse just glared at Jeff, before going back to shivering.

“You should’ve thought of this before you tried to burn down that grocery store in Monroe.”

“I didn’t do that! Or.. I wasn’t trying to! I was going to start a small fire as a warning to the local officials, and it got out of hand. No one got hurt! I gave all them names from the Sons of the Confederacy to StateSec when I was caught.”

He didn’t mention that the grocery store was operated by Africans, and he wanted to intimidate the African authorities. Or that apparently his pant leg accidentally caught on fire from the boot he set the fire in and that’s how the Pubs caught him.

“Not as severe, but I was caught directly planning an attack at a Young Sons of New England meeting,” James piped in. “My father was… thoroughly unimpressed when he had to pull strings to ensure I didn’t end up at Alcatraz.”

James’ father was some big shot lawyer from the Pre-Revolution days who made his fortune in Mexican oil, but cozied up to the New Order, and got a comfy job as district attorney in upstate New York. He was basically the black sheep for continuing his reactionary activities. His 9 siblings were all bona fide revolutionaries by this point.

“Your brother wasn’t there?” I inquired

“Junior has… embraced the new system a lot more vigorously and tenaciously than I. He sends me Marxist commentary from his commissar post in Peru.”

“You both would’ve ended up somewhere in Russia anyway.” Jeff chuckled, before pointing to George. “None of you got anything on George here. Back in Atlantic City, he tried to bomb the local Party headquarters. He must’ve had a good lawyer to end up here. Or maybe they just said exactly what they said for the two of you. He was too young, he could be reformed if given the opportunity. Isn’t that right, George?”

George just grunted,

“Not much of a talker, that one.” Jeff chuckled, needling the rifle. “Looks like we’re here.”

All five of us disembarked to the Winter Palace, like I had seen in a Soviet film once. A bearded man in a dark coat (who looked like Karl Marx) approached us.

“Zdravstvuyte,” Jeff began shaking his hand, “I’m Commissar Cooper. These are Comrades Matthews, Rockwell, Helms, and Buckley. We were sent to help with the evacuation.”

“Ah, yes, we’ve been waiting. Joseph Orbeli. I’m the director of the museum. Come, come.”

I could finally see the yellow hue of the Hermitage (remember, we didn’t have color photography back then), as we walked behind the director. We could see several trucks with soldiers mulling around. I assumed those were the trucks sent to get the paintings out.

Orbeli opened the door and ushered us inside.

“Not as big a collection anymore. My predecessor was a firm believer in socialist reconstruction. He wanted to make this a monument to Tsarist oppression and new socialist art.”

“I presume he was the one who facilitated the sale of the paintings?” Jeff ascertained.

“Yes, but you should be pleased. Your Museum of Modern Art and National Gallery got a lot of the paintings. As for me, I want to use this great museum to showcase great pieces of Oriental art.”

“And what would that involve?” I asked, curious as to what he meant.

“Well, pieces from my native Armenia. Turkic art. Iranian art. I actually organized a festival for the great Turk poet Ali-Shir Nava’i.”

“Any idea what the hell he’s talking about?” Jesse whispered to me.

“Turks. Like Turkey.”

“Aren’t we fighting them too?”

“No, no, they’re different.”

Orbeli led us through the hall, through a large collection of paintings, representing locations and times long past. Images ranging from the desert tribes of Central Asia to the Venetian canals.

George ushered me and pointed to a large painting. It showed a woman clad in pink, showing her legs and a sword to her side.

George and I stared at the painting, before a voice came from behind.

“Judith. Painted in 1504 by the Italian Giorgione.”

We turned to see a young woman not much younger than us. Blonde, green-eyed, clad in a Soviet Red Army uniform, her hair tied back. She stepped forward.

“Giorgione was a great artist. A leader in the Venetian Renaissance. A Lover, A musician, a poet. He died of the plague, and only 6 paintings of his survive.”

She held out her hand. “Anya.”

“Paul. This is my associate George.”

George just walked off, leaving the two of us there.

“Uh… anyway, how did you know all that?”

“I was an art history major. I went to Harvard, in fact. Before the war.”

“Huh, so you work at the museum.”

“No, but because of my knowledge, I was assigned here after I joined the Red Army to help lead the transfer for Professor Orbeli.”

Anya and I talked for a few minutes in front of the Judith painting, before she turned.

“Would you like to see some more? Before they get shipped off?”

I figured I’d never get the chance to do this again. I never thought this Missouri boy would see the world’s finest art!

[…]

“Will you stop shaking?” George snapped to Jesse.

“It’s cold!”

“Those damned Krauts are just over the horizon. You wanna be shot?”

“No?”

“Then, get your damn act together, Helms!”

We were standing guard as the Red Army soldiers carefully removed the paintings from the building and unloaded them onto the trucks.

“Any Nazi prick comes close to me, I’ll blast them to Kingdom Come! Keep watch, Helms and don’t fuck up.”

Jeff, standing to the side, just chuckled as George commanded poor Jesse.

I was half-paying attention. Anya was directing the soldiers how to carefully put the artwork into the truck. I watched carefully as she explained how to place the artwork.

“Paul?”

I snapped back.

“Perhaps your romantic endeavors could wait until the mission is over?” James piped in from the side.

“Oh, sorry…”

“I understand, rest assured.”

I looked out for any sign of Nazis.

“What do you want to do after we’re done here?”

“Reassigned?”

“No, I mean done with the war. Assuming….”

“Oh.” I thought for a bit. My old man was in prison (caught shortly after I was). My mother died. I suppose there was my brother, who was serving in Morocco. Herschel had been deferred from service due to health problems. He mainly did some civil service in Metropolis.

“I might go back to Denver. Though, I’ve grown fond of this place. I might stay.”

“I know what you mean. Junior and I have discussed perhaps staying in the armed forces. Though we’re considering a career in intelligence…”

I suddenly noticed something strange. One of the soldiers was kneeling to the side of the truck, doing something.

“Ey, cho ty delayesh”

He didn’t respond.

“Cho ty delayesh.”

George walked over.

“What the hell is going on?”

As we got closer, we saw the soldier had a knife and was trying to cut the brake.

George pulled out his pistol and shoved it to the back of the soldier’s head.

“Stoy na meste!”

The soldier stopped and slowly rose, shaking.

“Chto ty pytalsya sdelat?”

The soldier just stood there with his hands up. George cocked the gun.

“otvechay!”

On a hunch, I decided to take a chance.

“Du wurdest geschickt?”

The soldier cringed further, before nodding.

“A fucking Kraut. I should’ve known.” George turned the soldier around, and shoved the gun down his mouth “I oughtta blow this bastard’s head clean off his…”

“Rockwell! Stop with that Gary Cooper nonsense!” Jeff walked over.

George was infuriated, but reluctantly took the gun out.

“Was hast du versucht zu tun?” Cooper asked the soldier.

(The following was in German, but I’ll write the conversation in English for convenience)

“My mission was to cut the brake on each of the trucks, so that the truck would spiral out of the control when we entrapped it.”

“Entrapped?” I piped in

“We were going to cause an attack on your routes, to destroy or steal the contents.”

“Does he have the exact location?” I asked.

The German pulled out a map from his jacket with the route intended for Moscow. He likely stole it off one of us. A large red mark was placed right outside Leningrad.

“Interesting,” Jeff looked over each of the trucks. “Did you get to all of them?”

The soldier nodded.

“This is perhaps an opportunity, comrades. Let him go, Rockwell.”

George grunted, but complied.

The German was shaken as Cooper continued:

“You will go back to your encampment to report your success. You will say that you were successful, and that the mission will go off without a hitch. We … have an agent there who will assassinate you if you tell the truth. In exchange, we will leave you be, for now.”

The soldier scampered off.

“Do we actually have a man in their camp?” James inquired

“Don’t know. But he’s in a lose-lose situation, anyway, so might as well delay it.”

[…]
”Hey, Matthews?”

I was driving the truck needed for the operation, with Jesse and James tagging along. It was the dead of night.

“Yeah?”

“How’d you and Cooper know German so well?”

“Presumably from the basic training courses, Helms. They offer German in addition to Russian” James pipped in.

“Actually, I was learning it for a bit longer. My father became convinced that Hitler was going to help us seize control of America back from the Reds, so we were taught German to help their forces. Then, when they offered languages, I knew enough that I decided to take it as well as Russian.”

“Huh.” Jesse laid down on his seat. “You know, at the Sons of the Confederacy, we were warned about people who were multilingual. ‘If English was good enough for Jesus Christ, it’s good enough for us.’ they’d say.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I know.” Helms laughed.

“How times have changed.” We all laughed, as the point of attack neared.

The radio came on.

“Vy na meste?”

Jesse radioed in.

“Da, my priblizhaemsya.”

My comrades and I prepared to jump from the truck, just as we reached the location.

On the count of three, we jumped out, and hid as gunfire hit the truck and soldiers surrounded it. We crawled away as the truck exploded, and confusion emerged among the German soldiers. We did our best to be quiet and hide as the soldiers attempted to find us.

We were tense as they scoured the area, but they ultimately gave up, and tried to salvage what they could from the truck.

A truck with no art, but a lot of dynamite.

[…]

“To a successful mission!”

We all raised our glasses as we sat in front of the USO show. A fellow serviceman was performing as a magician, “The Great Carsoni.”

“The art has been successfully evacuated East. No losses or damages. With hope, the Nazis will never get their hands on it.” Jeff proudly boasted.

As the Great Carsoni introduced the act for the day, a trumpeter named Dizzy Giuseppe, I saw Anya watching the performance alone, and I decided to get up and join her.

“Some day we had.”

“It was. Much more dire than I had imagined.”

“All over paintings.”

“Hey, paintings are very valuable! Art is the key to human emotion!”

“Maybe.”

“The paintings are so valuable, because the art speaks to something. Art can reflect anything, distant places, distant times, the sadness or happiness of human existence. Our enemies know that. They had an exhibition about what they perceived as ‘degenerate art’, and destroyed it.”

“Really? They were that scared of it?”

“Oh, yes, because the kinds of art made them fearful. It expressed ideas scary to them. About a society not so rigid. They wanted this art to validate their belief that they were the superior culture.”

“I never thought of it that way.”

We talked and debated art, jazz (she wasn’t much of a fan, but I won her over), movies, and latkes vs. pancakes well after the performance.

My wife tells me nowadays that’s when our romance really began. She also credits herself with starting me down the illustrator path, and I don’t disagree. I started my wartime drawings shortly after, during the Battle of Moscow. *[WPA]: Works Progress Administration *[NBI]: National Bureau of Investigation