#bcysad

“Call this worker into the office, Comrade Denisov.”  Russia tapped a name on the paperwork he’d been given.

The factory manager, Denisov, checked the list and gave the name to the factory foreman.  “As soon as it’s reasonable to do so, bring him up.  Don’t indicate anything to him.”

Only when the foreman had gone did the manager show any expression, and even then, just the merest frown.  “Is he suspected of subversive activities, Comrade Commissar?”

Ivan simply looked over the rest of the paperwork from his seat in the dingy little manager’s office.  “If he is, he will be investigated thoroughly.”

“Is there a problem with his papers?”

“If there is, it will be taken care of.”

The manager frowned further, but he opened the filing cabinet and, after a quick search, pulled out the personnel file.  He didn’t open it, just dropped it on the desk and sat back down quietly.

Ivan didn’t reach for it.

After a long moment where the air grew thicker, the manager said, “For what my opinion is worth, he’s a good worker.  Doesn’t speak Russian very well but understands it well enough; he’s competent and diligent with his duties.  We’ve never had a serious problem with him here.”

One raised eyebrow and a level stare from Ivan, and he shut up.

Quiet stretched between them again, Ivan smirking internally as the manager noticeably sweated and held unnaturally still.  Good, Ivan thought.  If he doesn’t learn when to shut his mouth, he’s going to end up getting someone in trouble–most likely himself.

The foreman returned, the worker in question and the smell of machine oil and welding torches following him in.  The worker was a young man, tall, broad-shouldered and hungry-looking.  His clothes–overalls, shirt, leather boots and work gloves, newsboy cap–were grimy and clearly on their last legs, patched and mended all over and hanging looser than simple comfort required.  His grime-smeared glasses needed repair as well; one arm was taped on.  Soot from the factory floor smeared across his boyish face and darkened his blond hair, but Ivan had been right.  It was him.  Those sky-blue eyes scanned the people in the room–then double-took to Russia and went huge.  Beneath the soot, his face bleached of color.

The foreman nodded to Russia, gestured to the man beside him.  “Comrade Yonz.”

“It’s pronounced ‘Jones,’ yes?” Russia said with a thin smile.  Only then did he take up Alfred F. Jones’ personnel file from the desk.

The office took on a chill, and the two human workers shared a look.

“Records indicate you’ve been here for–” Ivan checked– “four months.  Yes?”

“Yes,” America said in a dead, colorless voice.

“Comrade Denisov, has he been here for four months?”  Ivan said with no indication he’d heard the other man at all.

America pressed his lips thin.

“If the file says so, Comrade Braginsky, then yes,” the manager replied.  “To my recollection, that seems correct.”

“And where were you before that?”  Ivan watched the other Nation closely.

Completely impassive, except for the one hand he balled into a fist at his side.

“Did you not understand?  You do speak Russian, yes?”

“I being at United States.  You being know that.  In papers.”  With a nod he indicated the personnel file, avoiding Russia’s eyes.

“Hm.”  Wonder if his bosses know where he’s flown off to.  I’ll have to look into that–for all we know, they sent him here.  “Your Russian is terrible.  Still,” and it’d been so long since Ivan had gotten to condescend to him, it felt like getting to stretch after too long sitting still, “I’ve been informed you understand what’s said around you, or at least some of it.  Speak up if you can’t understand anymore and need to switch to English.”  He made a show of searching the file, comparing with his governmental paperwork, letting America squirm.

The rude little capitalist probably was on the inside, considering how he worked his jaw, but America didn’t crack that easily.  Russia hadn’t expected him to throw a tantrum anyway; it just felt good to rub it in his face.  You lost, you bourgeois dog.  We, the people, won.  And you know it.  Here you are, begging for scraps.

“Well, it appears your work visa is in order.  For now.”  Ivan held up the single thin slip of carbon-copied paper, made somehow pathetic by its isolation from the rest of the file.  “Although it runs out in another four months.  Do you plan to be gone by then?”

“Yes.”

The answer wiped the smirk off Russia’s pale face.  “You–really?  You plan to leave after only eight months?”

“I being at Magnitogorsk for working,” America said in his tortured Russian with its hard-edged accent.  “It is all.”

Russia frowned slightly, but snapped the paper down in the file and moved on.  “Your file indicates you work on the soldering line.  That is correct, yes?”

The little curl in America’s lip said he knew exactly what Russia planned on doing here, but he still answered, “Yes, soldering line.”

Russia again looked right past him.  “Comrade Denisov?”

“Yes, he’s on the soldering line.”

“And you work day shift, six days per week.  Correct?”

His hands flexed by his sides.  “Day shift, six day week.  Yes.”

“Comrade Denisov?”

“Yes, Comrade Braginsky, that’s correct.”

“And it says here that—”  Ivan had to double-check the file.  “It doesn’t say that you’ve ever missed a day, or been late.”

“Yes.”

That…can’t be right.  Not Alfred F. Jones, who doesn’t show up to a war until he’s promised a reward and a hot dinner and even then sleeps through half of his work, who allows entrance into his home for refugees only if they’re willing to slave away for him and his industrialists without complaint.  Not the man who only bothers to improve someone else’s life if he gets paid in advance and then picks up a percentage at the end.

“…Comrade Denisov?”

“Comrade Braginsky,” the manager said in a voice starting to wear thin, “Will you be interviewing all the immigrant workers?”

“Answer the question, Comrade Denisov.”

“If that’s what the file says, comrade, then yes.”

Alfred stood quietly–already unusual for him, in Ivan’s experience–glaring at something to the left of Ivan’s shoulder and clasping his wrist, almost like a mockery of the military at ease.

Russia searched the file, snapping the papers as he turned them, and finally said with impatience just barely covered, “You have no listed permanent address.  Why is this?”

America opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again to say, “Address, house…street?” in a low voice that didn’t seem directed at any of the men around him, swore in English and scratched his neck.  “No…no how to saying it.”

“Address,” Russia said slowly and firmly.  “Where are you living.”  Brandishing the paper, he tapped its blank line where a street and building should’ve been listed.

The other Nation just pressed his lips together.

The foreman spoke up for the first time.  “Comrade Braginsky, permission to speak?”  And then without waiting for that permission, continued, “Comrade Yonz is known to board at the workers’ dormitories two streets over”–he gestured with his thumb–”on a semi-weekly basis.  He has bunked with several of the other first-shift workers, who will confirm that if asked.”

Ivan searched the foreman’s face.  But aside from the fact he didn’t much like the thought of his workers sharing close quarters with the capitalist, even if he couldn’t form a coherent sentence, Ivan had another question.  “Semi-weekly.  Where do you go the rest of the time?”

Alfred had been watching the conversation and chewing his lip, but he looked Russia in the eye this time.  “Street.”

“What does that mean?” Ivan asked.

“Door,” America said, flexing his fingers and shifting his feet but still holding his head up.  “Sleeping at door.”

This was getting frustrating.  “Do you understand the words I’m saying?”

“Yes,” and he sounded nearly as frustrated as Russia, “Living at street, sleeping at door if no room.”

It took a moment for the words to process, and Russia still wasn’t quite sure he’d understood the mincemeat America made of his language.  “You cannot be serious.”

Scowling and crossing his arms, America somehow looked smaller than before–more childish, certainly, but also simply unimportant.  When he spoke again it came out in an unholy mix of Russian mis-conjugation and English swear words.  “It is being <<fucking>> very cold in night.  I is no <<goddamn>> laughing, <<you son of a bitch>>…”

Russia’s brain spun like a tire in mud trying to make sense of it.  Who in the hell was this man, because there was no way it could possibly be the America he knew.  “When did you become so pathetic?  Sleeping in a doorway, living on the street as a beggar in someone else’s house?  Were you always this weak and no one noticed; everyone simply gave you what you wanted without question?”

Beneath the soot, America reddened.  Still, he held Russia’s eye.

How did this man manage to win a war and not collapse under the strain?

…Well.  How had he managed to remain standing for so long before collapsing?

The foreman and the manager shared another look, the kind that said if anyone asks, we’re not with him.

Turning through the pages again as if the information would magically appear, Russia said, “If you have no permanent address, your work papers are incomplete.  We cannot confirm your employment with the Number 3 Steel Mill.  You are a nonentity.  Your immigration papers, I can guarantee, will not hold up under scrutiny.  Without the word of the factory foreman there would be no record of you ever being here.”

Again, the foreman spoke without waiting for permission.  “Under supervision, Comrade Yonz has been completely reliable–however, he does need instruction, sometimes repeatedly.”  As he spoke, the man edged away from where Jones stood and his words came faster and colder.  “The other workers have expressed frustration at his inability to understand, and his attitude–he starts fights among the others.”

With every sentence America shrank a little more.

“What do you mean,” Russia said, each word sharp, “he starts fights?”

“The men say he’s overly friendly, in a mocking way.  He also re-interprets instructions if, apparently, he disagrees with them.  The men don’t trust him,” the foreman said, watching America’s face from the corner of his eye.  “They also report he speaks of counter-revolutionary ideas.”

If the atmosphere in the office got any colder, the steel forges would freeze.

The manager spoke next.  “Comrade Braginsky, had this come to management’s attention sooner we would of course have reported this worker to the proper authorities immediately.  We would never allow him to continue disrupting production.”

“He’s fine so long as you watch him,” the foreman explained, the harsh snap going out of his voice.  “He’s a good worker, exemplary even–so long as he’s kept under supervision.”

“Oh, I’m certain of that,” Russia said.

But from the corner, muttered and hurried, America said in his borrowed language, <<Can I talk?  You said I could switch to English.>>

Russia raised one gray-blond eyebrow, but said nothing.

<<I never tried to start any arguments, I swear,>> America continued, <<It’s just that the guys here take it the wrong way–or, I guess, I say it the wrong way.  Nobody smiles over here, you know?  And I didn’t–it’s not like I tried to start another revolution, I just said I…you know, it’d be nice to have some nicer things in life.  Like your own room–or at least a roof that doesn’t leak.  Or a car so you don’t need to wait on the train.  Or…I mean, I get it, you’re communists; I’m not.  I say I like gold or anything shiny, everybody gets all uptight.  I mention voting, even just–I’m just talking about home, that’s all!>>

His hands started talking along with him, spinning circles and waving away poor explanations.  <<I’m not here to up-end your government.  I’m not even here in a government-approved position.  I’m just here for work, that’s all.  Just showed up and said ‘Give me a job,’ you know?  A little money, just to keep from starving.  I’m working for it; I’m not slacking off.  And I’ll be gone soon enough anyway.  And I–okay, I’m not good at Russian, but I listen when they tell me to do something and I follow the directions, I just–some of the ways you fellas run this place are practically Stone Age, and your guys had other American engineers giving their two cents;  I thought I could help, and…>>

He looked to the manager, who ignored him, and the foreman, who seemed to be floundering in the sea of foreign words and offered only a blank, confused stare.  <<…And they’ve actually used some of my ideas, so, I mean…>>

Ivan considered the meandering speech.  He did, after all, understand English much better than America spoke Russian.  And, in Russian, he said, “And what does your boss think about this?”

The manager started to say, “It isn’t–”

But America, with a tired little half-smile, said, <<He told me to find work, any work, so I did.  He doesn’t know where I am.>>

The human who was supposedly the boss of this factory slowly closed his mouth, the disturbed frown on his face mirrored on the foreman’s.

“Hmm.”  Russia smiled, or rather, his lips stretched in a thin line.  “An American government official, reporting directly to the American president, spouting counter-revolutionary garbage to Soviet workers–”

<<Wait, that’s not– >>

“–and using our generous employment policies to disrupt production, ruin morale, eavesdrop on conversations, and gather information on Soviet business without raising suspicion.  I must admit, that was one of your clever ideas–no one would ever have thought you’d sink so low as to play spy yourself.”

America just stared at Russia, his eyes huge and his mouth, for once, silent.

The two humans stared as well, at America, shock and disgust evident on their faces–although whether it was disgust at an American spy in their midst, or at their own immediate futures now that he’d been discovered right under their noses, it was hard to tell.

“Comrade Denisov,” Russia said lightly to the manager, “There is a security force employed by the mill, correct?”

“Er…no, Comrade Braginsky,” the manager said.

Just barely not rolling his eyes, Russia amended his threat.  “But you can call the police to be here within a minute, yes?”

The manager picked up the telephone on his desk.

“Which would you prefer,” Russia said to America, “rotting in jail before we deport you, or straight to interrogation and see where we go from there?”

America didn’t answer.

“Get your things,” Russia said.  “Comrade Foreman, come with me while we get him out of here.  I want an extra set of eyes on him in case he tries anything.”

America didn’t try anything.  In fact he was silent and pale during the walk to the workmen’s lockers.  Of the other workers they passed, the obvious end of America’s career raised some eyebrows and lowered other frowns.  In the areas where it was quiet enough that Ivan could hear them muttering, he caught scraps of “What’s going on?  What did he do?” and “They go for the immigrants first, I told you, get your papers in order…”

<<Russia, come on,>> America whispered as he took his coat from the rack but just held it like he might still talk his way out of leaving, <<you would never have known I’m here, I swear– >>

“You are correct that you might never have been discovered, if we were more careless about our inspections,” Russia said loudly and clearly in Russian for the foreman and nearby workers on their smoke break.  “You might’ve continued your espionage without detection, had you accounted for our thorough investigation of every industry in our great union.”  He’d picked Magnitogorsk Number 3 Steel Mill because he hadn’t been to Magnitogorsk since they’d first started laying it out and Number 3 was the one closest to the train station, but America didn’t need to know that.

<<It’s not–I swear, I wasn’t spying, please– >>

“And I must say, begging does not help your case.  It merely makes you look more pathetic.”

Fully aware of the eavesdroppers around him, America scowled.  And, in what was probably his best Russian, said, “You cannot being do anything to me.  Do not being threaten me.”

“You’re fair game, you said so yourself,” Russia said easily, “Your boss doesn’t know where you are.  By the time they find where you are–if they find where you are, we will have treated you to all the pleasures a captured spy can enjoy.  And what will they say to that, hm?  Your selfish government certainly knows what to expect when an enemy agent is captured, yes?”

Again, America went pale.  <<You…wouldn’t dare execute me.>>  He didn’t seem sure of his statement.

Russia merely smiled.

The foreman, who had watched the entire drama unfold, said, “Permission to speak, Comrade Braginsky?  Is this man a gangster or something?”

“Comrade Aronofsky, you should learn the meaning of the phrase ‘permission to speak,’” Russia said.

“I mean, is he a wanted criminal?  How did you know he was a spy just by looking at him?”

Russia raised an eyebrow.  “We have our ways of checking backgrounds, comrade, and I suggest you remember that.”

The foreman looked as if he were about to ask another question–then seemed to rethink his own background.

<<Look,>> America said tiredly like it would help his cause, <<Let’s say you drag me to Moscow, we get on the phone to my boss, we get this whole thing sorted out.  No harm, no foul.  You can search through everything I’ve got with me, you’ll see I’ve got nothing to hide.  It’s a…let’s say, a diplomatic misstep, or–or a cultural exchange attempt, failed obviously, but ultimately just another stupid idea with good intentions that fell through, what do you say?>>

<<I say,>> said Russia in English, <<you are digging your own grave.  You will shut up now if you have any brain in your head.>>

America did shut up, although whether that was proof he had a brain or just the result of finally running out of excuses, it was hard to tell.  The foreman and the workers on break went quiet too, all eyes on Commissar Braginsky who apparently spoke English and knew the American spy personally.

Suddenly the game wasn’t so fun anymore.  Not every police chief or local military officer listened when Russia claimed to be part of the government; his commissar post was honorary at best.  “Get back to work!  Not you, Aronofsky…What is he doing?”

The manager half-sprinted to them and, panting for breath, said, “–Can’t come.”

“Excuse me?”

“The police,” the manager repeated, “say they can’t come.  They’re all busy.”

Ivan bit back a groan and managed not to roll his eyes again.  It was apparently too much to ask that more than one government department worked as it should at any given time.

On the other hand, America straightened up.

“No you don’t–”  The foreman grabbed his arm.

But America said, “I not being run.  But you not have police force–still want to doing this?”

Scowling, Ivan said to America and made sure the factory management heard him, “You’ll come with me back to Moscow.  Personally.  You’re under arrest as a spy for a foreign government.”