“I am pleased to hear it.”
While we drove, I told Levin everything about my shift at the Italian Library, passed him papers from a thick envelope at the bottom of my floral knitting bag. (My handbag had proven too small to adequately cover the Fascist paraphernalia I borrowed, so I’d decided to take up knitting to have an excuse to lug the giant bag around. Knit, purl, swipe.) I might have just described everything from memory, but honestly, I still had no idea what sort of documents were helpful, so I stuffed everything that seemed of even passing interest into that bag. It had made me feel important somehow, as if I were taking my place in a proud line of patriotic American spies stretching back to George Washington’s day.
Because I was doing this for America. So we could lift ourselves out of this Depression without falling into the trap of Fascism that so many other countries had stumbled into.
This was my contribution, however small it might have been.
“The Spanish attaché visited again,” I said. “They requested the latest editions of Il Travaso. It calls itself the ‘official organ of intelligent people,’ but it’s nothing more than a racist, anti-American rag. Oh, and did I mention it loathes Communists?”
“Franco’s Nationalists are moving into position in Spain, and neither Britain nor France plans to lift a finger to help the anti-Franco Republicans.” Levin strummed his fingers on the wheel in agitation.
I dug further into my bag, pulled out a crumpled package of Lucky Strikes that I’d bought weeks ago to smoke with Patch. “Cigarette? They’re good for your nerves, you know.”
Levin smiled, but shook his head. “Thank you, but I have a rule against smoking in the LaSalle. The smell is difficult to remove.” Relieved that I wouldn’t have to smoke the foul things, I put the pack away as he continued. “If I were a betting man, I would guess only Stalin will help the Republicans in Spain. Did the attaché ask for anything else? Weapon reports or anything similar?”
I’d never seen anything that important cross my desk. But I wasn’t going to tell Levin that, not when I still needed to prove my worth to him.
“Not specifically, but another staffer took the copies of the full editions.” Once again, I was impressed not only by Levin’s far-reaching knowledge of world events, but also by how all the fiddly little pieces fit together. Suddenly, I wanted to show him that I was more than just a library researcher with sticky fingers. “I also eavesdropped outside the head librarian’s door today. When he left for lunch I rummaged through his wastebasket.”
A smile tugged at Levin’s lips. “Did you find anything?”
“Not unless you count his receipt for dry cleaning.”
He gave a muted chuckle. “No one digs through trash cans except in spy novels, Elizabeth. Important papers never get thrown away; they get destroyed.”
Though gently delivered, his one-two punch lit my cheeks with a raging wildfire. “I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I wasn’t exactly born for this, you know.”
“No one is born to do spy work—it must be learned.” I was surprised when Levin reached over and gave my forearm a squeeze. “Focus your energies on impressing your library superiors with your trustworthiness. Extol Franco’s many virtues and pen Mussolini love letters promising to name your firstborn after him.”
My inhalation was a sorry attempt to douse the flames on my cheeks, although that was difficult to do considering I could still feel Levin’s phantom touch on my arm. “Franco is my favorite Fascist leader.” I batted my eyes a little. “Outside of Il Duce, of course.”
Levin chortled and flicked off the radio with one deft movement. “So, tell me, how did your conversations with your friends from the Party turn out?”
“Fine.” The lie tasted metallic and all wrong; I hoped Levin didn’t notice the way I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “My ears are still burning from the lashing Harold Patch gave me.”
“He is one of our most fiery writers, you know.” Levin’s gaze remained straight ahead as he eased the LaSalle north along the Hudson. “And Lee Fuhr? I would guess you were not looking forward to that conversation.”
“Patch told her the news.”
See, that’s not a total lie.
(They say when telling a lie to stick as close to the truth as possible. It’s good advice, Catherine, not because you have less to remember but because then it’s easier to justify being a liar to yourself.)
A heavy silence filled the cab. I recalled a vague instruction from Patch when I was copyediting one of his interviews to let silences linger so your interviewee would feel the need to fill them. I understood the logic there, just as I understood that I couldn’t possibly let the silence stretch any longer.
“Lee was angry,” I offered.
“And?”
“She said she never wanted to see me again.”
Well, she would have said that, at least. If I hadn’t told her the truth.
This time Levin waited until he’d stopped at a red light to look my way. And sighed. “I will never coerce you, Elizabeth, and I will never lie to you. I will work to gain your trust, day by day, until you realize that trust is the bedrock of our relationship. Unfortunately, right now this appears to be a one-sided relationship.”
The full brunt of his gaze made me understand how Sodom and Gomorrah had felt. Fire and brimstone and pillars of salt were nothing compared to the raw power in that piercing blue gaze. He knows I lied.
“Elizabeth, I need operatives who trust me implicitly, who will report to me any mistakes they have made even if it is the dead of night. The strength of the Center comes from the fact that it is composed of men and women who care enough about their principles to subordinate everything else to them. You have done this in name only.”
“I don’t understand.”
Except I did. All too well.
“You did not break ties with Lee.” I’d expected his voice to be taut with barely restrained violence, but it was calm and cold. “I have been doing this for too long to be fooled by my newest recruit, clever though she may be.”
I actually cringed at the recrimination in his voice. Perhaps I might have argued my innocence, but I understood that would get me nowhere. Or it might land me in a far worse position than I was already in.
“Does this mean I’m fired?”
“No, but it means you cannot see Lee again.” Levin’s tone brooked no argument. “We underground operatives work in isolation so as not to endanger anyone else. This quarantine is for your sake and hers, not to mention the Party’s.”
“May I at least write her a letter explaining all this?”
“Absolutely not,” he answered. “Putting anything in writing—ever—is too risky. But you may call her. Once, and only to set this right.” The light turned green and we rolled forward, the downturn of Levin’s expressive lips informing me just how disappointed he truly was. “This is your one and only chance, Elizabeth. You have much potential, but I must have your full commitment now—no questions, no argument. Otherwise, I cannot trust you. And if I cannot trust you, you are a danger and I want nothing to do with you.”
I fiddled with the handles of my knitting bag. I knew I should accept my punishment in silence, but I felt like I needed to help Levin understand my rationale so he wasn’t so dismayed with me. “It’s just that I was lonely for so long. And then I found Lee. It doesn’t seem fair that I have to cut myself off from absolutely everyone.”
“That is the funny thing about life.” Levin’s voice wasn’t unkind. I was relieved to see the hard edges of his frown soften somewhat. “It is only fair because it is unfair to everyone.”
I almost smiled at that. Almost.
Except I was terrified of being alone again.
Use your mind, do something good and important with your life, Elizabeth. Help people and make your time here count.
My mother’s admonition
reminded me of the need for courage and of what was really important. Throughout America’s history, her citizens had suffered far more than lonely nights at home in order to leave their mark on our country. I recognized the rare opportunity Levin was offering me, to do something meaningful and fulfilling.
An opportunity like this didn’t come along every day. Certainly not in the midst of this Depression.
I’d been alone before and lived to tell the tale. Surely, I could survive it again. And I wouldn’t be totally bereft this time: there would be Levin, at least.
Whether the man next to me was my friend or enemy, I couldn’t quite tell, yet, more and more he reminded me of the dark central figure in Jacques-Louis David’s neoclassicist masterpiece Oath of the Horatii, willing to sacrifice everything, even his own sons, for the cause of patriotism. It would be good to have a person like that—a David facing down the Goliaths of the world—in my corner.
“You can trust me,” I promised. “Or may lightning strike me down.”
To which Levin offered a half smile as he pulled up at my arranged drop-off point. “Nothing so dramatic as that. Just the NKVD coming after the both of us.”
(Catherine, think of the NKVD as the predecessor to today’s dreaded KGB. A secret police agency created to protect the security of the Soviet Union, complete with foreign espionage, kidnappings, and assassinations. Not people you want to upset, especially considering their kindest form of punishment was banishing unruly citizens to the windswept Siberian gulags they created.)
Clutching my knitting bag to my chest was involuntary—I was going to have to work on my reactions. “Really?”
He gave an unconvincing half laugh. “Let us not find out, shall we?”
A moment later, I was standing on the sidewalk beneath a streetlamp, shaking my head in consternation as Levin’s polished LaSalle turned a corner. I enjoyed Levin’s company—his enigmatic quips and inquisitive nature, the streak of kindness that I suspected hid a spine of steel.
It’s a damned good thing you like him, I thought as I turned up my collar and started toward the metro station. Given that he’s your only friend in the world now.
5
DECEMBER 1938
Levin and I met every Wednesday evening for the next few months. Naturally, Wednesday had become my new favorite day of the week.
While Levin and I only ever met in diners and restaurants—after first meeting somewhere a few blocks away—we never ate at the same place twice. I fancied that I might someday boast that I’d eaten at every restaurant in New York City.
“I’d never tasted Indian food before tonight,” I said as Levin paid the bill of the palak paneer–scented hole-in-the-wall that he’d suggested we meet at that night. I’d savored every last morsel of cold curry, the better to draw out our meeting even longer. Once, partway through, I’d even caught myself playing with my hair as other women did when trying to attract a lover. I forced myself to stop immediately, pinned my hands under my legs.
Tonight had been a longer-than-usual meeting that began with my usual presentation of materials filched from the Italian Library, followed by a discussion of world events.
Levin was fired up about Germany’s blatant destruction of Jewish lives and property from Kristallnacht and that the Third Reich was now requiring the registry of all Romani people over the age of six. I’d sat with rapt attention—commenting only on the anti-Italian protests that had broken out in response to Italy’s demands that France hand over their North African colony of Tunisia—before steering the conversation toward my new favorite pastime: a heated debate about our favorite artworks. Levin championed Otto Dix’s War Cripples, which the Nazis had recently destroyed, while I preferred Pablo Picasso’s masterpiece Guernica.
(Catherine, some say a strong set of shoulders or a chiseled jaw are the best sort of aphrodisiac, but I say give me a man who can argue symbolism in art and debate the merits of international foreign policy—any woman worth her salt will be slack-jawed and tongue-tied. I certainly was.)
Only when the waiters were pointedly stacking the restaurant’s chairs did Levin and I bundle ourselves into our wool coats and hand-knit scarves (he was the recipient of some of my constant knitting from my breaks at the Italian Library—my room was crammed with all manner of hats and afghans, and I’d even knit Vlad a dog-sized sweater), before bursting outside to find New York tucked deep beneath a winter quilt of more snow than I’d seen in my entire life.
“Your car is buried,” I exclaimed. It seemed impossible that we hadn’t noticed the snow coming down, but I knew where my attention had been. A firebomb might have dropped on Yonkers and I’d have been oblivious. A common snowstorm didn’t have a chance.
Except Levin was my handler. I was still young, but I knew better than to believe he’d ever get involved with me. Still, that didn’t stop my mind from pining for the strength of his arms as he pushed the mass of snow from the LaSalle’s windshield or noticing the way his lips quirked into a smile at the sight of the winter wonderland laid out before us and borrowed straight from a page of some Russian novel.
Levin shook the snow from his sleeve, fisted his hands into his pockets. “This could take a while. It might be quicker if you took the subway home.”
Going home and claiming a decent night’s sleep before my morning shift at the library would have been the responsible thing to do. And I’d always been responsible, mostly, at least.
Levin had bent down and started using those marvelously strong hands of his to shovel out his car. Now, I knew it was infinitely more acceptable to let my gaze flick to and from someone rather than stare at him like I wanted to devour him. So I caught stolen glimpses of Levin as I packed snow between my palms—enough for a modest-sized projectile—before launching it at his back.
Bull’s-eye.
Levin exclaimed something in what might have been Russian, whirled around with tiger-quick reflexes as if to attack. His eyes widened when he saw my snow-covered hands. “I never thought my sweet Elizabeth capable of such a dastardly sneak attack.”
My sweet Elizabeth . . .
(Catherine, if only he’d known the impure thoughts I’d been having about him, he’d have realized that I was certainly not sweet.)
I adjusted my scratchy woolen hat more firmly on my head, bent down over the snowbank to hide the flush stealing over my cheeks. “Woodenheaded Russian.” I shook my head and tsked under my breath while I scooped snow away from the LaSalle. “As anyone can see, I’m helping dig out your car.”
Which I was, just before I kicked a spray of snow his way. It wasn’t ladylike, but then, I’ve never claimed to be a lady.
“You know, I am not actually Russian.” He dropped the offhand bit of information while he used those strong and capable arms to compile a snowball—more like a snow cannonball. Levin never spoke out of turn, so I saw this bit of truth as what it was: a small gift. “Also, you asked for this.”
With that, he hurled the cannonball my way.
I sidestepped the missile, and gave a triumphant laugh even though I suspected that he’d missed on purpose. “Truce!” I plunged my now-frigid hands into the snow berm and pushed it away from his car’s wheel. “This time I really will help!”
Levin answered by delving deep into the snow berm to manufacture another snowball. That was the moment our hands touched and suddenly, hidden out of sight, his bare fingers entwined with mine. Our eyes met and we stayed like that. One, two, maybe ten breaths. Pupils widening, lips parting, breath mingling. An entire conversation in that single gaze. Until . . . “Your hands are cold,” he said.
Wrong, Levin.
Nothing was cold about me at the moment. Quite the opposite.
I wanted him to pull me closer, to kiss me, to do anything. And everything.
Instead, he released my hands and stood statue still. The snow fell around us in perfect silence, the stree
tlights casting a Dickensian glow.
Then the moment melted away like the most fragile and perfect of snowflakes.
Levin bent back over the snow berm and returned to digging out his car. I stooped to help, searching for words and finding none. I mentally flipped through the pages of my journal on human behavior, found absolutely nothing helpful there either. Levin seemed absorbed in his task, yet every so often I felt his gaze scorching the back of my neck.
My hands might have been frostbitten by the time we’d freed his car from its snow prison, but all I could think of was the fever-hot blood thrumming through my body.
I want him. I want Levin.
Because of course, of course, I would have feelings for the one man on earth that I could most definitely not have feelings for.
(Catherine, it’s my duty as an older woman to inform you: love and lust are inconvenient at the best of times. Deadly at the worst of times. Consider yourself warned.)
I straightened, dusted off my jacket with stiff hands that felt simultaneously frozen and on fire. I hadn’t realized that in my exertions that two of my coat’s buttons had come open, and now set my only partially working fingers to remedy that situation. “Well, I’ll be off to the subway then,” I said in a stilted voice. “Good night.”
Levin’s hand caught my wrist. Again, that volt of power that stole my breath, muddled my thoughts. “Stay.” He brushed a few crystalline snowflakes from my hair. It wasn’t a command or a question, but a request that I could see somehow cost him dear, from a man I desperately wanted to spend more time with.
Stay and we’ll kiss right here beneath the streetlight.
Stay and then come back to my apartment.
Instead of saying any of those things, Levin only opened the LaSalle’s well-oiled passenger door. “Stay. And we’ll go for a drive.”
I hesitated, made no attempt to disguise the desire in my eyes, made sure he had seen it before I slid onto the cold leather bench. Usually, when we rode together, Levin meandered aimlessly through the city while peppering me with questions about the Italian Library. This time, the very air between us was alive as he navigated slowly through the hush of the snow-laden city along the Hudson, driving in a straight northern line until we’d passed Riverdale, Yonkers, and Dobbs Ferry.
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