The Other Traitor

by Sharon Potts

  The blond boy climbed up on a chair, and swung his arms as though he was conducting an orchestra. He was a god.

  Look at me. Please look at me.

  His eyes connected with hers for an instant, blue and sharp. Mari felt as though she was freefalling through the air.

  The song ended. The boy jumped down from the chair and took a bow. Everyone applauded wildly and he went to get food.

  She watched him out of the corner of her eye and toyed with the brown meat on her plate. He was talking to a few boys and girls as he made his way down the big room. She willed him to keep walking her way.

  And then, there he was, at her table. Her heart bounced. She tried to look like she didn’t care when he sat down across from her. He was holding a red apple with his teeth. He took a bite, swallowed, then smiled at her.

  The two other girls at the table giggled.

  He ignored them, his blue eyes focused on Mari. “Hi. I’m Yitzy.”

  “Mari,” she said, heart fluttering. “It’s short for Mariasha.”

  The two girls whispered to each other, got up and left with their trays.

  “Mariasha,” he said. His skin was clear. No pimples like most of the other boys had. “I like that better than your nickname.”

  “Yitzy,” Mari said in a voice more confident than she felt. “That’s a Jewish name, but you look like a shegetz with your blond hair and blue eyes.” Mari couldn’t believe her sassiness, but something about being around him allowed her to be this other, confident person.

  Yitzy drew his head back and frowned. Then he burst out laughing. “A shegetz,” he said. “Imagine me a goy. And you, Mariasha, with your black eyes and raven hair look like a shiksa. Very likely a Spanish flamenco dancer.”

  She grinned back at him, aware as she did that she wasn’t covering her mouth with her hand. So he was a poet, too.

  “Mariasha’s an unusual name,” he said. “You know it means ‘bitters’ in Hebrew. Like maror, the bitters we eat on Pesach to remind us of the bitterness of slavery in Egypt. So we’ll never forget what it’s like to be a slave.”

  “How do you know so much?”

  He shrugged and took a bite out of his apple. “Hebrew school.” He looked down at the uneaten food on Mari’s tray. “So is this your first time away from home?”

  Mari nodded.

  “It’s not so bad. We do all kinds of things. Folk dancing, swimming, canoeing. And of course there are the classes in social justice. It’s all very communal.” He swallowed another bite of apple. His eyes were the same shade of blue as her favorite cat’s-eye marble. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I don’t swim.” Then she added quickly. “I plan to learn.”

  “Almost no one can swim when they get here. I can teach you, if you’d like.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Have you been coming to Camp Kindervelt a long time?”

  “Just since last year. I used my own money, since my parents don’t believe in extravagances.” He smiled again, as though pleased with himself for using a big word. “But next year, I’ll be fifteen and I can come for the whole summer as an assistant counselor.” He reached out with his fork and speared a green bean from Mari’s plate. He chewed it, then made a face, as though in terrible pain. “Got in himmel! Who could eat this drek?”

  Mari laughed.

  Yitzy held out his half-eaten apple. “Here, take this.”

  “Oh no, thank you. I’m fine.”

  He pressed the apple into Mari’s hand. “Eat.”

  It had his saliva. His germs. Mari was momentarily revolted by the thought of biting into it. Then she dug her teeth into the apple.

  * * *

  Mariasha put her hand over her chest, felt her heart pumping. Yitzy. Such a charmer. Some called him an opportunist, but she knew what had been most important to him was being liked. Playing a role in which he could be admired.

  She thought about how special Yitzy made her feel, like she could be anyone she wanted to be. And yes, even do the unthinkable.

  * * *

  The days at Camp Kindervelt went too quickly. At first, Mari catalogued every hour, reviewing each experience, hoping to make it last forever. Breakfast, when Yitzy would share his toast and make her eat a few forkfuls of his eggs. Then study group, where they would sit on blankets under the old oak trees and learn about Karl Marx and the system of socialized democracy. Then came waterfront. Mari would change into her wool bathing suit, damp from the day before and so stretched out that she tied the straps together behind her shoulder blades with a piece of twine to keep them from falling down. Yitzy wore a bathing suit with a blue and white striped top that showed off his long golden arms. He taught her how to swim in the freezing cold lake, how to canoe, how to kiss with the scent of pine needles all around them.

  And then it was all over.

  On the bus ride home, she sat by herself and stared out the window. The trees went past her in a blur. She thought about Yitzy. How he had taken her into the woods while the other campers sat around the campfire singing Socialist work anthems. How they kissed over and over, his lips soft and full.

  She touched her own lips now with her fingers. They felt bruised and sore. She sucked them in, and closed her eyes, remembering the way he tasted.

  They had agreed to meet in two weeks. At the smokestack shaped like a giant baseball bat just outside Yankee Stadium. September 4th. Mari would bring Saul so Mama wouldn’t get suspicious.

  That’s what she had to hold onto. Yitzy and Mariasha in two weeks.

  But how could she live without him until then?

  The bus became hotter as they got closer to the city. The smell of smoke and burning coal replaced the pine needles and fresh air. Then, there was Yankee Stadium and the giant baseball bat where she’d be meeting Yitzy in two weeks. Thirteen more days.

  The bus turned off the highway. The buildings were taller, closer together, the air thicker. Her heart ached more than she believed possible. When Papa died, she’d been too young to fully understand her loss. And it hadn’t been sudden. Papa had been dying a long time, so she had already started to heal by the time the scab came off. But this—saying goodbye to Yitzy after only just getting to know him—felt like her heart had been ripped out.

  The bus stopped by the building where she’d said goodbye to Mama and Saul the week before. The campers bundled off, hugging each other goodbye, then went toward their mothers and fathers.

  No sign of Mama or Saul. Mari couldn’t wait to tell her brother all about camp. Next year he would come with her. Yitzy might even be his counselor.

  She sat on a fire hydrant, her bundle of clothes on her lap. It was so hot that she couldn’t take a deep breath without feeling as though she was scorching her lungs. Everyone left. The bus pulled away.

  Could Mama have gotten the date wrong? The time? She waited another half hour, then went to the subway station and took the train to Brooklyn. She walked the three blocks from Alabama Avenue, passing brick buildings she’d seen her entire life, but that now looked alien to her. She missed the thick green woods, the crisp blue sky, and cool sweet air. She missed Yitzy.

  There was a black car double-parked in front of her apartment building.

  She said hello to Mrs. Silverman, who was rocking her daughter’s new baby in the carriage. Mrs. Silverman shook her head and looked away.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Mari ran upstairs to their second floor apartment. A wave of heat hit her when she opened the door. The apartment smelled strange. Like medicine and sickness.

  “Mama? Saulie?”

  She dropped her bundle of clothes on the easy chair and searched the rooms. No one in the kitchen. Nothing cooking on the stove. She peeked into the bedroom she shared with Mama. The brass bed was made up with the bedspread Mama had crocheted before Papa got sick.

  Then she heard Mama and a man talking quietly, just outside the little bedroom. The doctor who had taken care of Papa.

  “There are new cu
res we can try,” the doctor said.

  Mari stopped breathing. Cures? No. Please. Not again.

  She pushed between the doctor and her mother and looked into the spare bedroom. The room was dark. Saul was propped up on two pillows, his eyes closed, his curls dull like tarnished bronze. Even in the dim light, Mari could see the uneven flush of red on his cheeks.

  Her abdomen convulsed, as though she’d been punched. Papa had stayed in this very room. She remembered sitting beside him, as he taught her to read letters and words. Then how he had closed the book and hugged her against him. You are the strong one, my Mariasha. Promise me you’ll always take care of your Mama and little brother.

  I promise, Papa.

  Saulie opened his eyes and gave her a little smile. His breathing was ragged. “You know I love you, Mari.”

  “I love you more,” she said, but he had already closed his eyes, as though he hadn’t heard her.

  She stepped back into the hall, heart pounding. “What’s wrong with Saulie?”

  “Shhhh,” Mama said.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow, Mrs. Hirsch,” the doctor said, then left the apartment.

  “Tell me,” Mari said, hearing the panic in her voice. “What’s the matter with Saulie?”

  Mama perched on the edge of the pink sofa that no one was ever allowed to sit on. Streaks of gray wound through her reddish hair. She looked much older than when Mari had left a week before.

  “His throat hurt,” Mama said, turning a button on her housedress around and around. “But Saulie always gets sore throats. Now the doctor says it’s something worse. Much worse.”

  Worse? But then Saulie wouldn’t be able to go with her to Yankee Stadium. She wouldn’t be seeing Yitzy, after all. She clenched her fists, wanting to scream. This was all Saul’s fault. How could he do this to her?

  “His heart may be ruined,” Mama was saying. “He could even die.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mari felt her legs go weak. “Saulie can’t die.”

  “He’s my baby,” Mama whispered, “and I don’t even have a picture of him.”

  The edge of an icicle slid down her spine. Here she was thinking about herself when her brother might die. She had promised Papa she would take care of Saul, but she had forsaken him.

  What if God punished her for her selfish, sinful thoughts? What if Saulie died because of her?

  She had to make a choice. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer.

  Please, God. If you save Saulie, I promise never to see Yitzy again.

  CHAPTER 12

  Sunday morning was glorious, which made Annette uneasy. It was the combination of an intense blue sky and crisp air that created the illusion that everything was clean and beautiful. As she walked through Central Park, even the snow blanketing the gentle hills seemed to sparkle in the sunlight.

  Prime real-estate-selling weather, her father had jokingly referred to it the Christmas she was seventeen. She’d been visiting him at his old rambling house in Danbury, Connecticut that backed up to a wooded lot. That’s when she noticed the discreet ‘House for Sale’ sign and her father told her he was marrying a wonderful woman with two great kids and moving into the woman’s house. That was the last time Annette visited him, and after that she’d grown to mistrust beautiful weather. Which she knew was silly. Today will be a glorious day, she told herself. Even though yesterday had been a near bust.

  She was still annoyed about how she’d handled Julian Sandman. It was no wonder he had questioned her true purpose. She had done a lousy job with her attempt at subterfuge, trying to get him to talk about communism when she was supposedly interested in his grandmother’s sculptures. She had probably blown the chance of ever meeting Mariasha Lowe, but hopefully Bill would have some ideas on what she should do next.

  She waited for a group of bicyclists to cross the winding path in front of her and took in a breath of cool fresh air. It was almost eleven and she had her regular Sunday date with Bill at the Reservoir, a one-point-six-mile running track that surrounded what had once been the source of water for Manhattanites, but now was a favorite gathering place for mallards, geese and joggers.

  Bill was a far more serious runner than Annette and competed in marathons, so he liked to run the two miles from his apartment near Columbia University to another jogging trail in the park and end up at the Reservoir for his last leg. Annette lived a little farther away and preferred to walk rather than run to Central Park from home. She was usually satisfied with one lap around the Reservoir before she and Bill headed over to the Boathouse for coffee and cinnamon buns.

  She reached the broad marble stairs at 90th Street and Fifth and climbed them to the Runners’ Gate. Bill was already running in place in front of the magnificent elm that had been there since the late 1800s. He wore a black jogging suit, emerald-green gloves and a red, green and white reindeer-patterned headband around his ears. Bill was still self-conscious about his recent “coming out” and she was pleased he was at least getting a bit more brazen with his accessories.

  “Good morning,” he said. “You’re right on time.”

  “I hate you,” Annette said. “You’re not even panting or sweating. And you’ve already gone what? Five miles?”

  “Seven. I started early.”

  “Nice jogging attire,” she said, “unlike me.” She glanced down at her red jacket, old Nikes, and purple leggings with a small hole in the knee. Her hair was in braids to keep it out of the way while she ran.

  “It’s important to keep up the right appearances.” He adjusted his tortoise-framed glasses, held in place by a croakie. “Do you need to stretch or are you ready to go?”

  “I’m good.” She fell in beside him and they took off around the path. It was free of snow and ice thanks to the hundreds of jogging feet that kept it clear. On their left, the water looked like a giant lake and reflected the clear blue sky. Bill maintained a gentle, even pace so that they could actually hold a conversation. “You look happy this morning,” she said.

  “I am. Kylie’s bringing Billy to the ice-skating rink at one. She said I can have him for the entire afternoon without supervision.”

  Annette was frustrated by Bill’s acceptance of his ex-wife’s meager concessions regarding their son, but she didn’t want to ruin his good mood.

  “And how are you doing?” he asked. “Did you meet the woman who’s going to tell you all about your grandfather?”

  “Not yet, but I finished the book by the Soviet spy last night.” She’d tell him about Mariasha Lowe’s grandson later.

  “And?” he asked.

  They passed a copse of leafless trees. Just beyond, a couple of horses with bundled up riders were loping down the bridle path.

  “I learned a lot about being a spy in the 1930s and 40s,” she said. “It was pretty unsophisticated. They actually did dorky things like greet each other with secret passwords. You know like, ‘Bobo sent me.’ They even cut up Jell-O boxes and matched up the pieces to confirm who they were. I thought that was just in Grade-B spy movies.”

  “Spying’s become a lot more sophisticated in the last sixty or seventy years, thanks to technology and the internet. Anything in the book that ties to your grandfather?”

  “Indirectly,” she said. “The author, Boris Yaklisov, worked for the Soviet Embassy in New York, but he was also a case officer for the communists. He went to college rallies and recruited students who were sympathetic to the communist movement.”

  “That wouldn’t have been too difficult,” Bill said. “Back in the thirties, college students in New York were even more left-wing than today. City College and NYU were both fertile recruiting grounds for the communists.” A group of joggers going the wrong way forced her and Bill to squeeze to the right as they passed. “In fact, some of the most prominent people accused of being atomic spies came out of CCNY,” Bill continued. “Morton Sobell, Alfred Sarant, Julius Rosenberg.”

  “Interesting,” she said. “Yaklisov recalled meeting I
saac Goldstein at a meeting around 1938. But Yaklisov wasn’t impressed with him. He called Goldstein a dilettante and didn’t think he had much value for the Party. He didn’t see him again until after the war. And then, only briefly.”

  They passed the midway point around the reservoir and she looked across the water at the eastern and southern skylines of Manhattan, staircases of flat and pointed rooftops clearly visible behind the skeletal trees.

  “I suppose Goldstein became more valuable to the communists after the war,” Bill said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “As you saw in your grandmother’s old photo, he was quite the war hero. He rescued a soldier from drowning and was seriously injured in 1943. He received the Soldier’s Medal, Purple Heart, and a medical discharge.”

  Bill was right. Recruiting an American war hero would have been quite a coup for the Soviets.

  “Then he went to work for the Army Signal Corps as an engineer,” Bill said. “His job was to inspect electrical equipment manufactured by defense contractors for the government. A couple of witnesses at his trial claimed Goldstein stole confidential information from the Signal Corps and passed it on to the Russians.” Bill took off his headband and gloves and stuffed them into a pocket. “Have you read anything about the trial?”

  “I started reading the transcript, but it’s almost three thousand pages. I tried to find a concise summary, but there’s a ton of material out there. I can’t figure out what’s been verified and what’s been shown to be false.”

  “It can be overwhelming,” he said. “But here’s one thing you may find helpful.” He slowed down to a fast walk. “The key witness against Goldstein was a woman named Florence Heller. She claimed Goldstein was the head of the spy ring she was part of and that Goldstein received documents from a contact in Los Alamos, New Mexico, where the major work on the atomic bomb was done. She said Goldstein passed these documents on to the Russians. Most trial analysts now believe she lied to protect her boyfriend.”

  “I read that. Could the boyfriend have been the spy?”