Oswald's Tale (8 page)

2

The Idiot

Alexander Simchenko was the boss of OVIR, the Passport and Visa Office. Decades later, still speaking some English, he would say to the Oswald interviewers, “I can tell you very honestly that everybody at that time who was working for Intourist was under observation and control by our KGB. If they asked, ‘What is your impression of so-and-so?’ concerning someone we were taking around, it was not possible to say, ‘I don’t care to speak about it.’ Even if you liked a tourist, you had to give your professional opinion. When some KGB officer would call, he would, to identify himself, give you his first name and patronymic, but not his family name. He might say ‘This is Gennady Petrovich. We want to know about so-and-so.’”

Alexander, of course, understood. At that time, they were taught that a majority of foreigners are spies. So you had to understand certain requirements of his position. But as far as Alexander can tell, not of a single person on whom he reported could you say that he told something inaccurate. He would tell Gennady Petrovich exactly how he accepted and reacted to each person. He reported verbally.

Alexander was a Party member then, but he could also confess now that he had been afraid to become one, although he recognized that it was necessary for his future. He had been afraid, because he thought he would have to say on his application that his father had been a Czarist officer in World War I. While his father never joined the White Army after the Bolshevik Revolution and did move with his family back to the countryside where he was born and did help to organize a collective farm there, he was still arrested. In 1930. Although he was subsequently released, it was still frightening to Alexander. So, in his fourth year at Foreign Languages Institute, when one of his officers said, “You have to become a Party member,” Alexander asked his father how to fill out the forms. His father replied, “By the time you were born in 1925, I was a peasant. Put me down as a peasant, therefore, not an officer.” All the same, Alexander felt he was walking a knife-edge. It was just a few years after Stalin. Yet, his father was right. He was accepted, and entered a post-graduate course at Moscow University in the Faculty of Philology. Having money troubles when he finished, he read how Intourist was receiving its first group of foreign tourists, so he applied early and became its thirteenth interpreter. Now, by October 1959, he was director at the USA/Canada Department of OVIR, and had about thirty people under him.

Alexander had acquired some experience concerning persons from other countries who wanted to apply for Soviet citizenship. Ninety-nine percent of them were disturbed. He remembered a call from a militia-man in Red Square, who told him, “There’s an American lady distributing leaflets here in front of Lenin’s tomb,” and he said, “Okay, bring her to my office. Also, bring her leaflets.” Printed in Russian was: “Dear Soviet Citizens: Help me to receive Soviet citizenship.” Alexander told her, “You have to apply to our Embassy in Washington for something like this,” and she said, “I did, and they said, ‘Go to Russia, and Intourist will help you.’” So Alexander told her that Intourist was responsible only for tourists who were acting as tourists. Others were always told to go back and apply again to the Embassy of the Soviet Union in their own country. When they still insisted on trying to get it done in Russia, his only answer was, “Go to the Presidium of our Supreme Congress,” which Presidium happened to be in an adjoining building, and so they would walk over there, and someone would receive them and say, “Go back to Intourist.” At the Russian Embassy in Washington, they kept saying, “Travel to Moscow on a tourist trip. Intourist will help you.”

Of course, Alexander would often hear from KGB of such cases. Still, he had never met anyone from KGB; it was always a voice on his phone. If it wasn’t Gennady Petrovich, it was someone who would get on and say, “I don’t know you, but Gennady Petrovich recommended I call and speak to you . . .” Then they would proceed. He just listened, and tried to be helpful.

The first time Alexander came across Lee Harvey Oswald’s name was when he received a call that a young American was trying to receive Soviet citizenship. When Alexander heard his first name was Lee, he thought, “Chinese, maybe he’s Chinese by birth.” But then he thought, “Oswald—that’s not Chinese, not Oswald.” So he wasn’t too surprised when this young person came in accompanied by two pretty young ladies from Intourist, named Rimma and Rosa. He seemed an average young American.

He was very cute, he was smiling, a person who tried to be very appealing, and he was, yes, very appealing. Smiling. He came in wearing a short black parka and no hat and a knitted turtleneck sweater, and he was wearing a silver chain with his name on it, and a ring with a stone. He was an unusual case, and Alexander was afraid to speak to him for too long, just talked to him a little and told him nicely to go away. He certainly wasn’t in a mood to call somebody higher up and ask them to help, because they would only say, “Why?”

Years later, for instance, when the President of McDonald’s hamburgers first came to Moscow, he told Alexander he’d like to introduce McDonald’s to all of the Soviet Union, and Alexander made a call to City Council’s catering department, and they said, “What? What you are doing? You want to leave your job? Why are you introducing
this
?” That was why, in unorthodox cases, Alexander was reluctant to call anybody.

He did ask Oswald how he received his name Lee, and the young man replied, “Maybe it’s my grandparents. Maybe it’s Irish.” But then, thinking there might be Spanish in this name Oswald, like Osvaldo, Alexander said,
“¿Habla español?”
and Oswald said, “No, no, no, no.” He said he wanted to stay in the Soviet Union because he felt very sympathetic to Alexander’s country; he had read Lenin, Stalin, newspapers, magazines, etc. Alexander thought his knowledge might be superficial; maybe he had read some books, but still, nothing deep. So, Alexander replied, “You know, we’re not able to do anything here.” At that time, it was difficult to extend a tour; everything had to be worked out in advance through a travel agency. Intourist couldn’t sell to you on the spot. Alexander knew many cases where persons wanted to prolong their stay but couldn’t find a way to buy new vouchers for food, entertainment, theatre, ballet, visits, trips, no way to connect at the last minute with an appropriate bureau to get vouchers. Besides, Alexander knew that if a high official were interested in having this tourist Oswald stay on, the high official would begin to take a few steps. Since Lee Oswald had been sent routinely to him, that meant nobody was interested. Alexander took it for granted that KGB knew more about Oswald than Alexander did and that it was not his business.

Still, it was most unusual, and Oswald was very cute, very appealing, yes, smiling, charming, very quiet—yes, yes, yes, cute, cute like a teenager. And he had no hat, nothing, very poor clothes. Alexander and his two Intourist girls agreed: We ought to buy him a hat. He is not going to be accepted, so let’s at least somebody take care of him. Keep him warm.

Alexander also thought Oswald was like an actor in some way, because he was a little different with each person, yes. Like a mama’s child, used to his mother doing everything for him.

Next morning, Rimma was asked by this boy, “Do you think I’ll be allowed to stay?” and Rimma told him she didn’t know. “As for me,” she said, “I’ll do everything I can to help you.” She felt much closer to him now. He had become to her like a relative. It wasn’t romantic on her side, although she felt there might be something on his side, because he certainly seemed sure she would only do good for him. He was sweet and natural, and maybe back then when she was young she was a little more coquettish. A little bit. She couldn’t say she liked him very much: He wasn’t her type. Maybe it was a small amount romantic, but certainly they did not kiss each other. She was like a sister to him, you see. He was in such a difficult position in his life; he needed someone. And who was there to rely on but herself? So, they were friendly, very friendly, and she was upset also, and uneasy. She had thought official response would be quicker. That there’d be more interest. But nothing happened on this second day.

The next morning was Sunday, the third day of his visit, and his birthday, October 18. By his passport she knew he was now twenty, but he looked younger. She gave him a gift. She bought a book by Dostoyevsky
—The Idiot—
for him. And they visited Lenin’s tomb in Red Square. No special reaction. He was waiting for news, but Sunday had no news. Ditto, Monday. Absence of new information. Still, there were reports to file.

After he had told her of his desire to stay, she reported each afternoon to the proper people. It was very important, you see, for his fate. But she was surprised. They did not seem to pay much serious attention to his case.

Today, thinking of herself as a source of information to her superiors concerning Oswald, she wonders what value a young girl could bring who had never had such an experience before. At least, she was sincere. But it’s difficult to say what KGB thought.

Sunday and Monday he was saying maybe he could tell them some secret things. He had served in his armed forces and he had something to tell. Rimma went to her boss and reported that Oswald was now prepared to offer matters of interest. He knew about airplanes; he mentioned something about devices. He said he’d like to meet some authorities. Her boss said, “Oh, go and have another tour,” and Rimma had a feeling that maybe people from Internal Security had come around already to take a quiet look at him. Not to talk to him, just to keep a little watch on him.

On Tuesday night, however, they told her that he wouldn’t be allowed to stay; he would be refused. She could not give him such bad news then. She waited until the next morning, which was the last day of his visa.

He was shocked. Very depressed, very tense. She tried to calm him, but now it was as if he were dead. He spent a whole morning with her. So depressed. She did talk him into a trip for that afternoon.

After taking her big meal at lunchtime, she waited for him downstairs; usually he was punctual—nine sharp was always nine sharp for him; ditto for 2:00
P.M.
Now, this afternoon, they had their car and driver waiting, and it was very difficult with cars; you had to reserve carefully in advance. So, by two-thirty she was so worried that she went upstairs to his room without permission.

The floor lady at the elevator landing said, “He’s still in his room, because I don’t have his key.”

Rimma said, “Come with me.” They began knocking. Nobody answered. His door was locked from the inside, and so the floor lady couldn’t put her extra key in. They called someone from Internal Security, and a locksmith from their hotel crew joined them, but the locksmith had difficulty opening the door, and finally pushed it open with such a bang that both men fell into the living room. They saw nobody. Rimma, behind them, saw nothing. Then these two men went on to the left and into Oswald’s bathroom. Rimma doesn’t know where they found him, whether in the tub or on the bathroom floor; she couldn’t see from where she was in the hall, and she did not want to. Then they came out and said, “Get an ambulance.” Rimma went down to call, and soon after, a policeman told her that he had cut his wrists. He had said “cut his wrists,” but she didn’t know if it was one or two. “Old Italian method,” he said. Rimma was scared certainly, but also glad. From a moral point of view, she thought it was good that she had come in time. When they brought him out on a stretcher she saw that he was dressed. His clothes were dry. He was lying unconscious on this stretcher and she sat next to him in the ambulance. Up front was a man driving, and another fellow who had helped carry his stretcher. She was alone with him in back, and he looked so weak and thin. His cheeks were hollow; his face was bluish. He looked like a person about to die. If he did, there might be a bad situation for her country, a scandal between U.S. and USSR. Tourists come, and now this one’s dead, so other tourists might be afraid to visit. What with serious distrust between two great nations, Americans might think that Soviet officials had tortured him.

Their trip took a while because they had been assigned to Botkin Hospital, which for Rimma was one of the best in Moscow. It was not near the Berlin Hotel, but it had very good doctors, with a special department for diplomats, also for foreigners. When they arrived, however, they were taken to a locked-door facility for Russians. Mental ward.

At Reception, they had put him on a stretcher with wheels, and injected him. After surgery, when he opened his eyes, he couldn’t understand at first where he was, but then she began speaking to him, and said, “Everything is all right. We are in the right ward. Don’t worry.” And she patted his hair. She was very gentle. He looked at her but did not smile. Since they had already stitched everything, there was a bandage on his left arm near his wrist. Right arm, nothing. Just his left wrist. She stayed with him from arrival at four in the afternoon until maybe ten o’clock. He asked her not to go, and so she stayed. For six hours.