To Catch a Traitor

by Shuster, D. B. ;

  Out of the corner of his eye, Artur observed Edik leaving the kitchen. Edik slinked into the hallway toward the door. Most people wouldn’t have noticed the added bulk at Edik’s lower back, but Artur did.

  He heard the front door open. He had no doubt Sofia had colluded with Edik to smuggle the money out of the apartment. To what end?

  Artur debated following Edik but didn’t have a good way to extricate himself from the conversation Ilya had started. He decided his best course was to play along.

  “Why, for example, do so many Jewish accidents happen in the army?” Artur contributed, doing his part to keep Mendel distracted, as Sofia had requested. The KGB agents gathered outside would note where Edik went, and Artur would wring the information from him later when they met back at the apartment. In the meantime, he would use the chance to prove himself a worthy ally.

  “There is great evil in the world,” Mendel said. “God is powerful and all-knowing, but He cannot work His will alone. We must all do our part.”

  “So, are you saying that the men who died weren’t somehow doing their part?” Ilya challenged.

  “You think I’m foolish and that my faith is stupid,” Mendel snapped.

  Artur noted how Mendel’s temper ignited so quickly and with only the slightest provocation. He found himself worrying that Sofia’s injuries might not turn out to be a onetime occurrence.

  His rage over Mendel’s abuse stunned him. He shouldn’t care. If anything, he should be glad. Mendel’s violence could only serve to drive Sofia into his arms.

  “I don’t think it’s foolish or stupid,” Ilya soothed. “I just want to understand. You’ve come home to us so different. With all kinds of rules and new ideas about religion.”

  Mendel visibly struggled with his temper, clenching and unclenching his fists, until the redness receded from his face. Eventually, he gained control of himself. He managed to sound civil, even reasonable, when he finally answered Ilya’s question.

  “Not so much has changed,” Mendel said. “Like you, I believe we must all do our part to bring about a better world. You have your ways,” he said cryptically, “and I used to embrace them.”

  Artur would have liked to know just how Mendel and Ilya had tried to change the world. Mendel had spent the past five years in prison, where he wouldn’t have been capable of much contact with outsiders. For his part, Ilya had been saddled with a team of watchers, but Artur suspected he’d been actively creating trouble all along, right under their noses.

  “I used to think that the way forward was to speak out, to fight.” Mendel paced the room and stroked his wispy beard. Based on the introductions and what he had gleaned from the files at the Lubyanka, Artur knew the men in the parlor to be reasonably intelligent people, out-of-work engineers and scientists. They watched Mendel curiously. No one spoke or interrupted.

  “I lived by those convictions. I sacrificed for them. Those convictions got me arrested. Those convictions got me a further sentence in solitary confinement.” He had the appearance of a wise, old sage, and the sonorous voice and cadence of a gifted orator. “And in the years away from my family, away from my community, away from my wife”—he acknowledged Sofia, who chose that moment to enter with the tea tray—“in a cell so small I couldn’t even lie flat on my back, I had a revelation.”

  Sofia pressed her lips together, as if she longed to comment but would not permit herself. What did she make of all of this?

  “Alone in my cell, I was forced to look inward. To listen to the voice that I had not been able to hear before over the roar of my own ambition and will.” Mendel took a moment, looked each of the men in the room in the eye, even Artur. “My friends, I came to understand that to change the world, to make it better, we must first change ourselves. We must first be better men.”

  Artur couldn’t deny Mendel’s gift for rhetoric. But what was his angle? Such lofty words about being a better person meant little if he beat his own wife.

  “The only way to do that is to embrace God’s teaching,” Mendel said. He began to expound on this idea, telling them there were commandments, long lists of rules that had to be learned and followed.

  “I don’t know about all of this religious stuff,” someone said, and he seemed to speak for the others as well. “I’m interested in learning about Jewish history. About my heritage. If the Soviets hate me for it, then at least I should understand it. But I’m not interested in becoming religious. I’m not going to grow a beard or start spouting off about God.”

  “Or spend long hours in the Grand Choral Synagogue with the old men,” someone else added, and another man said at the same time, “We have no desire to isolate ourselves from regular society. Like in the days of the Jewish shtetls.”

  Mendel’s students talked over each other, each adding another aspect of religious observance that failed to appeal. They were united in their resistance. Mendel’s face grew taut. His lips formed a thin line, and he tugged at his beard. He appeared as if he were at the end of a tether stretched to its limit. He closed his eyes and mouthed a few unintelligible words, maybe a prayer, Artur thought.

  When Mendel spoke, his voice was surprisingly soft and calm. “I would never ask you to.”

  Artur saw through Mendel’s false claim. He knew the man had forced his wife to take on new customs she and her father found objectionable. Mendel would undoubtedly press his agenda here, too. What did he hope to gain?

  Had Victor and the rabbi put him up to this, to make it seem as if the Jews were free to follow their traditions, as Ilya had suggested when they’d first heard Mendel preaching?

  “We’ll start the study group by learning more about our heritage, about the Bible and about the great legal minds of our forefathers. Give me three months, and then we’ll revisit the question of God and commandments. Right now, you don’t have the tools to argue with me.” Despite his strangeness, Mendel managed to persuade his audience to give him months to present his case and convert them to his cause.

  Artur would ensure he didn’t get that chance. He planned to shut this whole operation down in a matter of weeks, if not days.

  Sofia plastered on a brittle smile and wove her way between the men. “Edik remembered he had an errand to run,” she told him.

  “Where’d he go?” Artur asked.

  “He didn’t say.” Whether or not she knew Edik’s destination, Artur was sure she had arranged for him to leave with money. “Only that he’ll meet you at home later.”

  When she offered him tea, he steadied her hand with his own. She didn’t allow the touch to linger, but his fingers tingled from the contact with her skin.

  Once more, Ilya jabbed him in the side with his elbow and made him slosh his tea on his trousers. “Stop staring. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Artur said, and Ilya grunted at him.

  As soon as the tea was served, Sofia gathered her coat and bag and slipped out of the apartment. Where was she going? To meet up with Edik?

  Artur had a feeling of near desperation as he watched her leave. Now he would have no chance to get her alone.

  The door closed behind her, and the sound galvanized him. He pretended to check his watch. “Sorry. I have to go. I have a job interview,” he lied.

  Ilya rewarded his subterfuge with a darkly suspicious and disapproving glare, but Artur couldn’t worry about that. With Edik scheduled so soon to depart, he knew his opportunities to pursue Sofia would be greatly curtailed if he couldn’t establish some relationship between them now.

  He gathered his coat and hat and headed at a quick clip into the hallway. Sofia was already gone.

  He didn’t waste time on the slow, ancient elevator. Instead, he jogged down the seven flights of stairs to the ground level. He exited to the street and caught a glimpse of her about a block away.

  Mindful of the wi
ndows from the apartment, he didn’t run after her. He didn’t want Ilya or the others to see him obviously pursuing her and to speculate about why, even if Ilya already harbored some suspicions.

  He passed by the group of KGB agents on the corner, barely noticing them, his attention riveted on Sofia.

  One of the agents called out. “Hey! You there. Jew!”

  He ignored the agent and kept walking, the way he thought Ilya might. For a moment, he imagined numerous sets of eyes boring into him. He glanced up at the window of the Reitmans’ apartment, and wondered who there might be watching him.

  “I’m talking to you, you worthless Jew.” Artur’s attention shifted to the agents on the street, to their crossed arms and the menacing expressions on their faces, to the numerous sharp stares.

  An agent intercepted Artur and grabbed him by the sleeve. Artur shook him off and quickened his pace. He had to catch up with Sofia.

  Up ahead, he saw her turn left down the next block. He spotted a taxicab coming down the street and waved his arm to hail it. He would overtake her in the taxi and then offer her a ride, he decided.

  “Hey, Sasha, help me teach this disrespectful Jew boy a lesson,” the agent said as the taxi pulled up to the curb.

  Sasha, who had been standing closer to the curb, jumped into Artur’s path and tapped on the roof of the cab, sending it away.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Zhid?” Sasha postured in front of him, getting in his face, blocking his view of Sofia.

  Artur wanted to shove him out of the way in frustration. He wanted to berate the agent for impeding his investigation, then remembered he couldn’t break his cover.

  Sasha shoved him hard, and he stumbled back, tripping into the agent who had first called to him. The agent laughed and shoved him harder. Artur stumbled into Sasha who caught him, snatched a fistful of his hair at the crown, and pulled his head back.

  “Let go of me,” Artur said.

  Sasha only laughed, “Quiet, Jew.”

  Artur’s fellow agents jeered and mocked with the same bloodthirsty glee of the neighbors who had encouraged the mob outside the synagogue.

  The KGB agents had no idea who he was! They thought he was a Jew, an outsider, an enemy.

  Inside, Artur burned with anger. This was all a mistake, a dangerous mistake, that put him at unnecessary risk and compromised his mission.

  He vowed to get Sasha’s identification and report him to his supervisor. The agents might not know who Artur was, but they should have known there was an operation going on and not stuck themselves in the middle of it without any provocation.

  Sasha said, “We need to teach this Zionist proper respect.”

  The agents pushed him back and forth between them with enough force that his heart started to pound. The others shouted their encouragement. “Show him what we do to enemies of the state.”

  What should he do? He couldn’t break his cover and tell them who he was. Should he meekly bow his head as they pummeled him?

  Other agents converged on him, the extra men Artur himself had suggested they put on Ilya. They laughed, shouted, and took turns shoving him. Oblivious to how they threatened a top level investigation, they took obvious pleasure in bullying him. His heart raced until his chest hurt. His face felt hot. His fury threatened to boil over.

  Even Edik had tried to fight back against the mob, he thought.

  He regained his footing and swung a punch at Sasha. His blow connected solidly, and he heard the huff as he knocked the wind out of his tormentor.

  There was a moment of stunned silence, and Artur quickly realized his mistake. Fighting the mob outside the synagogue had been one thing, but this was the KGB. And they hadn’t expected him to fight back.

  The agents crowded him in, and Artur knew real fear.

  What if he became the victim of a “Jewish accident”?

  If the agents got overzealous in their terrorizing of Yosef Koslovsky, then Artur Gregorovich would never return home to his wife and son.

  “Look at the tough guy,” Sasha wheezed, one hand planted in the middle of his chest where Artur had struck him. “Assaulting an officer of the law. Right? You all saw it?”

  The first agent pulled his gun. The others, including Sasha, also pulled theirs.

  Ten guns. More than a firing squad. Artur was surrounded.

  There was no escape, no one to help him. He felt the truth of Ruben’s and Sofia’s rants deep in his bones. Everyone was against him because they thought he was a Jew.

  The first agent yanked Artur’s arm violently. “I’m the KGB. You do what I say.”

  Artur was KGB, too. He outranked these street agents. He could have all of them fired or reprimanded. But not now. Not today. Today he was Yosef Koslovsky, a lowly Jew. Subhuman. They could kill him with impunity.

  Artur bowed his head. Meekly, he asked, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Get in the cab.” The agent stuck his thumb and forefinger into his mouth, making a high-pitched whistle. A moment later, a different taxi came around the block. The agent opened the door, and Artur got in. “Move over. I’m coming with you,” the agent said.

  Artur slid across the seat as instructed, and the agent climbed in beside him and slammed the door.

  The cab started driving. “Where are we going?” Artur asked.

  “You’re going home,” the agent said, holstering his gun. “You’re taking the day off from undercover work. There’s a reception tonight. Semyon wants you there. Everything’s been arranged.”

  Artur blinked at the agent and took a slow, deep breath.

  He was safe.

  “Did the agents all know I was undercover?” he asked.

  “Of course,” the agent said.

  The anger eased out of Artur’s muscles as he realized the violence had all been for show, designed to keep his cover intact.

  It had all felt too real. For a moment, he had felt what Ilya and Ruben and Mendel might feel every time they left their apartments and met the cadre of agents who were supposed to intimidate them to behave.

  He hadn’t wanted to behave. He had wanted to lash out, to exact his vengeance and make the agents pay.

  “It would have been too risky if they didn’t know,” the agent chuckled. “Someone might have actually shot you.”

  Artur forced a smile and pretended he shared the man’s amusement. You can’t afford to be soft-hearted. To have doubts, Maya had told him, and he couldn’t display the slightest weakness to this underling.

  Artur wasn’t supposed to see his targets as people. Wasn’t supposed to feel any sympathy for them. Wasn’t supposed to feel what they felt.

  But he did.

  Chapter FORTY-THREE

  VERA

  AFTER SCHOOL, VERA hurried with Kolya to the bus stop. He gripped her hand and dragged her along almost at a run. “I need to get home. I need to check on Mama.”

  She felt a sharp pang of guilt. Over the past week, she had resented how Kolya’s complaints about Mendel had delayed their departure, the extra time she’d had to spend waiting for the next bus and coaxing him to go home to his father when she could have been with Petya, cultivating a friendship with someone her own age.

  But this morning she had seen for herself the hideous kerchief Mendel suddenly insisted her older sister wear. She had seen Sofia’s bloody nose.

  She no longer believed Sofia’s calm mantra that Mendel and Kolya merely needed time to get used to each other again. Something was very wrong.

  They waited at the stop amid the crowd of students who, like them, had just finished their classes. Usually they hung back, a little apart from the crowd.

  He pushed his way to the front of the line, showing an assertiveness she hadn’t seen in him before. When the bus came, he was the first one on, calling impatiently, “Come on, Vera.”

&
nbsp; He barreled headfirst into Gennady, who was about to get off at their stop. “Oomph,” Gennady groaned and backed up.

  “Sorry,” Kolya mumbled and climbed into the first available seat. Gennady turned sideways, out of Vera’s way, gesturing for her to pass him.

  Gennady was always lurking around. Too often, she caught herself falling into the old, familiar fantasies of him, only to shake herself free with the memory of how he’d turned on her. How he’d laughed at her.

  She slid into the seat beside Kolya, and Gennady stood at her side, even though the bus had plenty of empty seats. She tried to ignore his intrusive presence and focus on Kolya. She’d spent most afternoons with her nephew since he was a toddler, and she couldn’t stand to see him so distressed.

  “I’m sure she’s all right,” Vera tried to soothe him.

  “He made her bleed,” Kolya contradicted in a whisper. Even so distraught, he kept to the lessons his grandfather had taught him. With cautious awareness of his surroundings, he did his best to keep their conversation private. “Do you really think it was an accident?”

  The comforting phrase was on her tongue, but Kolya sounded so like a jurist, and she felt for a moment that she was the one on the witness stand. Sofia always said that the boy had an old soul, that he understood things far beyond his years.

  “You don’t think it was an accident,” she said carefully. In her heart, she didn’t believe it was an accident, but she avoided telling Kolya anything that might pit him against Mendel or might later be repeated to Sofia.

  She never knew whether Sofia would sympathize with them or get defensive on Mendel’s behalf, saying that they needed to give him some time to reclaim his life after all he had suffered.

  Vera recognized a fantasy when she heard one. She spent so much of her time indulging in daydreams about her own life being different.

  “He wants everything his way,” Kolya complained. “He wants us to change everything.” Despite her ongoing efforts to keep her opinions to herself, Kolya gave the same indictment of Mendel that she would have.