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Every American Journalist Must be as Brave as Isaac Babel
It’s a history lesson America has never learned.
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The pounding on the door came before dawn. Antonina Pirozhkova jolted awake, the hollow thuds of fists on wood reverberating through the Moscow apartment. It was May 16, 1939, and the NKVD had arrived.
Four men in dark coats stood outside. Without explanation, they ordered Pirozhkova to accompany them to Isaac Babel’s dacha in Peredelkino. She did not argue. She knew better than to try to protect her husband. The journey was tense, the silence broken only by the rhythmic hum of tires on asphalt.
Isaak Babel had just settled into his armchair, the worn leather sighing under his weight, when he heard the knock at the door. Babel put down his pen and rose.
NKVD officers burst in, boots grinding mud and snow into the threadbare rug. The leader shoved a document under Babel’s nose. “By order of the State,” he barked, though the espionage charges were as vague as a poorly written spy plot.
Babel barely had time to grab his glasses before they yanked him into the icy black night. His mouth filled with the metallic tang of panic…
