Rise of an Oligarch: The Way It Is: Book One Read online

  Doctor Rosen explained the situation to the impatient bunch nervously waiting in his private office.

  “I was able to stabilise the patient. However, removing the bullet was too risky. His body suffered severe trauma in the last twenty four hours. He must remain in intensive care with life-support for at least two or three days to recover and get stronger. After that we’ll reassess and decide on the next steps.”

  “Thanks doctor, we appreciate your efforts,” David told Doctor Rosen in Hebrew. “Make sure he gets through this and we’ll make sure that your efforts are properly rewarded.”

  Doctor Rosen nodded; he knew just how lucrative such business could be.

  The group left the office and returned to the waiting room to decide a plan of action. Tanya, the personal assistant, was tasked with liaising with the medical staff and any visitors or information-seekers. An attractive long-legged brunette in her early thirties, she would be much better at the job than the unrefined Arthur.

  The rest of the party departed after spending long hours at the hospital, leaving Arthur and Tanya strict instructions to check in every half hour regardless of whether there was any news to report or not.

  Before they could leave, Arthur’s phone rang; he spoke a couple of short, stilted sentences and then hung up.

  “Sasha and mama arrived,” he informed the others.

  “Good...He’ll need his mother and brother when he wakes,” Masha said, trying to sound positive.

  “Come...we should go now,” Boris encouraged. “Arthur: you should return to guard the theatre. Don’t forget to check in with me regularly.”

  Arthur nodded, no discernible expression on his face, and walked away.

  Arthur had a hard shell, but inside, well, he was harder still. He made his living protecting or taking lives, the choice dependent on whether those who paid for his services asked him to be an assassin or a bodyguard. He was completely loyal to his boss, but didn’t have any warm feelings toward him. Warm feelings were something that he erased from his life a long time ago. The only thing he felt now was a lust for revenge.

  Despite Arthur making enquiries with several contacts, no information about the assassination attempt had been received yet. Arthur despised that this had happened on his watch, even if he wasn’t present at that moment. It was his job to protect; that’s why he was paid. He had failed, and now all he wanted was to make the attackers suffer before he ended their lives.

  For now, however, his boss was laying still, a bullet stuck in his brain and his blue eyes shut.

  2 Shattered Lives

  I couldn’t open my eyes. I wasn’t dead. They say ‘I think therefore I am,’ so since I was thinking I assumed I was. It was like watching a movie of fragments of my life. Some were vivid and coherent. Some were blurred and maybe even false, as certain events seemed strangely distorted. But I wasn’t at a cinema, I was weightlessly floating in darkness and the pictures were shown around me, each time at a different place. My earliest childhood memories were scarce and seemed so distant.

  Kiev, 1977

  Despite the freezing weather, Kiev was magnificently covered by a white powdery layer of snow. As the sun was shining, the whole city beamed in rays of light. Father and I were walking hand in hand and it seemed like a stroll in winter wonderland. We then entered an office in a grey building for “an important meeting during which I should behave my best,” as my father put it.

  “This is my youngest son, Misha, or officially, Mikhail Vorotavich,” my father said proudly.

  “Year of birth, parents’ names and place of residence?” the man behind the desk asked.

  “Year of birth 1973, parents Leon and Golda Vorotavich, residence: Kiev, Ukraine.”

  “Who is that, papa?” I asked my father, pointing at the gigantic portrait of an old man in military uniform. His shirt was decorated with so many stars and medals, they covered half of his chest. Surely, a brave war hero who won many battles.

  My father coughed uneasily. Smiling nervously, he said, “Misha, don’t be silly, you know who that is. That’s Leonid Illych Brezhnev, the General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party and our father and dear leader.”

  I remember being confused by such a long title and wondering how I could have two fathers. As I continued studying the painting, music started playing outside the room, echoing through the corridors.

  “Stand, Misha!” my father commanded, grabbing my arm and forcing me to my feet.

  “Be glorious, our free motherland,

  A reliable stronghold of people’s friendship!

  The Party of Lenin, the strength of the people,

  Lead us to the triumph of Communism!”

  When the interview was over, my father thanked the kindergarten officer and we quickly left. We carefully walked home through the icy streets under the falling snow, father wearing his big brown sable fur cap. He explained, his breath a thin-white smoke, “The song we’d heard was our national anthem and whoever shows disrespect could end up being severely punished. You have to be careful, Misha.”

  I could sense his anger and was sure that I would barely escape being deprived of all my toys, as this was the most serious punishment I could imagine.

  Nobody was too tender with kids in those years. Spanking children with a belt was customary. It was the country that mattered above everything else.

  I remember the teacher telling us that Ukraine was part of the Soviet Union, alongside Russia. “The Soviet Union is the largest and most glorious empire that the world has ever seen,” the teacher lectured. “We’re all proud comrades. We’re all like brothers. We’re so lucky to be part of the greatest nation that has ever existed. We love our country and our country loves us like a mother loves her children.”

  ***

  I grew up in communist Ukraine. My family was part of the Jewish minority within the Ukrainian minority, within the Soviet empire. We were second class comrades. It was like in George Orwell’s Animal Farm: “All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others.”

  My father was the deputy chief of the Ukrainian branch of a state-owned construction trust. It was probably the highest position to which a Jew, who wasn’t a member of the communist party, could reach.

  The position demanded, beyond the official job of administrating state-owned properties, doing favours to senior members of the communist party. When the deputy chairman of Kiev’s communist party needed to renovate his dacha he knew that all he needed to do was to call my father and everything would be arranged without delay.

  If the chief controller of the people’s economy decided that he needed to build an extension to his house, he had my father’s home phone number to circumvent a shortage of bricks in Kiev. One call, and surprisingly, the lack of bricks wouldn’t apply to the people’s controller. Abracadabra - for him, bricks could be pulled out of thin air.

  The favours were probably reciprocal. We were relatively privileged and lived well in a nice spacious apartment. I had my own room, as did my older brother Alexander - or Sasha - who was two years older than me. We didn’t miss out on anything and lived a fairly comfortable life. We felt secure. My father’s position at work was solid, or at least we thought that it was.

  When I was five years old, my father began to teach me to read Russian, believing it would be more beneficial than Ukrainian. For a long time I couldn’t grasp it - I was only five, after all - and he would get upset with me, slamming his fists on the table. But thankfully, one day the pieces of the puzzle somehow fell together and the strange symbols in front of me began forming words I could understand.

  The reasoning behind my reading lessons became apparent when I was six years old, and my parents took me for a meeting with the headmaster of what would be my new school. Because I could already read, the headmaster decided I should skip the first grade and go straight to the second one. So not only was I the youngest and smallest child in class, but everyone was familiar with the school but me. I was an
outsider. I was thrown into deep water and had to quickly learn how to swim or sink.

  There was only one other Jewish kid in class, his name was Yuri Malinovsky. Soon, Yuri would become my best friend.

  ***

  The school was a long, dark, four-storey building and very intimidating in comparison with the small and cosy kindergarten surrounded by a big yard which was green in summer and covered with snow in winter. We used to get so excited when the first snow fell. We built snowmen and had snowball fights. Kindergarten was all about playing and singing, while school was all about studying and discipline.

  The school’s overall atmosphere of violence and oppression was depressing. The teachers were strict and gloomy and many children were brutal. Misbehaviour was severely punished, sometimes physically.

  The only bright spot was the automatic soda machine. You insert a coin, press a button and poof; the machine fills a glass - if it wasn’t stolen by a drunkard for vodka. This was nothing short of a technological wonder - watching the machine working was more enjoyable than drinking the beverage.

  We started each morning with politinformation - an update on contemporary external and internal events. Frequently its emphasis was on all the bad things about America: unemployment, poverty, unfair exploitation of proletariat, racial segregation, and so on. People were treated as slaves by immoral capitalist magnates. They were focused only on money-making, without any respect to fellow citizens or the country. The American leaders were corrupt; America was just a dreadful place. After hearing all that it was perfectly clear that the proletarian revolution in America was imminent.

  How much I regretted then that I was sent straight to the second grade. Being the youngest, smallest and Jewish, I was an obvious target for bigger kids to bully me relentlessly. The head bully was a heavy-weight kid named Igor, who was at least a foot taller than me. He used to call me names, harass me regularly, and steal the sandwich that my mother had prepared for my lunch. I hated that guy, but he looked so enormous to me that I didn’t dare to confront him. I just made sure to spit a few times into my sandwich before he came to demand his tribute.

  One day, Igor approached me. My memory of his sweaty face and palms, the smell from the spots under his arm pits when he strangled me, and his ugly sadistic smile, which I would rather forget, is all too vivid. He had been stealing my lunch for a whole week, but I was too embarrassed to say anything to my parents or the teachers and was really hungry and angry. I was on the verge of exploding.

  I could’ve probably asked Sasha to intervene and he would surely have taken care of Igor. However, our father had always taught us to handle things ourselves: “If I’m not for myself, who will be for me?” I didn’t want everyone to think that I was a cry-baby, asking my big brother to defend me, so I had to deal with the situation somehow.

  “Zhid, give me your sandwich or I’ll punch you in your ugly Jewish face,” Igor growled with an expression full of hate.

  My shackles rose immediately I heard the word zhid, which was a derogatory term in Russian, meaning something like dirty Jew.

  Instead of giving Igor my sandwich, I pushed him. The fury caused by him calling me zhid surpassed any fear. He didn’t budge by much though; it was like pushing against a wall. He was shocked that I had dared touch him and studied me with an evil look. He came towards me, probably to do as he had often promised - to punch the Jew out of me. Before he could hit me, I lunged forwards and punched him first.

  “How’s that for a sandwich?” I screamed as menacingly as possible.

  I was probably influenced by a Soviet propaganda book about Dynamo Kiev footballers that I was reading at the time. The book was a true story set in 1942 in Nazi-occupied Kiev, when the Dynamo team dared to win a football match against a Nazi Wehrmacht team despite the threat that they would be executed if they won. They were fearless.

  Igor beat the shit out of me. Damn, it hurt. After finishing slamming his fist into my face and banging my head on the floor he threatened, “I’ll kill you, you stinking little prick. Hitler should have sent you all dirty Jews to Babi Yar and finished the job. Next time I tell you something, do as you’re told or it will be the last time you do anything.”

  I was afraid that he would do as threatened, so I told my mother that I was sick and stayed home for a week. When my mother wasn’t looking, I put the thermometer above my hot tea, making it look like I had a fever. I was scared shitless to go back to school.

  When my father saw my face covered with bruises, he whispered quietly so my mother wouldn’t hear, “I hope the other guy looks worse. Remember Misha; if you’re going to fight make sure you win.”

  When I did return to school, Igor came to greet me, smiling ominously like Josef Mengele, when he tortured Jews in Auschwitz.

  “The little Jewish boy is back. No more hiding behind mama’s skirt at home. You wait and see. You’re dead. Suka blyad.”

  As Igor and his friends sniggered at me, I punched him in the face as hard as I could. It wasn’t because I was brave, it was purely because I was afraid that he was going to kill me and I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t stay home forever and I couldn’t tell my mother that I had fallen down the stairs on my face again to explain why it was all black and blue. You can get away with such a lie only once.

  Now, I just stood there, expecting Igor to really finish me. This was it; this was going to be my end. To my surprise, Igor just turned around and walked away and never came near me again. Bullies don’t take beating well. In fact, all the bullies left me alone from that day onwards.

  I learned that the best way to fight violence was with violence. Eye for an eye beats turning the other cheek every time. Bullies bully easy targets, not those who fight back. Never again was I impressed by physical superiority after that. Big balls count for more than big muscles.

  ***

  One hot spring day during the break between classes I debated with Yuri whether the quickest way to move from one class to another was through the corridors or through the windows. Feeling a bit mischievous, I demonstrated to Yuri the window route by climbing onto the ledge and shuffling to the next room. Unfortunately a teacher saw some kids in the yard looking up, cheering on my silly prank.

  “Mikhail Vorotavich! Stop that immediately,” the teacher yelled. “If you fall down I’m going to beat you up with my stick until you won’t be able to walk ever again.”

  It was a miracle that I didn’t fall and break my neck. The teacher rushed to the classroom, grabbed my ear and took me to the headmaster, who summoned my father.

  The headmaster wanted to expel me for reckless behaviour and negatively influencing other children.

  “What your son has done is very serious. He risked his life, and he gave a bad example to the other pupils. I don’t think he can keep attending our school,” he told my father who looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel.

  Luckily though, he was able somehow to convince the headmaster to give me another chance. Back then I didn’t understand what was in the envelope that my father placed on the desk between them.

  “I’m sure we can work something out,” my father said, almost whispering. “My son is a good boy. He didn’t mean any harm. Please, give him another chance and I’ll show you my gratitude.”

  The headmaster nodded as he took the envelope and quickly made it disappear into a drawer in his desk.

  “I suppose kids are kids,” he replied with a chuckle. “All kids must get a proper education to be able to contribute to the state. Fine. Giving your son another chance is my duty as a good citizen and an educator.”

  I wanted to ask what just happened, but instinctively decided against it. Later in life I realised that when you want someone to do something, an envelope is the best method of persuasion. Even the head of an educational institution for young children wasn’t unlike every other public official in Ukraine. Bribery was an important tool to comprehend from an early age. The headmaster got cash and made the right decision. I
stayed at school.

  Although my father was calm, I knew a severe punishment would inevitably follow. On the way back home, we stopped near one of the cistern trailers that sold kvass. On hot days people entering and exiting the nearby Metro station were eager customers. My father asked for a small glass for me and half a litre for himself, paying the seller eight kopeks. While we were drinking, my father pointed to the Olympic bear decorating the cistern. It was Misha, the mascot of the upcoming Moscow Olympics of 1980.

  “Misha, because of your irresponsible behaviour, I’ve decided not to take you to the opening ceremony of the Olympics at Respublikanskiy stadium. You need to learn to be careful. You cannot behave stupidly, especially if people see you.”

  Although all the main events were to be held in Moscow, some Olympic football games were hosted in Kiev, so Kiev would have its own opening ceremony. Not going to the games was a real disaster for me. My dream was shattered, but deservedly so. I knew my father was as stubborn as a mule, and once he decided something he wouldn’t change his mind. I wasn’t angry with him, I was angry with myself for being so stupid. I’d learned a valuable lesson: mistakes have consequences.

  ***

  Because of my father’s position, we lived a fairly decent life. However, our fortunes turned sour at the beginning of the 1980s. The Communist Party initiated a wave of cleansing, removing unreliable individuals from managerial ranks. They needed a scapegoat in the construction trust, and for an unknown reason my father was singled out.

  It started as it usually does with anonymous complaints that my father told jokes about the communist party, listened to Israeli radio and spread Zionist ideas. That was blasphemy in the regime’s eyes.

  Using such ammunition, the KGB could hand out a ten year sentence of correctional works in a diamond mine in Siberia. Rarely did anyone return after serving such a sentence. One of the mottos of the KGB was: give us a person and we’ll find the offence he committed.