Marcello pursued her throughout this momentary madness, hoping to seduce an icon of The Sweet Life. She laughingly dismissed him and all other men. Untouchable, yet at the same time available, Ekberg captured the essence of this still new decade, the Sixties, a lifestyle emergent; she like Bardot (and Sue Lyon as Lolita when Lee eventually saw that film) served as replacements for Marilyn Monroe and all those other blondes of the Fifties. They suddenly seemed outdated, nostalgic even.
This Marcello was one of the jet-set yet always there existed the possibility that he, and he alone, might prove capable of something better—an earlier sort of traditional life these others abandoned in their hungered search for immediate gratification, their senses all important, anything spiritual out of sight and mind—like that removed statue of Jesus; Marcello alone capable of a return to simpler times, before life roared out of control and nothing signified anything of lasting value.
The world, Christ removed, belonged to those young girls who wore bikinis while listening to rock ‘n’ roll: The Moderns.
In the middle of the film, when Marcello’s father arrived to try and persuade his son to return with him to their small village and the values still existing there, Lee had, on the edge of his seat, hoped Marcello would do so. For the old man offered earthy salvation from such superficial pursuits.
Throughout the film Marcello regularly came in contact with a lovely girl, not one of the In Crowd, the last old-fashioned female in all Rome. She happily did laundry while singing a folk tune, her smile sweet, genuine rather than cynical or sardonic.
Always, she beckoned for Marcello to join her. But to do so he must abandon his current companions.
In the film’s final shot, Marcello and the partygoers, hung-over from the most perverse of all orgies, drifted down to the beach at dawn. There they discovered the grotesque remains of a fish consumed by nuclear waste that had been dumped into the ocean, the nightmare aspect of our modern world destroying all that is natural and best.
Those with Marcello took perverse delight in viewing this monstrosity. Only he seemed unconvinced this was ‘fun.’
Then, far down the beach, he spotted that girl again, she once more washing sheets, humming that ancient ditty, smiling. Recognizing Marcello, she waved to him, hoping he would leave the others, join her. For one moment, his eyes grew thoughtful, mournful, simultaneously sad and happy. Some capacity he once possessed for living in the fast-fading old world order, put aside for contemporary kicks, rose again in his consciousness.
Momentarily, a hunger for tradition appeared ready to reach the surface of Marcello’s mind. By her very presence, she offered him a return to the way things were, before the world went mad, embracing nihilism rather than fighting against it.
Marcello appeared about to desert his current company, as she cooed: “Come! Come to me!” Then their howling at the sight of the all-too-real monster drowned out her voice. “I can’t hear you,” Marcello apologized, any recollection of an earlier sort of knowledge, about to be reborn, disappearing from his eyes.
He shrugged, turned away, rejoined his companions as they moved on to their next round of drinking, drugs, sex.
Down the beach from this representative gathering of La Dolce Vita, the girl, knowing on some non-intellectual, deeply spiritual level that Marcello was lost to her, now and forever, smiled sadly. Then she returned to her work, humming again.
Marina, in her naïve way, had accepted the film’s gaudy details at face value: the gowns, the diamonds, sleek cars, rock ‘n’ roll, casual sex. Lee, in the darkness of the theatre, experienced one of those epiphanies he, on rare occasions, did when he had just seen a movie that spoke directly to him.
The film, he grasped, was not a celebration of The Sweet Life but a condemnation of it; a profoundly traditionalist work, a warning to each Marcello out there in the audience. If given this hero’s final choice, we ought to accept that gentle girl’s offer, flee from La Dolce Vita, re-embrace the Good Life of hard work, a man and a woman sincerely, simply surviving together.
Finally, Lee shushed. Locking eyes with Marina he feared he spoke above this beautiful but none-too-bright girl’s level. Here she was, with her Bardot hairstyle, her enthusiasm for fun and pleasure. What was the title of a Bebe film he had seen? A Ravishing Idiot. Yes, that was her. And Marina as well.
He dared not reveal just how ‘square’ he himself was deep down. Yes, the traditional life had always closed him out. But what did someone once say in a movie? Just because you love something doesn’t mean it has to love you back.
Lee did not want to lose her, not this one; couldn’t stand the thought of Marina heading back to other boys, they more open to the swinging style. Reveal too much of his own sentimental soul and Marina might dismiss Lee as a hopeless innocent.
If Lee Harvey Oswald, the homely runt most men thought of as beneath them, even “queer” perhaps, had worked his way up the shimmering rope ladder this high, there remained a part of him that did not want to lose everything by opening his mouth and saying something ... embarrassingly innocent. Then he would never reach the top rung and sleep with ... Brigitte Bardot.
Still, such a reasonable facsimile as he gazed at now was more than most men could or would ever know. These included many who had laughed and scorned him, but now led the most ordinary lives with the most ordinary wives. Like James Stewart in another of Lee’s favorite films, Vertigo, he could at least embrace the twin of his dream girl. That would have to suffice.
Always, though, there would be the other Lee. The Lee who, like Marcello in the movie, wanted to abandon superficiality. Embrace something true. Hold on to that. Who knows? Perhaps Marina could be both, the Beautiful Person, glimmering in the moonlight but also a substantial young woman, able to boldly move in daylight, solid, strong. The woman who could bear him children, turn Lee into ... a Normal.
Was it possible for any woman to be first one, then the other? Or perhaps better still both at once, the hardworking life’s partner by day, the elusive, alluring mistress when the lights were turned low? Was every woman all women? Or was this only what Lee, like every other male who had ever walked the face of the earth, most wished?
However impossible it might be, however unfair to the woman in question to expect so much, he wanted all that.
Terribly, completely, heartbreakingly wanted it.
Lee didn’t know, couldn’t answer that one. But he would know. In time. For he had determined already that Marina would be the one. The girl he would try to “have it all” with.
Marina, Lee grasped, was the woman he must marry. Yes, they truly were soul-mates, made for each other, as the saying goes.
Marina. The woman he fell in love with at first sight.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN:
COME SPY WITH ME
“There is the distinct possibility that an imposter is using Lee Harvey Oswald’s passport in Russia.”
—J. Edgar Hoover, head of the FBI;
Memorandum to the State Department’s
Office of Security, April 1960
In truth, Marina was far from the first woman Lee had fallen in love with at first sight. An unabashed sentimentalist, he had experienced just such a sensation whenever Lee gazed at a lovely woman. This was not confined to reality. The first time Lee saw Marilyn on the screen, he flipped. Then came Brigitte.
However intense Lee’s one-sided romances with movie dream girls may have been, they were also, essentially, superficial. ‘Love at first sight’ did not necessarily imply ‘ever after’.
As for his Russian sojourn, Lee first met with George in Tijuana. Things were proceeding smoothly. In Japan Lee had established ties with communists, spread disinformation among them, and established his pinko “legend.” Upon return, George guided Lee through two and a half months of strategic moves that would conclude with his arrival in Moscow during mid-October, 1959. First, Lee requested that the Corps grant him a hardship release from further duty to care for his sickly mother. A routine c
heck would have revealed that Marguerite was able of body if not mind. But behind the scenes the CIA signaled the military brass to take Lee’s claim at face value.
Lee received his dependency discharge on August 17. He then applied for a passport in Santa Ana so as to attend the College of A. Schweitzer, Switzerland. Before Lee left Santa Ana by bus on September 11 for Fort Worth, he and George met at Villa’s.
“First, Lee, I want you to boil down all key classified information about the U2 into a single brief statement.”
Lee did not hesitate: “When ready, ‘The Race Car’ will cruise high above the Soviet Union, reaching altitudes that may exceed 100,000 ft. This will allow the U2 to fly undetected over Russian radar, incapable of spotting an object at such a height. Cameramen inside will capture detailed images of Soviet military and industrial positions below, the Soviets completely unaware.”
“Correct in every detail. Other than aspects of nuclear weaponry, this is America’s most classified information today.”
“Of course.”
“When we originally planned this mission, the idea would be for you to openly offer the KGB such classified information in exchange for citizenship. Then you were to ...?”
“Spread disinformation,” Lee chimed in.
“Precisely.” George sighed, growing intense, leaning in closer. “Only that aspect of the plan has been altered. You will now do the opposite: reveal everything about the Race Car.”
Lee found himself unable to reply. Nothing of the sort had ever been suggested. Momentarily, he wondered if perhaps George might be a double agent, working for the Russians, about to turn Lee, the patriot, into Lee, the patsy—a traitor to America.
“Calm down, Lee. It’s all kosher. I’ve told you on more than one occasion the CIA’s most important goal.”
As if brainwashed, Lee responded: “The United States wants to create a viable, continuing state of world-peace, no matter how tenuous it may be. We must avoid an atomic war that would obliterate much of America even if we ‘won.’”
“Again, absolutely right. You are a most apt pupil.”
“This, however, must be done without our being reduced to a second-rate nation in terms of our power to respond or, as a last resort, make the first strike. In the atomic age, this can only be assured if we, to borrow from Theodore Roosevelt, speak softly but carry a big stick—bigger than the other guy‘s."
"Better still. Now, Lee, figure this out yourself: Why do we no longer want ‘the defector’ to spread ‘disinformation’?”
Lee paused, taking a swig from his beer. “We do not want the confrontation to occur. Therefore, the big stick—the U2—only works if the other guy knows it exists. Not being fools, they can then do only one thing: back down.”
Maybe I underrated this guy. Lee actually could become one of our top men, the agent to whom I will someday assign the most difficult, dangerous mission of all—whatever that might be.
“Congratulations, Lee. You get it!”
Realizing he was on a roll, Lee couldn’t stop the words from pouring out. “My job: make certain they know everything. Their possession of such knowledge will serve as deterrence. Yet our security forces must appear to be effectively protecting such secrets. If not, American citizens would panic. On the other hand, if some rogue-traitor turns over such information ...”
“And you will be that rogue traitor. Or pretend to be.”
Lee’s eyes lit up brightly. “Meaning I’ll do more good for my country than perhaps anyone ever has before?”
George smiled. “A wonderful thought, isn’t it?”
“Wonderful, yet horrible. To achieve this in reality I must go down in history as the worst villain since Benedict Arnold.”
*
On September 16, 1959, Lee bid farewell to his mother and brother Robert and boarded another bus, this one to New Orleans. On arrival he was met by George. With money supplied by the CIA, Lee booked passage on a small freighter, the Marion Lykes, paying $220.75 (cash) for a one-way-ticket to Le Havre, France.
Subsequently, a letter was mailed to Fort Worth only after George carefully edited Lee’s words down to an absolute minimum: “It is difficult to tell you how I feel. Just remember this is what I must do. I did not tell you my plans because you could hardly be expected to understand. Love to you both, Lee.”
Four other passengers traveled aboard the small boat. They took meals together adjacent to the galley. Lee's fellow travelers wanted to learn all about each other, but Lee offered no details as to his reason for making the journey. When one woman asked him to join them for a group photo before disembarking, he refused.
Without so much as a farewell, Lee took the boat-train to Southampton, England. Once there, he booked a flight from Heathrow Airport to Helsinki, remaining there for five days.
At the Soviet Consulate Lee obtained a travel visa (# 403339), allowing him to visit Russia for six days.
On arrival in Moscow, Lee checked into the upscale Hotel Berlin. Shortly, he was met by Rima Shirokova, a pretty employee of Intourist, the relatively new organization created to aid foreigners. (The Soviets had just relaxed their previously tight standards, encouraging more visitors).
The moment Lee glimpsed Rima, it was love at first sight.
*
Considered the most personable of all those hostesses at Intourist, Rima also happened to be the most beautiful. A natural blonde, she boasted a tight figure and dancing eyes. Fluent in English, Rimma was assigned to greet rare American tourists. Lee had purchased a five-day DeLuxe ticket; Rimma assumed ‘Mr. Oswald’ must be wealthy. As such he intrigued her.
But when Rima arrived for their initial meeting in the hotel lobby she found herself face to face with a short, sad-eyed youth. He wore ordinary clothes. Lee, simply, was nothing like what she expected. Moreover, he remained surprisingly quiet during their morning odyssey around the city. Rima attempted to make all her carefully rehearsed anecdotes about Red Square, the Bolshoi, and other places of interest sound spontaneous.
Hard as she tried, she could not get a response. Lee only stared straight ahead, occasionally considering the sights.
“Mr. Oswald, I fear I am boring you.”
“No, no, no. It is not you, Rima. It’s me.”
However, she could not help but notice Oswald cautiously checking out her feminine attributes. Rima did not join him at his hotel during the lunch break; that was considered intrusive on a visitor’s privacy. When she returned at two p.m. to pick Lee up for his tour of the Kremlin, he asked if they might take a walk instead in the nearby park. Fearful that what he really wanted was to invite her back to his room, Rima tried to dissuade Lee. But he remained insistent and she agreed.
To her surprise, Lee, seated beside Rima on a bench, grew teary-eyed: he hadn’t come to Moscw to visit but to defect. “I’ve had it with America, Rima. I want to become a Russian citizen. Don’t try to convince me otherwise. I’ve made up my mind.”
Taken aback by his passion, Rima agreed to help Lee in any way she could. They spent the rest of that first afternoon composing a letter from Lee to the Supreme Soviet. In it, he requested political asylum, in time Soviet citizenship.
“Don‘t try to dissuade me. I know what I’m doing. I’ve thought it through and this is the right thing for me.”
They parted three hours later, Rima again wondering how such a seemingly ordinary fellow could afford a two-room suite, with attached private bathroom, in Moscow’s most splendid hotel.
During the next two days, Rima continued the tour. Lee bounced back and forth between periods of elation—he would soon be a part of this mighty union!—and sudden bouts of depression, fearing he would be told to pack.
Rima repeatedly made clear that while she had personally approached Alexander Simchenko, head of the IVIR/Passport and Visa Office, the routine treatment of such a request was to explain to any would-be defector that he must go back to his homeland and there apply for Soviet citizenship at the Embassy.
&nb
sp; “Rima? I think I love you.”
“Lee! I’m doing this as a friend. Please? Nothing more.”
On Lee’s fifth day in Moscow, Rima appeared in the hotel lobby at nine p.m. sharp, as per schedule. Lee, anxious as ever, had been waiting for an hour. Turning to greet her, Lee noticed that Rima was now accompanied by another young woman, also from Intourist. Rima introduced the brunette as Rosa Agafonova.
One look at this shorter, darker, charmingly lush beauty and Lee Harvey Oswald fell in love at first sight.
*
“You know,” Alexander Simchenko told Lee after listening to the earnest (though in Simchenko’s perception unbalanced) young American’s pleas for citizenship, “we’re not able to do anything here.” By that he meant his division, the IVIR.
“Isn’t there anything we can try?” Rima asked.
“Someone you might call for help?” Rosa added.
“I’m being honest with all three of you,” Simchenko said. They sat close together in his medium-sized office, adorned only by a framed photograph of Nikita Khrushchev on one wall. “I have only so many ‘special requests.’ My superiors do not like to be bothered by ordinary, doomed appeals. Can you understand?”
At that moment, Lee changed tactics, much to the surprise of the two women, one seated on either side, who had thought of him up to this point as something of a milk-toast. “How’s this? I am a former United States Marine. I studied radar, worked at Atsugi aircraft base in Japan. While there, I passed on military secrets to Red agents in Tokyo. Contact them; they will vouch for me. Most of the classified information was relatively minor. That’s because I was saving the big stuff for such a crisis as this. I can provide the KGB with photographs of the U2 that they have been so desperate for. I know everything about its inner workings and surveillance capabilities. I am in possession of dossiers of classified information about placement of Allied nuclear weapons in Europe. I know where the Naval fleet is and where it will be routed next. All this information is yours. In return I do not want rubles, only to be allowed to remain here.”
Patsy! : The Life and Times of Lee Harvey Oswald Page 29