Do not waste time on this foolish idea.’ Ben, do you know who Lysenko was?”
Ben searched back through dim memories of his single college biology course. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Do not be afraid; it is good that you do not know about such a man. Trofim Lysenko was a biologist who had certain scientific theories. These theories were very wrong in many ways and Lysenko was a bad scientist, but Stalin thought his ideas were socialist and progressive. So Lysenko was made in charge of all scientists and his theories were taught in Soviet universities as absolute truth.
“So when Professor Vukov said, ‘Lysenko is a fraud,’ this troubled me. Had my other professors and my textbooks taught me lies? Or was this great man who was my mentor lying? And I did not like that he had said my idea was foolish.
“The political officer working with our team was a young man only a little older than I. He and I would sometimes drink vodka and play chess together, and I thought he was my friend. I said to him, ‘Alexander, may I ask you something?’ He said yes. I said, ‘Do not repeat this to anyone, but Professor Vukov says that Lysenko is a fraud. Is this true? I must know so that I can do my researches correctly.’ He said, ‘Professor Lysenko is a great man. It is good that you have told me this, Mikhail.’
“The next morning, Professor Vukov was gone. The head of our laboratory said that Professor Vukov had become an enemy of the revolution and that I should take over his work. The first experiment I did was to test the Lysenkoist idea I’d had. It failed completely.”
Dr. Ivanovsky simply stopped talking, and it took Ben a few seconds to realize that he was done with his story. “That’s terrible that they did that to Professor Vukov, but I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying. You don’t want to talk to the FBI because the KGB arrested your mentor?”
“Yes. Secret police are secret police—in America or Russia. They are all secret police.”
“But the FBI is nothing like Stalin’s KGB,” protested Ben.
“They are different and they are the same,” replied Dr. Ivanovsky. “Maybe the FBI does not make people disappear for having wrong opinions. Maybe the FBI works for a democracy and not a dictatorship. But they are the same in one very, very important way: it is their job to learn things and do things for the state. It is not their job to help me or you or to be our friends. Maybe they are helping and friendly now, but their help and friendliness go away as soon as being your friend stops helping the state. To give them information is like going into the den of a tiger to feed him. He may be very nice to you for a long time, but one day maybe you run out of food and he will be hungry and looking at you, and then you will wish you had never fed him at all.”
Ben decided to try one more time. “All she’s asking is that we send her publicly available documents. That seems pretty innocent.”
“Nothing the secret police does is all innocent,” Dr. Ivanovsky persisted. “I do not know everything they could do with these documents. Do you? Also, if we give them these papers now, it will be harder to say no to them the next time they are asking for information, and who is to say they will be innocent then? No, Ben, it is better not to walk into the den of a tiger in the first place.”
The tiger’s-den analogy obviously was well established in Dr. Ivanovsky’s mind—and probably had been for decades. Ben realized it gave the old scientist a comfortable and clear-cut reason to avoid potential entanglements with law enforcement where he might find himself in over his head. There was little chance he would rethink it based solely on the suggestion of a young lawyer whom he had known for only a few days. “Okay, I’ll tell her we can’t help her.”
Ivanovsky released a breath. “Thank you, Ben.”
As Ben hung up the phone, he suddenly felt very tired. He had worked until
Ben searched back through dim memories of his single college biology course. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Do not be afraid; it is good that you do not know about such a man. Trofim Lysenko was a biologist who had certain scientific theories. These theories were very wrong in many ways and Lysenko was a bad scientist, but Stalin thought his ideas were socialist and progressive. So Lysenko was made in charge of all scientists and his theories were taught in Soviet universities as absolute truth.
“So when Professor Vukov said, ‘Lysenko is a fraud,’ this troubled me. Had my other professors and my textbooks taught me lies? Or was this great man who was my mentor lying? And I did not like that he had said my idea was foolish.
“The political officer working with our team was a young man only a little older than I. He and I would sometimes drink vodka and play chess together, and I thought he was my friend. I said to him, ‘Alexander, may I ask you something?’ He said yes. I said, ‘Do not repeat this to anyone, but Professor Vukov says that Lysenko is a fraud. Is this true? I must know so that I can do my researches correctly.’ He said, ‘Professor Lysenko is a great man. It is good that you have told me this, Mikhail.’
“The next morning, Professor Vukov was gone. The head of our laboratory said that Professor Vukov had become an enemy of the revolution and that I should take over his work. The first experiment I did was to test the Lysenkoist idea I’d had. It failed completely.”
Dr. Ivanovsky simply stopped talking, and it took Ben a few seconds to realize that he was done with his story. “That’s terrible that they did that to Professor Vukov, but I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying. You don’t want to talk to the FBI because the KGB arrested your mentor?”
“Yes. Secret police are secret police—in America or Russia. They are all secret police.”
“But the FBI is nothing like Stalin’s KGB,” protested Ben.
“They are different and they are the same,” replied Dr. Ivanovsky. “Maybe the FBI does not make people disappear for having wrong opinions. Maybe the FBI works for a democracy and not a dictatorship. But they are the same in one very, very important way: it is their job to learn things and do things for the state. It is not their job to help me or you or to be our friends. Maybe they are helping and friendly now, but their help and friendliness go away as soon as being your friend stops helping the state. To give them information is like going into the den of a tiger to feed him. He may be very nice to you for a long time, but one day maybe you run out of food and he will be hungry and looking at you, and then you will wish you had never fed him at all.”
Ben decided to try one more time. “All she’s asking is that we send her publicly available documents. That seems pretty innocent.”
“Nothing the secret police does is all innocent,” Dr. Ivanovsky persisted. “I do not know everything they could do with these documents. Do you? Also, if we give them these papers now, it will be harder to say no to them the next time they are asking for information, and who is to say they will be innocent then? No, Ben, it is better not to walk into the den of a tiger in the first place.”
The tiger’s-den analogy obviously was well established in Dr. Ivanovsky’s mind—and probably had been for decades. Ben realized it gave the old scientist a comfortable and clear-cut reason to avoid potential entanglements with law enforcement where he might find himself in over his head. There was little chance he would rethink it based solely on the suggestion of a young lawyer whom he had known for only a few days. “Okay, I’ll tell her we can’t help her.”
Ivanovsky released a breath. “Thank you, Ben.”
As Ben hung up the phone, he suddenly felt very tired. He had worked until
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