Get PDF Deckname Leutnant Wagner (German Edition)

Free download. Book file PDF easily for everyone and every device. You can download and read online Deckname Leutnant Wagner (German Edition) file PDF Book only if you are registered here. And also you can download or read online all Book PDF file that related with Deckname Leutnant Wagner (German Edition) book. Happy reading Deckname Leutnant Wagner (German Edition) Bookeveryone. Download file Free Book PDF Deckname Leutnant Wagner (German Edition) at Complete PDF Library. This Book have some digital formats such us :paperbook, ebook, kindle, epub, fb2 and another formats. Here is The CompletePDF Book Library. It's free to register here to get Book file PDF Deckname Leutnant Wagner (German Edition) Pocket Guide.
Treebank Statistics (UD_German)
Contents:


  1. Hans-Ulrich Rudel
  2. Buy for others
  3. badufyjuhi.cf – badufyjuhi.cf
  4. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Rudel attended the humanities oriented Gymnasium , in Lauban. He joined the Hitler Youth in As an air observer, Rudel flew on long-range reconnaissance missions over Poland. In early , he underwent training as a Stuka pilot. It caused the explosion of the forward magazine which demolished the superstructure and the forward part of the hull. Rudel's gunner from October was Erwin Hentschel, who served with Rudel for the next two and a half years, earning the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross during that period. He completed sorties with Rudel and drowned on 21 March when they were making their way to the German lines following a forced landing.

In early , Rudel got married while home on leave. The footage from an onboard gun camera was used in Die Deutsche Wochenschau , a Reich Ministry of Propaganda newsreel. On 12 July Rudel claimed 12 Soviet tanks in one day. Rudel was appointed Gruppenkommandeur of III. Gruppe on 22 February Gruppe , joined Rudel as his new radio operator and air gunner. The presentation was made by Hitler personally. This award was presented to him by Hitler on 1 January On 8 February , Rudel was badly wounded in the right foot, and landed inside German lines as his radio operator shouted flight instructions.

Rudel's leg was amputated below the knee. He claimed 26 more tanks destroyed by the end of the war. While Rudel had been interned, his family fled from the advancing Red Army and had found refuge with Gadermann's parents in Wuppertal. Rudel was released in April and went into private business. In Rome , with the help of South Tyrolean smugglers, and aided by the Austrian bishop Alois Hudal , he bought himself a fake Red Cross passport with the cover name "Emilio Meier", and took a flight from Rome to Buenos Aires , where he arrived on 8 June In Argentina, he founded the " Kameradenwerk " lit.

Prominent members of the " Kameradenwerk " included SS officer Ludwig Lienhardt, whose extradition from Sweden had been demanded by the Soviet Union on war crime charges, [33] Kurt Christmann, a member of the Gestapo sentenced to 10 years for war crimes committed at Krasnodar , Austrian war criminal Fridolin Guth, and the German spy in Chile, August Siebrecht. Sassen convinced Adolf Eichmann to share his view on the Holocaust. Together with Eberhard Fritsch , a former Hitler Youth leader, Sassen began interviewing Eichmann in with the intent of publishing his views.

Discussion ensued in Germany on Rudel being allowed to publish the book, because he was a known Nazi. In the book, he supported Nazi policies. This book was later re-edited and published in the United States, as the Cold War intensified, under the title, Stuka Pilot , which supported the German invasion of the Soviet Union. Pierre Clostermann , a French fighter pilot, had befriended Rudel and wrote the foreword to the French edition of his book Stuka Pilot. He was also active as a military adviser and arms dealer for the Bolivian regime, Augusto Pinochet in Chile and Stroessner in Paraguay.

Navigation menu

Schwend, according to Hammerschmidt, had close links with the military services of Peru and Bolivia. In his political speeches, Rudel made generalizing statements, claiming that he was speaking on behalf of most, if not all, former German soldiers of World War II. Rudel's political demeanor subsequently alienated him from his former comrades, foremost Gadermann. Fearing that Rudel would spread Nazi propaganda on the German Air Force airbase in Bremgarten near Freiburg , Schmidt ordered that the meeting could not be held at the airbase.

Krupinski contacted Gerhard Limberg , Inspector of the Air Force , requesting that the meeting be allowed to be held at the airbase. Limberg later confirmed Krupinski's request, and the meeting was held on Bundeswehr premises, a decision to which Schmidt still had not agreed. Rudel attended the meeting, at which he signed his book and gave a few autographs but refrained from making any political statements.

During a routine press event, journalists, who had been briefed by Schmidt, questioned Krupinski and his deputy Karl Heinz Franke about Rudel's presence. Calling Wehner an extremist , they described Rudel as an honorable man, who "hadn't stolen the family silver or anything else". Leber, a member of the Social Democratic Party of Germany SPD , was heavily criticized for his actions by the Christian Democratic Union CDU opposition, and the scandal contributed to the minister's subsequent retirement in early The Rudel Scandal subsequently triggered a military-tradition discussion, which the Federal Minister of Defense Hans Apel ended with the introduction of "Guidelines for Understanding and Cultivating Tradition" on 20 September There he was welcomed by team manager Sepp Herberger.

Rudel was married three times. They divorced in According to the news magazine Der Spiegel , one reason for the divorce was that his wife had sold some of his decorations, including the Oak Leaves with Diamonds, to an American collector, but she also refused to move to Argentina. The marriage produced his third son, Christoph, born in Rudel died after suffering another stroke in Rosenheim on 18 December , [44] and was buried in Dornhausen on 22 December During Rudel's burial ceremony, two Bundeswehr F-4 Phantoms appeared to make a low altitude flypast over his grave.

Although Dornhausen was situated in the middle of a flightpath regularly flown by military aircraft, Bundeswehr officers denied deliberately flying aircraft over the funeral. Four mourners were photographed giving Nazi salutes at the funeral, and were investigated under a law banning the display of Nazi symbols. He was credited with the destruction of tanks, severely damaging the battleship Marat , as well as sinking a cruiser incomplete and heavily damaged Petropavlovsk , a destroyer Leningrad-class destroyer Minsk and 70 landing craft. Rudel also claimed to have destroyed more than vehicles of all types, over artillery, anti-tank or anti-aircraft positions, 4 armored trains, as well as numerous bridges and supply lines.

Rudel was also credited with 51 aerial victories, 42 of which were fighter aircraft and 7 Ilyushin Il-2s. He was shot down or forced to land 30 times due to anti-aircraft artillery, was wounded five times and rescued six stranded aircrew from enemy-held territory. Images, videos and audio are available under their respective licenses. Home FAQ Contact. Hans-Ulrich Rudel Wikipedia open wikipedia design.

Hans-Ulrich Rudel in Adolf Galland in the back-ground. Schriftenreihe zur Gegenwart, Nr. Es geht um das Reich [ It is about the Reich ]. Trotzdem [ Nevertheless ] in German. Currency depends on your shipping address. Restricted access. Chapter Subjects: German Literature and Culture. Add to Cart. Do you have any questions? Contact us. Or login to access all content. Subscriber Login. Forgot your password? Have an access token? In its graduation photograph, the Class of seems a somber crew.

Many were absent on that snowy day —including Cy. It was as if he had lost whatever kinship he had once sought with the well-to-do young men of Manhattan. Whether or not he entered Columbia with passionate political stirrings, by the time he left, the Jewish boy from Willimantic was known—unabashedly—as a radical. His classmates, in contrast, seemed to epitomize the allures of their generation. Cy was thrust into the center of a small circle of young men who, at a remarkable pace, would reshape the New York literary world after graduation. But Bennett Cerf was the one who dominated the class, and the campus.

Cy and Josephson spent years together in the same classrooms; Josephson, too, majored in history and English. At Columbia, moreover, both were outsiders. Josephson—and another classmate who became a prominent left-wing writer, Joe Freeman—had come from Brooklyn and a middle-class Jewish home. Matty Josephson never joined the Communist Party.

Hans-Ulrich Rudel

But long after Columbia, he did become one of the most prominent Marxists in American letters. In he helped draft a manifesto in support of William Z. The selftaught son of an Irish father and an English mother, Foster was raised in Philadelphia but had worked since the age of ten in factories and packing houses across America.

In Chicago, he had risen as the hero of meatpackers and longshoremen. Foremost among the party leaders, Foster stood up for the comrades in the lowest jobs, the slaughterhouses, mills, and docks across the country. In time he also became the party leader Cy admired most. The Class of is notable for its members who soon found literary celebrity—the list also includes the novelist Louis Bromfield, the critic Kenneth Burke, and the writer William Slater Brown.

Assuring himself that it would not be for long, he had moved to Long Island City, into the modest home, already crowded, of his brother, David.

Buy for others

A decade earlier, David Oggins had paved the way to New York. He had attended New York University and stayed on for law school. For the firstborn, an infant when his parents left Kovno, it was an improbable ascent. David had not only escaped the Willimantic mills but entered the professional class. By the time Cy went to live with him, David was running a fledgling solo practice downtown. His achievements could only have heightened expectations for Cy back home in Willimantic.

David, however, had long since parted ways with his past. Cy had gone down from Connecticut with his parents and sister Betty for the wedding. David was twenty-six and Sophia twenty. They were not wed, though, as everyone at home on Center Street doubtless noted, in a synagogue.

In time they settled into a colorless neighborhood that was distinctly Irish and decidedly middle-class. But until he finished college, he would have to make do. Cy had entered a world far removed from the mills and spoolers, a realm of lofty ideas and blue blood. An expert on imperial history and the future head of the American Historical Association, Schuyler had earned his undergraduate and doctoral degrees at Columbia. He was also the eighth lineal descendant of Philip Pieters Schuyler, the Dutch settler who had arrived in Fort Orange, today Albany, in Cy took several courses with Schuyler, even asking him to guide his dissertation.

As Cy settled into the measured rhythms of academic life, the war hung. At Columbia, the war divided not only the student body but the university hierarchy. His administration would stand foursquare behind the government in Washington. Dissenting voices, whether among the students or the faculty, would be silenced.

What had been folly was now treason. The student radicals began to stage rallies, and civil unrest threatened to break out. The war served as a recruitment drive for left-wing groups. The apologists for capitalism had new competition. Among the radicals, the only question was which program fit best: socialism, anarchy, or syndicalism. The students gave Butler a new nickname, Czar, and in time witnessed the end of their prewar liberties.

It also revealed, perhaps for the first time even to himself, an unquenchable desire for change. Three events in quick succession marked the turn. In the first week of June , as Cy prepared for his first exams, fireboats lined the Hudson. All along the river, they blared their horns, sounding the opening of draft registration. On May 18, Wilson had signed the new draft law. For the first time since the Civil War, young American men were required to sign up and serve.

On June 1, Wilson vowed that anyone failing to register faced a year in jail. By the end of the first week in June, nearly 10 million American men had signed up. Cy, though, was not among them. At Columbia, and across New York City, an antidraft movement had arisen and quickly gained force. It was brazen—and illegal. But the young radicals united in a student association, the Collegiate Anti-Militarism League.

That spring New York police arrested three undergraduate members of the league for handing out antidraft. In June, the case made the New York Times. James Cattell had taught at the university for twenty-six years. A pioneering psychologist, he boasted that he had trained more practitioners in the new field than anyone else in the country. He had also long baited Butler and the overlords of Columbia. Cattell stood by his son, and even dared to hire Morris Hillquit, the Socialist leader and lawyer, to defend him.

Soon he publicly challenged Butler. The war, Cattell maintained, was not only immoral but illegal. Harry Dana, a young literature professor, was also soon dragged before the board. Dana, however, had a passion for radical politics. He was the one who bailed out the three students arrested in the spring. Butler issued a reprimand, but over the summer Dana stepped up his antiwar activities, attending pacifist rallies in Boston and New York.

Still, the troubles did not end. In the classrooms and dorms, the students spoke only of the dismissals. Dana and Cattell had long been popular; now they became martyrs. Talk of a student boycott raged. But before anyone could act, another thunderbolt hit. Within days, Charles Beard, the young star of the history department, resigned.

For Cy, the departure of Beard, who would go on to become the dean of American historians, was the landmark. By , every radical at Columbia worshipped Beard, as did thousands more across New York. It sealed their belief in the futility of institutional reform in America. Beard did not quit over the war. He had, in fact, come out in favor of it. One morning in , as the New York newspapers reported the sinking of a merchant ship by German submarines, Beard stood with eyes closed before. German autocracy will have to be destroyed.

Cy knew that Beard was not alone in supporting the war. He had followed John Dewey, the eminent philosopher and his Columbia colleague, in joining the interventionists. In a series of essays in the New Republic, which had taken a defiantly prowar stance, Dewey had even argued against conscientious objectors. Randolph Bourne, who had graduated from Columbia four years earlier, led the counterattack. A dwarf hunchback, Bourne was the reigning polemicist of the day, hero to the junior radicals of his alma mater.

Bourne found himself a leader of tens of thousands. It was not simply a generational chapter in the old struggle between fathers and sons. It was a fight for a new ideology, for a new American polity. To the radicals, who stood firmly behind Bourne, the winners soon became all too visible. The dismissals.

A Midwesterner who had taught at Columbia since , he was not close to Cattell or Dana.

badufyjuhi.cf – badufyjuhi.cf

Beard and his wife, Mary, herself a rising historian, were, however, passionate about politics. Both were liberals and, to the student radicals, rare kindred spirits. In Beard, Cy and his classmates saw a scholar willing to challenge even the holy of holies. Radical assemblies, however, were another matter. The historian was chastised but cleared of wrongdoing. Beard was too valuable to censure, let alone fire.

But he was not too fearful to quit. They gathered in a dorm and debated tactics. They decided to stage a protest on the steps in front of the statue of Alma Mater. The stunt worked. Word of the resignation spread across New York and soon the country. A chill set in. The days of feverish debate were over. To the radicals, the outcome was ominous. The Great War had come to dominate their time in college, even remaking the campus.

Dorms became barracks, and military officers had priority over professors for their choice of students. Undergraduates wore uniforms to class, and, steeling themselves for the callup, marched shoulder to shoulder across South Field. Hundreds had gone to the war. All else now seemed trivial, superfluous. The debate over the fighting in Europe sharpened. He was torn, in all likelihood, between his duty to the law, his family, and his own beliefs.

Students opposed to the war now risked being ostracized on two fronts. On campus, they were seen as traitors. At home, their parents—especially if they were Jews and immigrants—watched with alarm. During wartime, the fear held, dissent could bring nothing but harm to the family. At the start of his second fall at Columbia, Cy took the train to Connecticut.

If in New York he could find an antiwar kinship of radicals, at. A giant flag swirled over the American Thread headquarters. It had forty-one stars. The Morrisons on Park Street had four sons in service, and Mrs. At twenty, Cy at last added his name to the rolls. Oggins brothers, already separated by twelve years, would move further apart during the war. It was an extra expense that David, much later in life, came to regret greatly.

It did not take long for the momentous events abroad to redraw the lines at home. Even as a student, a budding scholar more intent on an academic career than a political crusade, Cy seems to have steered clear of the limelight. David, on the other hand, took public stands.

And he made sure that they were entered into the historical record. David was grateful to the newspaper for saving him from the temptations of Henri Barbusse, a French pacifist writer then in vogue. To the Editor: I read your article of the 17th inst. His book had begun to make me hate war, all wars, recent and remote. But in the light of your article I reflected.

The sinister propaganda therein contained was revealed to me. In , to feed the demand among American pacifists, Barbusse wrote a sequel, Light. On questions of history, or even the social and economic forces of the day, David may have been willing to hear Cy out. The first son, Russian-born and intent on slipping into the mainstream of American life, he could play the practical foil to the family rebel. But David, too, was passionate about politics —of a different stripe. In fact, the summer after Wilson signed the draft law, David even served on his local draft board. In July , he was one of three men named to grant exemptions in his Queens district.

THE LAST CHANCE - Die letzte Chance - John Hoy - Full War Length Movie - English - HD - 720p

His selection, in a heavily Democratic and Irish neighborhood, may have been mere charity. In the spring of , when New York State held a constitutional convention, David had run for a delegate seat and lost. Democrats, not surprisingly, had taken all three seats allotted to his district. In the fall of , as Cy was preparing for his second round of Columbia exams, David ran again, this time for the state assembly.

The Irish butcher and local labor boss won in a landslide. David Oggins got 2, votes and Kennedy 6, In November , days before the armistice in Europe, he mounted one more campaign—now for state senate, running against another Irishman, Peter McGarry. An authority in the Irish neighborhood, McGarry was a Democrat with a following. He owned a bar. McGarry, a saloon keeper, clearly indicates his unfitness for legislative office.

David got 9, votes. McGarry won with 27, The following year, David wrote to the Times. His letter revealed a turn away from his latent pacifist stirrings and, more significantly, a growing distrust of Bolshevism. His brother was not likely to have been troubled. By , the war in Europe had spawned a war at home.

Within the Oggins family, battle lines were drawn as the stakes rose to a new, dangerous level. They sat him down on the wooden chair and left him. For the first time since they had dragged him from the hotel, Cy sat alone. Exhausted from the long line of prisoners, the night clerk went through the motions. The camera flashed twice—first a front-on and then a profile from the left. As the bulbs exploded, Cy did not blink.

They had beaten him badly, not waiting until after the photographs were taken. One bruise circled his left eye. The other cast a shadow across the right side of his face from cheek to temple. Cy still wore his suit coat. A herringbone tweed of ash gray, it pinched awkwardly at his shoulders. They had taken his tie already.

The jacket and dress shirt beneath, its starched collar twisted open, made an odd combination. An outfit more befitting a street tough, it lent Cy a determined air, an unbending defiance that he may not have had. With care, you could make out: Prisoner A low number. But the new year was only seven weeks old. The clerk made more than one mistake.

Clerical skills at the Lubyanka, as Russian historians like to remind the uninitiated, were never refined. Maybe it was the hour, or the strange-sounding foreign names, but the clerk mixed up just about everything he could. Untangling the errors was easy. Czech passport that Oggins had used to register at the Hotel Moskva. The alias at first did not seem right. It sounded German, not Czech. But in time I saw how it had worked. Oggins spoke fluent German and could pass as a European of indistinct origins. In the s, the passports of choice among Soviet agents were Czech.

Later, in the Prague archives, the real Egon Hein appeared. Born in a rural village in , he was far younger than Oggins. He had never applied for a passport—he was too young and too poor to travel. His name, therefore, could be borrowed without fear. Moreover, the passport would be clean. If anyone ever checked, it belonged to a Czech who had never had trouble with the law. The clipped gallop of sibilants sounded like air escaping a puncture. In the Lubyanka, he had heard it again.

For years to come, the pairing would resound from the mouths of his tormenters. Ever since Paris, Cy had not been able to help thinking of it. By , at its mention even readers of American newspapers could conjure a foreboding image: the prison at the heart of the Soviet labyrinth of jails and labor camps. In the West, the Lubyanka had become a synonym for the entrance to hell. Prison and administrative corpus, it was both—a brutally efficient netherworld. On February 20, , Cy found himself inside the dark cluster of ironshuttered buildings in the heart of Moscow.

The Romanovs had had the Okhrana to enforce the imperial will, and even Ivan the Terrible in the sixteenth century had had his oprich niki. Eventually it became, of course, the KGB. The name changes have never mattered. To Russians, the secret police today remain, as they were in , chekisty.

Inside, the Lubyanka was a maze. It took months for new officers to find their way around. The main building, built in as the home of the Rossiya Insurance Company, was an imposing five stories of granite. In the early s, three floors of yellow brick were added, and an annex of eleven stories, lavish by the standards of the day, was erected next door. Here stood a nine-story prison—the Vnutrennaia, the secret policemen called it, the Internal Prison. The arrest had happened fast, in a blur. Cy had only glimpsed the night outside—the stream of snow and the lights in the small prim square in front of the Bolshoi.

The men had bundled him into the back of the voronka—the crow, as Muscovites had taken to calling the Black Marias. By , however, few in Moscow failed to recognize the crows that haunted the streets at night. Inside, Cy could not sit. The back of the van was divided by wire mesh into windowless cubicles just big enough for a man to stand in.

Cy did not have to stand in discomfort for long. The Lubyanka was two blocks from the Moskva. By the time the doors of the voronka opened, Cy was in darkness. Two men hoisted him by either arm and took him in, stopping only at the receiving room. Cy stood as a clerk wrote down his name and the date and place of his birth. From the escorts, the clerk collected his passport. Then he told the American to remove his clothes. They worked methodically from head to toe, seam to seam. The guards handed in for filing everything they had taken in the hotel: passport, wallet, watch, cigarettes, and money.

Now they took his belt and shoelaces, and even cut the buttons from his jacket and trousers. Cy still could not understand Russian well, but the logic was plain to see. Suicide was a problem in the Lubyanka. No one moved quickly here. The pace, by design, was glacial. Once the photographer had finished, the guards lifted Cy again. They took him along a corridor and up a wide stairwell. The corridors, he could see even on that first night, were cavernous. Windowless, they bent around the corners as if they had no end. The floor was covered with a chevroned parquet, which was washed each morning.

Doors lined the hallways, but they were doors without signs, only numbers. The guards marched Cy upstairs, past the metal webbing. Here, too, wire mesh covered the spaces between floors— protection, of course, against jumpers. That first night they took Cy to the izolatory, the solitary cells. He could not see how many there were; neither could he hear anything but muffled noise from within the thick walls.

The guards opened a cell and led him inside. The bunk was narrow, a thin mattress on an iron cot bolted to the floor. He was given a sheet, a blanket, and a square pillow. A single bulb lit the room, hanging in the center of the ceiling. It, too, was encased in wire. Broken glass could open a vein. The guards closed the door. It was heavy, ancient metal lacquered with decades of paint. A spyhole allowed his keepers to peer in. On the wall the contours of an old window, bricked over, were visible. The light was never turned off.

After a while Cy learned the rules. For seven hours each night, from eleven in the evening until six in the morning, he had to be in bed, but he was forbidden to sleep facing the wall. If he turned to the wall to shield his eyes from the bare bulb, the guards banged on the door. If he pulled the blanket over his head, they also banged. He had to show his head and hands at all times, even in sleep.

There could be no writing, either. Not even a word. Every day the guards would slide open the kormushka—a hole in the door covered by a piece of wood—and shove in the same thing: a watery soup cabbage or fish, but never with much evidence of either , a chunk of black bread maximum grams , and a tin cup of black tea never hot or strong with one cube of sugar.

New prisoners learned how to make it last: you balanced the cube in your teeth and drank the tea through it. Oldtimers could make the sugar last for days. He could not hear much. There was the chiming of bells—a church, against the odds, still stood not far from the prison.

And the tapping, always insistent and indecipherable, on the far side of the cell wall. But as he sat in his cell, Cy could not help but return to the past.

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

They had known no wants then, throughout their years in Europe. He and his wife had always had money, and he had always dressed with care and without regard to cost: a three-piece bespoke suit, watch fob, silver-handled walking stick, and, without fail, a black fedora. They had enjoyed every luxury, even time. Cy had counted only four days when they. Two came in and took him from his cell. They marched him out and were joined by a third.

There was a routine, he would learn, to walking the halls. Prisoners were escorted everywhere by three guards. One went in front, the second beside the inmate, and the third behind. At the turns in the corridors, small red lights were fixed high on the wall. As the escorted prisoner walked the halls, the lead guard would turn on the lights to indicate that a prisoner was in the corridor.

He would also cluck with his tongue or tap his belt buckle. If an officer should appear, the guards would turn the prisoner to the wall. It was an elaborate procedure to keep prisoners from catching sight of the NKVD bosses. No one had touched Cy since that first night. They took him to a square room where the walls were covered with white tiles. An elderly woman in a smock greeted him. She was one of those Russian babushki he had seen everywhere, selling wild berries on the train platforms or bunches of wildflowers by the metro.

After a prisoner stripped, she gave him a shower.


  • UBC Theses and Dissertations.
  • A History of Austrian Literature 1918–2000: Katrin Kohl is a Lecturer in German at?
  • Bibliographic Information;
  • Sonata F Major.
  • Mes Joies de Vie Recueil de Poemes (French Edition).

Next came the haircut. Lice and rats were not as common in the Lubyanka as in ordinary jails, but the guards still maintained the rules. Hair was kept very short, nearly shaven to the scalp. The barber, a prison guard, had no razor again, the fear of suicide , only clippers. The prisoners soon learned to measure out time by counting the haircuts. Rarely would two weeks pass. Cy had suffered the fate of nearly everyone who entered the Lubyanka for the first time.

New arrivals assumed that they would be informed of the charges against them. Someone would come, they imagined, with an explanation—a prosecutor, an investigator, a party functionary. But no one ever came. The prisoners were made to wait. They would lose sleep, weight, patience, and composure. Given enough time, they would also lose their sanity. The underground corridor, though, had doors. One after another, to the left and right.

The doors were heavy, like the ones on the cells, but these had no peepholes. He remained sitting. The office was small, lit by one light. The investigator let the silence settle. Cy did not offer an answer. Rafail Alexandrovich Goldman was a man of stature in the Investigation Department of the secret police.

The translator, who had relayed the Russian to Cy in German, did not dare fill the silence. After a time, Lieutenant Goldman spoke again. This is the heart of Soviet intelligence. It was a script. A warmup repeated, almost without fail, in every first interrogation. Decades later, historians would analyze the structure and call it a masterful updating of the interrogatory tactics of the Spanish Inquisition.

To them, it was called the Yezhov method, in honor of Nikolai Ivanovich Yezhov, the sadistic dwarf who invented the procedure during his tenure running the Lubyanka, from to Yezhov was a craven Stalinist and a sexual omnivore who devoured women, men, and boys with equal voracity. Under his reign, known in Russian as Yezhovshchina, the question of guilt disappeared in blood. But Yezhov saw the importance of keeping up appearances.

Soviet law, even at the height of the purges, maintained an essential veneer of justice. Introduced in and last updated in , Article 58 had fourteen subarticles intended to cover the range of crimes against the state: high treason, armed revolt, espionage, sabotage, terror, counterrevolutionary propaganda, and association with a counterrevolutionary organization. Investigators had to fabricate a case—a job that demanded creativity, muscle, and time. Confessions, therefore, remained the first objective. Yezhov had streamlined things. He designed a formula to entrap, with minimal effort, the prisoner in his own words.

The accused would convict himself. He would be made to invent his crime against the state, build the case against himself, confess to it, and finally produce a list of accomplices to the crime that had never taken place. The script was simple: Investigator: Tell me, why do think you were arrested? Prisoner: I have no idea. With that, round one would end. The prisoner was returned to his cell. Sometimes persuasion was still required. More often, however, waiting did the trick.

In the end, the prisoners always asked to go back. Before him lay a sheaf of papers. He took out a document. Then he took out a pen and. That must have been what brought Mom and Dad together. And, of course, where you worked. To outsiders, they could appear to be polar opposites.