by Jack Barsky
“What do I need to do?” I asked.
“You need to get his birth certificate. Memorize this information: place and date of birth and parents’ names and birth dates. When you get to Montreal, you will apply for a certified copy of the birth certificate in the mail.”
“Yes, but isn’t it strange to ask for an American birth certificate to be mailed to a hotel in another country, even if it’s Canada?” I asked. “Also, what business does a West German have asking for an American birth certificate?”
Alex smiled. “That’s why I know you are going to be a good agent! You catch on to things quickly. I bet you can come up with a solution. Give it a try.”
I thought for a moment and then started somewhat hesitantly.
“How about I find a small hotel with only a few rooms. I get to know the person who runs the place really well.” I paused to further formulate my thoughts. “When I give the agency a return address, I can leave out the hotel name and then intercept the mail coming from California. I’ll tell the hotel owners that I’m receiving mail on behalf of an American friend who will be joining me shortly. Do you think that might work?”
“Excellent!” Alex said. “That is exactly how we are going to catch that fish.”
For the next few hours, we refined the plan for acquiring the birth certificate and went over other specifics of the trip to Canada.
“One more thing,” Alex said as he prepared to leave. “That beard has to go.”
“I know,” I said with regret.
My height already made me stand out in a crowd, and the beard simply added another distinctive feature, which was undesirable for someone in my role.
The next morning, I went into the bathroom armed with scissors and a straightedge razor. As I watched scraps of hair fall into the sink, the process of shaving became symbolic for me. I realized that I was finally and officially saying good-bye to the playful aspects of my youth and joining the community of adults.
I stared at the clean-shaven face in the mirror and knew that my life was about to change.
When the morning arrived for my departure to Canada, I switched into “execution mode,” a technique I would use every time I had something very important or dangerous to do.
In execution mode, I emptied the clutter in my mind and focused with robot-like determination on how I would deal with whatever task lay ahead. I became tense, but not nervous. There was a distinct and important difference.
When Sergej appeared at the apartment, he seemed more serious than usual. This was, after all, the beginning of a big-time deployment of an important asset that he had helped to develop.
“I need your East German documents,” he said.
I handed them over, and he handed me back a West German passport with my photograph on the inside. I looked it over and nodded my approval.
“From now until your return, you are Heiner from Hamburg,” he said with a slight grin.
Next, Sergej scanned my luggage and examined my clothing for any leftover East German or Russian items I may have missed.
We rode to the airport in a limousine, and Sergej smuggled me into the departure hall via the now-familiar side door. As soon as I was on the other side, it struck me that for the very first time I was truly alone, a lone wolf ready to take on the enemy in enemy territory. I was on my first big adventure into the West.
Three hours after departure, the Aeroflot plane landed at Atatürk Airport in Istanbul, Turkey. The airport was heavily guarded by uniformed soldiers with submachine guns at the ready. Seeing the serious looks on their faces was a jolting reminder that I was traveling on a fake passport and could be arrested and imprisoned, if caught. The airport itself was old and outdated, and the arrival hall looked more like a large wooden shed than any kind of official building.
I went straight from the airport to my hotel, which was near the Bosporus Bridge. My only excursion amounted to walking across the bridge and setting foot in Asia, so I could say I had been on that continent. Then I walked back to the European side and straight back to my hotel. The next morning, I returned to the airport and bought a ticket for a flight to Geneva that was leaving that day.
When I landed in Geneva, I walked immediately to the Swissair counter.
“I need a round-trip ticket to Montreal leaving tomorrow,” I told the attendant. Although I didn’t know how long I would be in Canada, the return ticket was necessary to assure the Canadian authorities that I had no intention of overstaying my welcome in their country.
The Swissair flight arrived in Montreal early in the afternoon. As I entered the arrival hall, I had to force myself not to gawk with an open mouth. Like the airport in Geneva, this one was spacious, modern, clean, and functional—a marvelous facility. Moscow’s Sheremetyevo was heads above Schönefeld in Berlin, but the airports in Geneva and Montreal were two classes above even that.
I sailed through customs and immigration without any problem. When the immigration officer asked about the purpose of my visit, I responded, “I just want to look around. Perhaps one day I may ask to be admitted to this country, but I don’t really know.”
According to my body clock, which was on European time, it was already late in the day, so I wasted no time in finding a moderately priced hotel.
As soon as I settled into my room, I indulged myself in the one treat I’d been eagerly anticipating for months, if not years—a live television program in North America. Finally, after four years of intensive study, here was the real thing. I was in heaven, and my travel fatigue dissipated at once. For the next few hours, for as long as I could keep my eyes open, I watched television—and it didn’t matter what was on; all that mattered was that they were speaking American English.
When I awoke the next morning, the first thing I did was switch on the TV again. There I discovered The Friendly Giant, with Jerome the Giraffe and Rusty the Rooster, the main characters of a popular children’s program aired by the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation.
The show was so good that I didn’t want to leave the room, but hunger eventually climbed to the top of my priorities, so I got dressed and ventured into town. I walked slowly and deliberately, taking in every detail of my new surroundings.
It was early spring, so the trees had not yet sprouted leaves, and this was not the most glamorous section of Montreal, about two miles north of downtown, yet there was a sense of history and elegance in the air. The nicely kept buildings, clean streets, and well-dressed people made it a very attractive place indeed for this East German intruder. From now on, every day would be another step into an unknown world, a world that had to be conquered piece by piece, down to the smallest detail.
I decided to try a diner about five blocks from the hotel. The counter had several unoccupied stools, and I chose one near the door. I knew exactly what to order because I’d learned back in Moscow all about the standard American breakfast: ham and eggs over easy, whole wheat toast, a glass of milk, and a cup of coffee.
When the plate was set in front of me, my stomach growled in anticipation. Then I took a bite. And another. It was good—no, it was excellent, which was not a surprise considering the dreadful monotony of my diet in Russia. For my entire eight-week stay in Montreal, I ordered the same breakfast at the same place every day. Soon the owner, a young man originally from Greece, no longer even asked for my order. He just put the plate in front of me, and it was always incredibly delicious.
After finishing my first breakfast, I wasted no time returning to the hotel for more television. I was thoroughly delighted when the original version of Sesame Street (Sesamstraße in Germany) came on. After that, I watched a program called Alice, about a waitress in a diner much like the one where I’d eaten breakfast. When one of the waitresses came on, a lively character named Flo, I had to turn my ear and listen harder. Her Southern accent was a struggle to understand.
I had a similar problem while watching Good Times, a sitcom about an African American family in Chicago. The slang and inflection us
ed by the characters—in particular the wisecracking J. J. Evans—made it clear that I still had a lot to learn about American English. I watched the entire show and barely understood the jokes and conversations.
Rounding out the morning schedule, I watched the holy grail of TV consumerism, The Price Is Right. I’d never seen anything like this—an elaborate TV game show where real people could win appliances, vacations, and even cash prizes. It was the epitome of American capitalist greed, but I couldn’t help but be fascinated by it. The catchphrase, “Come on down!” barked by the inimitable Johnny Olson, is one of those phrases I can readily replay in my mind to this day. But after a half hour of vicariously “consuming” a trip to Jamaica, a new refrigerator, and the inevitable new car, I reluctantly turned off the TV. I had been sent to Canada to do some real work.
My first priority was to find a small hotel suitable for the task of procuring the Henry van Randall birth certificate. I needed a place where I could befriend the proprietors and intercept the arrival of the document when it was mailed to me under a different name.
I headed out to the streets and began my search. It didn’t take long before I saw a small twelve-room, three-story establishment on Rue St. Hubert, not far from the intersection of Rue Sherbrooke E.
I pushed through the door and walked to the desk, where I met the middle-aged couple who managed the hotel. We talked amicably about the weather and room availability, and then I casually shifted to more personal kinds of questions. I learned that they were originally from Belgium and now lived in a basement apartment. This was a perfect setup for what I needed to accomplish. I paid one week’s rent in advance and moved into a room on the top floor. I also told them that I was supposed to pick up some mail for a friend of mine named Henry in a few weeks.
At dinnertime, satisfied with my progress, I returned to the diner where I’d had breakfast. I ordered a small pizza and a bottle of Labatt’s. When the waiter brought the beer, I asked for a bottle opener.
Apparently, the waiter thought I was joking, but he decided to play along. Picking up the bottle with an exaggerated flourish, he gave an elaborate demonstration of how to remove the cap by twisting it counterclockwise.
I was truly astonished for a moment—I had never seen a twist-off cap in my life—but I quickly recovered.
This episode underscored the wisdom of my handlers in sending me to Canada for a test run. Small details, such as not knowing about twist-off caps, could easily trip up an apprentice undercover agent and draw unwanted attention.
The next morning, I sat down and wrote a letter to the vital records department in the California county where Henry van Randall was born, requesting a certified copy of “my” birth certificate. I mailed the letter along with a self-addressed stamped envelope and a money order.
Now all I could do was wait for the birth certificate to arrive. In the meantime, I decided to explore the city of Montreal and work on the secondary tasks the Center had given me, which included collecting information about the attitude of Canadians toward the secessionist initiatives of the Parti Québécois and its leader, René Lévesque.
Because my time in Canada was a dress rehearsal for a more permanent assignment in the United States, I had to listen to shortwave transmissions from the Center once a week, find suitable dead-drop locations, perform periodic surveillance checks, meet people, and compose reports in secret writing on all my activities.
Every morning, after some intensive “research of language and culture”—also known as watching TV—I headed to the diner for my American breakfast. Sometimes I talked to other diners or the waiters as part of my ground-level research.
My search for surveillance check routes and dead-drop sites took me all over the city. As the spring temperatures arrived and the green leaves began to gingerly stick out their necks, Montreal was transformed into the most attractive city I had ever seen. I walked Rue St. Catherine up one side and down the other, enjoying the shops and cafes, until I stopped in front of large window in front of Simon’s Department Store. I was drawn inside and looked at the incredible variety of high-quality goods, including oriental rugs, jewelry, furnishings, and clothes, a showcase of all that was available in the capitalist marketplace.
Though this exposure to affluence did nothing to weaken my belief in the Communist cause, deep down I couldn’t wait to get my hands on some of the wares on display at Simon’s.
Not far from my hotel, I found a small bar along Rue Saint-Denis and began to go there most evenings for a drink. Taking a seat at the bar, not too far from the door, I ordered a scotch on the rocks. As I sipped my drink, I’d talk to anyone who happened to sit near me. Soon all the regulars knew me as the restless German who was exploring the world in search of a place to eventually settle down.
One night, I heard a noisy conversation from the back room and recognized distinctly German accents. That was my cue to leave.
I paid my tab and was about to head for the door when one of my new Canadian friends called my name.
“Hey, Heiner! You have to meet these visitors.”
I grinned and made my way over to the table where two Germans were drinking their beers. They gave me a hearty welcome and began talking about the differences between German and English profanities.
I knew I had to get out of there.
“I’m sorry, but I have a terrible headache,” I said. “Please excuse me and enjoy your visit. It’s a great city.”
The Germans were disappointed because it’s always nice to meet fellow citizens while traveling abroad, but I knew that once we moved past the initial greetings, they would ask where I was from, what I did for a living, and why I was here. I had to avoid betraying my ignorance of all things West German, particularly my “hometown” of Hamburg.
I FULLY EXPECTED TO RECEIVE the birth certificate in the mail within two weeks of mailing the application. Every three days or so, I stopped by the basement apartment of the Belgian caretakers and casually asked if there had been any mail for my friend Henry. The answer was always no.
At times, I wondered if they had become suspicious, opened the letter when it came, and notified the local authorities. But they always seemed happy to see me and not at all concerned about my inquiries—other than feeling sorry that nothing had arrived. We would often talk for an extended time, and my surveillance-detection runs always came up negative, so I was certain that no one was following me. To be extra careful, I set elaborate traps in my room to discover whether my belongings had been searched, but there was no indication that anyone ever came into my room. I remained cautious but never became paranoid.
When two weeks of waiting became three and then four—and still nothing—I decided I had to do something. Returning home without that important document was tantamount to failure, and failure was not an option for Albrecht Dittrich. Given the three-week communication cycle to Moscow and back, asking the Center for advice was also not an option.
I decided to force the issue by following up with a phone call to the office where I had sent the application. I practiced the call out loud in a secluded area of a nearby park. After numerous rehearsals, I took a deep breath, entered a phone booth, put in the four quarters required for an international call, and dialed the California number.
“Hello, this is Henry van Randall,” I said in an exasperated tone when a deep male voice answered the phone. “I sent a request for a copy of my birth certificate to your office almost six weeks ago, and I have still not received the document. What is causing the delay?”
“Let me connect you to the vital records department,” the clerk said.
After a one-minute wait, I deposited four more quarters to avoid losing the connection. When a female voice came through the receiver, I repeated my inquiry.
“Please hold while I check the records,” she said.
I put more quarters into the phone, hoping the clerk couldn’t hear the ping. A call from a phone booth might have alerted her that something was not quite right.
When the woman returned to the line, she sounded apologetic. “You know, sir, I cannot find your application, but I promise we will expedite your request once we find it. Is there a number where we can reach you?”
Oops. I was not prepared for that question, but I recovered quickly and said, “I just moved into a new place and the phone is not yet connected. I’ll call again next week if I don’t receive the document.”
I was now out of quarters and decided to give the matter one more emphatic push.
“Listen,” I said rather forcefully, like I imagined an American would who was not well served by the government, “you have my money, and I want my birth certificate—it’s as simple as that.”
Before she could reply, I hung up and leaned my head against the cold window of the phone booth, feeling exhausted. My brain was on temporary lockdown.
I had two weeks before I planned to leave Montreal and visit the border cities of Sarnia and Windsor, Ontario. Four days before my planned departure, I went to the basement apartment to visit my Belgian friends again.
When I walked in, I saw a pile of mail on a shelf above the sofa where the couple usually sat. At the very top was a rather thick envelope. Could that be it? My heart started beating faster, and I wanted to grab the envelope and run up to my room. However, I managed to contain my excitement and avoid arousing any suspicion.
After thirty minutes of small talk, I casually inquired about any mail for Henry. The wife immediately retrieved the envelope I had seen and handed it to me. “I was hoping you’d stop by,” she said. “I think this came yesterday.”
My hands were sweating, and it felt like she was handing me a treasure map. I said good-bye as cheerfully and casually as usual—at least I hoped—and took the staircase up to my room.
Once inside, I locked the door, leaned against the jamb, and stared at the envelope, still doubting whether it could be real. But there it was: “Mr. Henry van Randall, Rue St. Hubert, Montreal, Canada.”