THE SIX LIVES OF COLONEL ABEL

Rudolf Abel - William Fisher

Illegal intelligence officer William Genrikhovich Fischer, also known as Colonel Rudolf Ivanovich Abel, lived five other people's lives plus a sixth - his own.

Soviet citizens would probably never have known about the existence of Fischer-Abel if it had not been for the very high-profile case of his arrest in 1957 in the United States and exchange in 1962 for the American pilot Powers, shot down in Russian skies.

Fisher was born in Newcastle-on-Tyne in 1903 and spoke English as well as his native Russian. He joined reconnaissance on May 2, 1927. The illegal immigrant successfully worked in many countries, but despite this, he was fired from the NKVD on December 31, 1938. It could have been worse; many of his friends and colleagues were shot, accused of espionage. As always happens in this life, absolutely the wrong people are under suspicion...

I have already told in this book how at the beginning of the Great Patriotic War, the few experienced security officers who survived in the camps or were dismissed from service were returned to service. Among them was Fischer. It was later, when he was arrested in the States, that he took the name of his old friend and colleague Rudolf Abel.

Fischer recalled that the calmest period of his life was when he worked at the factory, where he got a job in mid-1939. For two years and nine months he lived without intelligence, worked under his own name and did without any appearances or passwords.

Re-reading a thick stack of letters written by William Genrikhovich to his wife Ela, I came across a revelation that amazed me. He wrote to his beloved that he did not want to even think about his former job, that he was tired of its endless difficulties and would never return to the same. Was it a momentary weakness, or resentment? Or maybe the pure truth came from the pen of a person who had already known a lot?

It is known that during the Great Patriotic War, Fischer served in the administration of General Pavel Sudoplatov. He spoke German perfectly, was considered the best radio operator of the authorities and trained young intelligence officers and agents in sabotage.

There is a story connected with it, the true origins of which I have not yet been able to get to the bottom of: either the military archives have disappeared, or the turn has not yet reached the opening of a new chapter. There is a version that Fischer acted in the fascist rear under the guise of a German officer.

In the memoirs of another Soviet illegal immigrant, Konon Molodoy, I came across such an episode. The young man, abandoned behind German lines, was almost immediately caught and taken for interrogation to counterintelligence. The fascist who interrogated him did not torture Molodoy for long, but when left alone, he called the future star of Soviet espionage an “idiot” and kicked him out of the threshold. From then until the end of his days, Young’s tailbone ached. Molodoy met the “fascist” again, this time on the orders of the Center, on an illegal business trip to America. Both recognized each other instantly. Is this true or fiction? The young man was good at such hoaxes that cast doubt.

Even before returning to the Fourth Directorate of the NKVD, the modest engineer Fischer accomplished a feat on a Moscow scale. While traveling on a commuter train from the dacha in Chelyuskinskaya to the plant and back, early in the morning he heard a quiet conversation in the vestibule, where he went out to smoke. Two inconspicuous passengers were deciding where to get off. One suggested it at the station in Moscow, the other objected: it would be better to go early, otherwise the train would skip to another part of the city. And they were dressed in our style, and there was no accent, but William Genrikhovich called a patrol and the couple was arrested. They turned out to be German paratroopers.

How did he recognize these two as saboteurs? He was alarmed by the words: “the train will slip through to another part of the city.” This is exactly how the movement in Berlin is organized. But how could Fischer, who, according to the official biography, had not been to Berlin, know these Berlin subtleties and why did he react so quickly, sensing the falsehood? Or has he ever been to Berlin?

Vladimir Weinstock, who knew Abel-Fischer well, screenwriter of the cult “Dead Season” (if they were not friends with Abel, they were frank, visited each other), was sure: Rudolf Ivanovich served on the German headquarters. He even inserted into the picture a phrase from the main character, played by Banionis, confirming this - that first the headquarters into which he, a Soviet intelligence officer, made his way was commanded by Halder, and then by Jodl. That is, it even indicates a specific place of service - the operational headquarters of the German ground forces. After the publication of Kozhevnikov’s then-famous book “Shield and Sword” (the intelligence officer did not like it), Abel told Weinstock that he could pull a wallet out of the pocket of Hitler, whom he saw on average once a month.

I was assured that this did not happen, no archival materials were preserved, there was no evidence. I tried to study by month and year where my hero visited during the Great Patriotic War. I read his letters to his loved ones, wrote down what his daughter Evelina Vilyamovna and adopted daughter Lidiya Borisovna told me. There were no such time intervals sufficient for deep implementation.

However, the topic of Berlin came up one day in a lecture that Colonel Abel gave to students - future illegal immigrants. I will quote the “lecturer” verbatim: “In his practical work, an intelligence officer needs not only sources of information, but also the services of people who can store materials, equipment, act as “mailboxes” and provide similar services to him. I'll tell you about a small incident where an accident helped our comrade.

It happened in Berlin at the end of 1943. The city was fiercely bombed. Late at night, returning home, our comrade who worked there was overtaken by another raid. He took cover from the shrapnel in a passage leading to the basement of a destroyed house. Somewhere between the explosions of bombs and shells, the faint sound of a piano was suddenly heard. He listened and became convinced that they were playing a Chopin mazurka. Another person, perhaps, would not have paid attention to the sounds of the piano, especially to the fact that Chopin was being played. Our comrade remembered that the Nazis banned Chopin from playing. I thought that the player was looking for peace in music and must be a person who, during the nine years of Nazism, did not succumb to its influence. I found the entrance to the basement and found two women there. Mother and daughter. My daughter was playing the piano.

As a result of this “accidental” acquaintance, a reliable apartment was obtained, where our friend could calmly prepare his messages, store documents and other intelligence equipment. In this apartment he spent the last days of fighting in Berlin and waited for the Center’s signal to leave the underground.

I hope this anecdote from our practice gives you an idea of ​​the nature of our work. Outwardly, it is not replete with very much drama. It is not necessary to have a minister as a source of information. It is quite enough to recruit a trusted servant. And I worked in the USA from 1948 to 1957. Then prison, arrest and in 1962 exchange.”

Which of “our comrades” did the colonel tell the listeners about? It is clear that he is an intelligent man, who, even under fire, managed to quickly realize that they were playing the forbidden Chopin. Was it not the illegal immigrant, a magnificent musician, who shared his own experience with his students? I'd like to believe so. But this is at odds with the facts and dates that have been precisely established.

One curious and documented episode related to my hero was allowed to emerge from the declassified archives. In mid-1944, German Lieutenant Colonel Schorhorn was captured. They managed to convert him and start an operation to divert large forces of the German Wehrmacht. According to the legend planted on the Germans by Pavel Sudoplatov’s department, a large Wehrmacht unit operated in the Belarusian forests and miraculously escaped capture. It allegedly attacked regular Soviet units and reported to Berlin about the movement of enemy troops. The attack on our troops is a complete fiction, which Germany nevertheless believed. But the small group of Germans wandering in the forests did maintain regular contact with Berlin. It was William Fisher, dressed in the uniform of a fascist officer, who started this game together with his radio operators. The group also included captured and converted Germans. This operation was called “Berezino”. Planes flew from Berlin to Belarus, the Germans dropped tens of tons of weapons, ammunition, and food for their group. More than two dozen saboteurs who arrived at the disposal of Schorhorn were arrested, partially recruited and included in the radio game. It is not difficult to imagine what kind of misinformation they conveyed. For all this, the Fuhrer personally promoted Schorhorn to colonel, and Fischer was presented with the highest award of the Reich - the Iron Cross. For the same operation and for his work during the war, William Genrikhovich Fischer was awarded the Order of Lenin.

The Germans were fooled in this way for more than eleven months. Hitler had already committed suicide, Berlin had been taken, and the radio game continued. Only on May 4, 1945, Fischer and his people received the last radiogram from somewhere in Germany, no longer from Berlin. They were thanked for their service, regretted that they could no longer provide assistance, and, trusting only in God’s help, offered to act independently.

Since 1948, he worked illegally in the United States. It is well known how Fischer led a network of Soviet “atomic” agents in the States. Much less is written about his connections with our illegal immigrants in Latin America. They, most of them front-line officers or partisans, quietly monitored American ships and were ready, if necessary, to commit sabotage. They recruited Chinese living in prosperous California. And they already knew how and by what signal to carry explosives onto US Navy ships delivering military cargo to the Far East. Fortunately, there was no need. But sometimes illegal immigrants Filonenko and others, who worked for years in Latin America with their wives, sometimes went to the United States, met with Fischer and not at all in New York. Guerrilla and sabotage skills could be useful to both the resident and his people.

There was, according to my research, no more, and another intelligence network that Fisher controlled or collaborated with. And in America, his knowledge of German came in handy. On the East Coast of the United States, he was associated with German emigrants who fought Hitler before and during World War II. It was they who committed sabotage in various countries captured by the Nazis. Here the name of the militant Kurt Wiesel comes up, who during the war helped the famous anti-fascist saboteur Ernst Wollweber. In the States he made an excellent career, becoming an engineer at a shipbuilding company in Norfolk. At the end of 1949 and in the 1950s, Wiesel had access to the most secret information.

There are some, I emphasize, some reasons to believe that during the Great Patriotic War Fischer acted in certain episodes under the name of Rudolf Abel.

Rudolf Abel and Willy Fischer were friends. We even went to the dining room together. At Lubyanka they joked: “There the Abels have come.” They may have met in China, where both worked as radio operators. Maybe fate brought them together in 1937, as Fisher’s daughter Evelina believes.

During the war years, both lived in a small apartment in the center of Moscow. Wives and children were sent to evacuation. And in the evenings three people gathered in the kitchen. They were even dubbed, which was original and bold at that time, “the three musketeers.”

Who was the third? When, several decades after the war, people were allowed to travel abroad forever, the third, radio journalist Kirill Khenkin, who never became a security officer, packed up and left. To his surprise, he was released peacefully, without scandals, having promised to remain silent.

He may have remained silent, but he wrote the book “Upside Down Hunter” about William Fisher and his last moments. Well, God bless him, Kirill Henkin, who died at the age of about ninety in Germany. Some episodes from his book are interesting. Henkin, who left the USSR, was forced to comply with the laws of the emigrant genre, otherwise who would have published the book. But here is a moment that does not raise doubts. The purges began, and the office in which Rudolf Ivanovich Abel and four colleagues sat was emptying every day. One after another, colleagues were called somewhere, left and did not return. Personal belongings and glasses of tea remained on the tables, which were then sealed at night. And the Chekist cap hung on the chair for a long time. For some reason it was not removed, and it served as a menacing reminder of the fate of its owner.

I will venture to make a guess about the reasons for the true friendship of the two heroes of this story. There was something in common in the destinies of the two intelligence officers - Abel and Fisher - which, it seems to me, brought them closer. Both were not fortune's darlings. Fate beat them cruelly: mental wounds from their own blows are difficult to heal. And do they heal? William Fisher, as you know, was fired from the NKVD during the pre-war years of purges and executions. Rudolf Ivanovich Abel, after the execution of his brother - an old Bolshevik - was also thrown out of the organs, and then returned. And although his wife came from the nobility, and relatives remained in occupied Riga, during the days of the war they did not touch him.

Apparently, they trusted Abel, since the matter was limited to only written excuses:

“To the personnel department of the NKVD of the USSR.

I would like to inform you that my parents and younger brother, who lived there, remained on the territory of the Latvian SSR temporarily occupied by the Germans in the city of Riga.

I know nothing about the fate of my relatives.

Deputy beginning 3rd department of the 4th directorate of the NKGB of the USSR, State Security Major R. Abel.”

Fortunately for the major, he was desperately needed: “...From August 1942 to January 1943, he was on the Caucasian Front as part of a task force for the defense of the Main Caucasus Range. During the period of the Fatherland. war, he repeatedly went out on special missions.”

And the key phrase that answers the question of what he was doing: “I carried out special missions to prepare and deploy our agents behind enemy lines.”

Everyone has their own war

Fischer's daughter Evelina told me about her father's friendship with Rudolf Ivanovich Abel, about how her family lived during the war.

I can’t judge for sure, but they met Rudolf Abel, probably in 1937, when both served in the police. And he appeared with us, on Second Trinity, after our return from England, around December. And soon he began to come often.

Dad was taller than Uncle Rudolf. He is skinny, dark, and has a decent bald spot. And Uncle Rudolph is blond, stocky, smiling, with thick hair. The third friend appeared much later - Kirill Khenkin. During the war years, he studied with them at the school of radio operators, and his father and Uncle Rudolf became friends with him at that time. So Khenkin said that no one distinguished them there. They were completely different, but nevertheless they were confused. And because we spent a lot of free time together. They were Abel and Fischer or Fischer and Abel and usually went in pairs. Apparently they were doing the same thing. But I don’t know which one, it’s hard for me to judge, and it doesn’t concern me in any way. Their job is their job. And they were very friendly.

At first, before the war, they were friends with Willy Martens - they called him Little Willy. He was younger than Uncle Rudolf, so he was called Little. I even have a suspicion, but what kind of suspicion is there: Uncle Willie also worked on the Committee at one time. Then all my life, and during the war, in military intelligence. Uncle Willie's father and my grandfather, both old Bolsheviks, knew each other well. The Martens also had a dacha in Chelyuskinskaya. I also knew Martens Sr. - Ludwig Karlovich - quite well: a typical German personality with such a good belly. The three of them, even before Henkin, were friends.

During the war, when my mother and I lived in Kuibyshev, my father, uncle Rudolf and Kirill Khenkin lived together in our apartment. Because in Uncle Rudolf’s house, I think, number 3 on Markhlevsky Street, the windows were broken: a bomb fell opposite, it was impossible to replace the glass, and he moved to dad on Troitsky. And Kirill, who studied at their intelligence school, had nowhere to live at all. And he also came to dad’s apartment. I slept on these two chairs - they are 300 years old, probably from the middle of the 18th century. Kirill tied them with ropes and slept. But I don’t understand why I slept on armchairs; there were enough beds there. Maybe there weren’t enough mattresses, and the chairs were more or less soft. In any case, these three men lived as best they could and managed the household. They curtained the windows, and they remained curtained that way. Dad said that when they began to wait for us and removed the blackout, they were horrified by the color of the walls. Then there was adhesive paint, there was no wallpaper, and they washed the walls, Uncle Rudolf helped. And by that time, by March 1943, he had already returned to his place, on Markhlevsky. Uncle Rudolf’s wife, Aunt Asya, lived there even after his death, until in her declining years, when she could no longer care for herself, she moved to a boarding house. They didn't have children...

My father was returned to the authorities in September 1941. Later, already in 1946, there was talk in the house that Beria’s favorite, General Pavel Sudoplatov, had vouched for him. And this is what I am inclined to believe. Sudoplatov, who was described as a stern professional, needed experienced and trusted people. My father immediately went to work, disappeared from home, and did not show up for days. Mom wasn’t too worried; she probably knew where he was and what he was.

But on October 8, 1941, my mom and dad and I left Moscow for Kuibyshev. There was confusion about this. Some people claim that dad worked in Kuibyshev for a long time during the war. His current colleagues from Samara even credit his father with organizing a special intelligence school there. This is wrong.

We were leaving for evacuation. A whole train, families of security officers in the heated vehicles, and Spot with us. An absolutely wonderful, amazing sparkling fox terrier with a typically English name. Dad said: if they don’t agree to take Spot into the car, then I’ll shoot him, because otherwise he’ll die. But they agreed, and our car turned out to be the only one that was not robbed along the entire long journey - thanks to the dog, no stranger could approach. Besides me, there were two other children traveling in the coach; they were wildly delighted that we had a dog.

At the end of October, the train dragged itself to Kuibyshev, but we were not allowed to disembark, although my mother had an agreement with the local opera and ballet theater that she would remain working there as an artist. We landed in Sernovodsk - a small resort hole about a hundred kilometers away. Dad stayed with us, I think, for two days, went to Kuibyshev - and disappeared. We sat without anything - no cards, no money. They unloaded us and forgot about us.

And then my mother developed a vigorous activity. The wife of one of our employees, a professional singer, was traveling with us in the cab. And the two of them organized a concert for the flight unit that was nearby. Everyone who could took part in it. I played the cello, and my cousin Lida read the poem “On the Soviet Passport.” Lida grew up in our family as if she were her own.

The leadership of the unit was very pleased with the concert: they felt quite uncomfortable in Sernovodsk. In gratitude, they took my mother in their military vehicle to Kuibyshev, because by that time it was possible to get there only with passes. Mom was immediately taken to the theater. But she, the intelligence officer’s wife, immediately decided to find where the local authorities were: she wanted to find dad. Instead, she ended up in the police station, from where the theater director pulled her out. Even then we met brave people.

And then on the street my mother accidentally met Uncle Rudolf Abel. They were terribly happy because the Abels were leaving Moscow on their own. Uncle Rudolf told mom that he stayed in Kuibyshev, and dad was on a business trip: he went to Ufa to get some equipment. I gave my mother a bottle of alcohol and said that when Willie returns, we will drink it with him. There was little alcohol, and he went for something completely different. On the way back from Ufa or somewhere in those regions, my father fell through the ice of the Ufimka River. I arrived in Sernovodsk wet, dirty and covered in lice, because when we got out of the river, they let them warm up in the village hut. There they collected all these living creatures. He didn’t even let his mother get close to him. I have no idea what they were carrying, maybe you will find out in other places. Well, all the alcohol was used to give dad a sanitary treatment.

After that, my father stayed in Kuibyshev for another two weeks. Then he left for Moscow and never returned. And we stayed in Sernovodsk for a very short time. We lived mainly in Kuibyshev, first a little on Gorky Street, then on Kooperativnaya on the corner of Frunze and, in my opinion, Lev Tolstoy. But they didn’t stay there long. We returned to Moscow in March 1943, when my father managed to get us the pass required for this.

And Uncle Rudolf stayed in Kuibyshev longer than dad. And since both were doing the same thing - training partisans - then, I think, the Kuibyshev comrades got confused and attributed the organization of a special intelligence school to my dad. No, Rudolf Abel worked at a school in the village of Sernovodsk. Maybe his father, returning from his business trips, also helped him. They taught radio science, which they were both very familiar with. Then their students were thrown behind the German lines.

They were often confused. But for one of them to pretend to be the other, as is written in some books, is nonsense. Lord, what can they come up with? They say that dad used the name “Abel” back in the war years - this is not true. This is all nonsense.

In general, if you believe the rumors, then where only my father did not work during the war. He was even sent to England and Germany. No, during the war years my dad did not go to Great Britain or Berlin.

I know that dad was sent to a partisan detachment in Belarus, and their doctor was one of the brothers - the famous runners Znamensky. Dad had a boil, and my father really liked to tell him that the surgeon and athlete Georgy Znamensky opened it. Although my father was absolutely not interested in sports. But he rode a bicycle and roller skated. But he didn’t know how to ski.

After the war, I found out: my father took part in Operation Berezino, and even received an award for it, in my opinion, an order. But everything is quiet, without any timpani.

My father left quite often and for a long time. I didn’t calculate how much then, and now it’s hard for me to figure out, even though we lived. together, of course. And after the war, he spoke little about his military affairs.

What other war memories do I have? It somehow stuck: Dad had two students - two German brothers. And he worked with them, cooked. The only time we had them were handsome fair-haired men, twenty years old or younger. For some reason they came for a sewing machine - what did they do with it? Then I broke the unspoken family ban and asked my father how things turned out for them later. He was upset because things turned out very badly. Both died when they were dropped into Yugoslavia.

Another case involves military weapons. After returning from evacuation, I saw my father’s gun for the first and last time. I could be wrong, but it seems to be “TT”. My father was in a hurry somewhere at night and left the gun at home. He showed me how to assemble and disassemble it. And he was very proud that he could do it quickly and deftly. But my mother immediately took away this abandoned pistol from me. And so, I don’t know if my father ever fired a military weapon, no. The conversation never came up.

His whole real life was at work, outside the home. And there is silence about her.

Even May 9, 1945, we did not particularly celebrate. Dad, as almost always, was not at home - another business trip. Where he was, what he was, we didn’t know. And I didn’t want to sit down at the table without him and didn’t want to raise my glasses.

Another episode from the war. Since there were all sorts of problems with the light and matches had also become a major shortage, and besides, everyone in the house was smoking, my father brought a lighter. I didn’t smoke at that time, but my grandmother, my mother, my father himself... The lighter was a source of pride for him; it had a platinum spiral.

The history of this lighter turned out to be quite interesting.

One of the employees came and said: “Oh, Willie, what a nice lighter you have. You should do the same for our boss.” To which dad objected: “Why on earth? Our boss knows how to do all this himself. He also has much more opportunities to get the necessary parts than I do.” The next day dad comes to work - there is no lighter. He quickly realized what was going on. I went to the boss - and she was there on the table. Father immediately: “Hello, you got my lighter by mistake.” He took her and left. And then he brought it home.

In general, management is a special category. To be completely honest, dad didn’t like his bosses. I tried not to contact him. Why and wherefore - I don’t know. Did not love. Surname Korotkov (after the war, the head of all Soviet illegal immigrants. - N.D.), Of course, it sounded in our house, but to say that my father had some kind of relationship with Korotkov outside of service is not. Sakharovsky (headed the department responsible for illegal immigrants longer than others. - N.D.) was mentioned even less often. But the last name is Fitin (the head of foreign intelligence during the war years. - N.D.) was pronounced - but in wartime. Before the war, Spiegelglass was the main one there. But apart from last names - nothing...

And when dad had already returned (not once during our meetings did Evelina say “returned from the USA” or “went to the States.” - N. D), such a story happened. He was drawn to literary activity. Then they just started publishing the Krugozor magazine. And in the first issues he wrote a story. Instead of the author's name - Colonel three stars.

It described that same radio game (“Berezino.” - N.D .), which they fought with the Germans. If I’m not mistaken, the plot is as follows: it seems that a captured German officer ends up in a partisan detachment. And they persuade him to play a radio game with his people. And as a result, our people receive weapons, parcels, and German troops are landed there.

But the story turned out badly. Then a certain person wrote a script based on it and a film was made on television. And without any father's knowledge. Dad tried to be indignant. But they told him: just think, colonel three stars, also for me, a pseudonym. And with that the question was closed. The father was very unhappy. Of course it's a shame. I think it was a slap in the face and completely impudent. If I came across this screenwriter, I would say a few words to him, and with great pleasure. That theft is a bad and arrogant activity.

But getting into quarrels, proving something to swindlers... All this was beneath fatherly dignity. And he always had a lot to do.

Then in the magazine “Border Guard” there was another story by my father - “The End of the Black Knights”. But a completely different plot, different stories.

(N.D.: I’ll briefly outline the plot of the story. A Soviet intelligence officer tracks down Nazis hiding in various countries. In the end, a winding path leads him to Paris, where, with the help of French communist friends, he destroys the Nazi network.

The image of a scout is completely autobiographical. There is a certain specificity in the dialogues in the protagonist's reasoning about illegal intelligence. It is clear that the pen was handled by a professional.

The editors of “Border Guard” appreciated the story and published it. And they also said: the author, of course, is from the authorities, “but not Abel.” When they found out that it was him, they were embarrassed.

William Genrikhovich put a lot of personal war memories into “Black Knights”. In addition to the passages about intelligence, I liked the Paris that Abel saw, where I lived for many years. And travel through wine cellars with tastings, episodes in Parisian restaurants, descriptions of food, seasonings, sauces and smells - this is just an encyclopedia of French life.

And again the question arose: how does Abel know all this? Only a person who knew and loved the changeable city, which is not open to everyone, can give a vivid picture in such detail. But again, if you believe the colonel’s biography, he never set foot in Paris.

Means what? Do not believe? I'm all about small and mysterious nooks and crannies. Even inquisitive biographers of Abel-Fisher cannot get out of them.

Family chronicles

Abel Fischer's adopted daughter Lydia Borisovna Boyarskaya allowed me to publish several letters from William Genrikhovich. They are simple. They have the atmosphere of the war years.

Letter from William Fisher to Kuybyshev, where the family lives while waiting for a pass to return to Moscow.

“...About coming to Moscow... I was waiting, hoping that I would be able to send you a pass, but so far everything is delayed. On this issue, we have created a partnership with Misha Yarikov (colleague in intelligence. - N.D.) and another friend. I have a good reason to speed up your arrival - this is the illness of Evuni (Evelina’s daughter. - N.D.). I do and will do everything that is possible. I want to see you at home.

It’s not for nothing that I’ve already lived as a monk for a year and am not looking for another family or connection…. You must prepare too. We need to think about how to pack the harp. You can’t move without a harp...

I got it for Valya Martens (Willy Martens’s wife. - N.D.) some firewood and a Christmas tree, and she lent me felt boots, so my feet are warm. In an apartment (Moscow - N.D.) It's cold here, the gas doesn't work. When you arrive, I will get a stove and some firewood, and you will immediately have a working kitchen. Rudolf (Abel. - N.D.) haven't arrived yet...

I am making plans to leave the People's Commissariat. Either go to the factory or take up painting. I’ll sit on your neck for a year and learn. I will be no worse, if not better, than these assholes who have taken over power in this area. Or you can do work in a factory. Not the People's Commissariat. Enough!.."

William Fisher directs a radio game with the Germans during Operation Berezino. He writes to his wife from a distant partisan detachment.

“...I wrote to you that there is a nice doctor here, a famous athlete Znamensky (runner). He is from a simple peasant family, and through his perseverance he achieved a doctorate and considerable results as an athlete. There is also Ermolaev - a photographer, hunter and fisherman. He will be able to arrange passes to the Uchinskoye Reservoir - tell Yasha Schwartz about this - we will have fish, and in the fall - ducks.

We live here primitively. My working day starts at 3 am. This is only recently, due to changes in the situation. I'm on duty. Since 10 I have been working intermittently and sleeping periodically. We eat at 10, 16.00 and 21.00, and lunch is very good, but breakfasts and dinners are rather weak. Mainly for fats. Due to the heavy workload, I received additional rations.

We live in peasant fur coats and heavily feed fleas. There are kerosene stains on the paper, the lamp is leaking... The fur coats here are good quality and large, but very dirty. You can find all sorts of rubbish on the shelves, in nooks and attics - whole and broken, necessary and unnecessary - everything is dumped together ... "

Letter from a partisan detachment

“...Apparently, on December 12 there will be a car to Moscow. Our hunter Ermolaev is traveling with her, who will obviously bring you this letter... What about my salary? I gave Ermolaev a power of attorney and maybe he will be able to get the money for December and give it to you. In general, the issue of communication with you needs to be resolved, because by all indications the matter has taken the form of a lengthy operation, and how long it will drag on is difficult to predict. It looks like I will be celebrating the New Year in the wilds of Belarus. The workload has decreased somewhat, there is nothing to do, there are no books. If you can, send me 3 books on the radio (lists books. - N.D.)… I want to remember the old and also the history of the CPSU (b). Ermolaev will tell you about our life in more detail...”

Letter from Belarusian forests

“Dear Elechka! Today I received your parcel and letters... I conveyed this letter of mine through a friend who will not return here. This is my old friend from school in 1937, a handsome, elderly man, Aleksey Ivanovich Belov. After Rudolf, he taught Morse... We’ll start moving soon, but don’t think that we’re somewhere near the front. The nearest point of the front is at least 400 km away and there are no other dangers other than ordinary everyday ones. I can catch a cold in Moscow, so don’t worry about me... I’m sending you a night light that I found in the rubbish abandoned by the Germans. If you add more wax, the wick is almost eternal. Try using liquid paraffin, it should burn. Here we also conjure with all sorts of light sources. But we are still better - we have kerosene, but there are no glasses for light bulbs, and we invent wicks from pieces of blankets or rags...

They brought breakfast - cards, mashed potatoes and smoked herring, 2 lumps of sugar and tea. I'll make coffee. Coffee! The dream is coming true.

I’m very glad that you finally made it to the orchestra, even if it was in the circus. This will only be the beginning, especially since there are some good conductors there. The circus also has the advantage that it stands still, and Igor Moiseev, although of a higher brand, does not sit still. But you shouldn’t have gotten involved with knitting, think about the fact that you need to take care of your health.”

Lydia Borisovna Boyarskaya told me how William Genrikhovich left:

On October 8, 1971, guests came to Evuna’s dacha for her birthday. I was there too and didn’t even notice that with my uncle

Something bad is happening to Willy. He was as friendly as always, nothing directly indicated his illness. There is concentration and an iron will here. But soon he became ill and was admitted to an oncology hospital.

And the day before his death, November 14, Evunya and I were on duty in his room. Uncle Willie lay alone, and an intelligence officer was constantly near him. Uncle Willie was unconscious, his condition was terrible. Apparently, he was tormented by terrible dreams. It seemed to us - moments of arrest, interrogation, trial... He kept thrashing about, moaning, clutching his head and trying to get up. He even fell to the floor, and the three of us could not hold him. He never regained consciousness. Died on November 15, 1971.