The Other Traitor

by Sharon Potts

  “Thank you, kind sir.” Mari took it and shivered.

  “But you’re freezing and here I am blabbering.” He sniffed the air like a hunting dog. “Are you hungry? We can grab a couple of frankfurters at Nathan’s and get out of the cold.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Yitzy wrapped his arm around her and they walked huddled together. Mari would happily remain in the freezing cold forever, if it could be like this.

  Only a few people were waiting at the counter. Although Nathan’s was mostly open-air, steamy heat from the kitchen permeated the covered area where they stood. Yitzy ordered two frankfurters smothered in mustard and sauerkraut at a nickel each.

  Mari wasn’t sure if he expected her to pay for hers. “Dutch treat?” she asked.

  “Absolutely not.” Yitzy handed her one of the hotdogs. “My treat and my pleasure.”

  They sat close to each other at a picnic-style table, their legs touching. Yitzy shoved about half of his hot dog into his mouth and picked up the Common Sense pamphlet. “Read this,” he said, his words garbled as he chewed. “Written for ordinary people—the common man, as they used to say. It inspired them to fight for freedom and independence from British rule.”

  Mari nibbled on her frankfurter. “So you’re a patriot, too.”

  “A patriot above all. As Thomas Paine states so eloquently, one can disagree with the ruling power and still be very much a patriot.” He wiped his mouth with his fingers, noticed mustard on his pinkie and licked it off.

  Mari was charmed by his apparent disregard for etiquette.

  “So, ready for our stroll?” he asked, when she’d finished her hot dog. “I’ll do my best to protect you from the elements.”

  She was delighted that Yitzy once again put his arm around her shoulders and held her close. She hardly noticed the freezing wind whipping around them.

  The boardwalk was practically deserted, just a handful of people out for a bracing walk. They went past shuttered concession stands, souvenir shops, freak-show posters, and the closed entrances to the Bath Houses. There were no people on the giant Wonder Wheel, whose colorful baskets trembled in the wind like the last few leaves of autumn, or on the Cyclone roller coaster, which looked like it had been built from a child’s Erector Set.

  A weak sun tried to push through the blanket of gray clouds. Waves crashed against the expanse of sandy beach, the sound wonderfully deafening, changing the shoreline with each ebb and flow.

  Mari could make out pieces of wood stuck in the sand, a broken beach chair, a page of a newspaper blowing along the mounds of sand. No people.

  “I came here once with my father,” she said. Yitzy leaned closer to hear her over the thundering waves. “I was very young, but I remember all the people. They were everywhere. On the boardwalk, on the sand, in the ocean. I’d never seen so many people. It was terrifying. I was afraid my father would let go of my hand and I’d lose him forever.”

  “But he didn’t let go.”

  “Not of my hand.”

  He stopped and turned her toward him, taking her hands in his. Her heart went into its rapid-beat performance that his nearness always seemed to trigger.

  A mist of snowflakes surrounded them, settling on Yitzy’s tweed cap, on his brown overcoat, on the tip of his red nose. Mari felt the sting of ice on her cheeks and blinked the flakes out of her eyes.

  “My god, you’re going to turn into a snow woman,” he said. “Come on. Let’s get out of the cold.”

  They clung to each other as they ran down the boardwalk. Yitzy ushered her into a store she hadn’t noticed was open.

  It was dark and smelled like oil, rubber and something burning, and was almost as cold as outside, except at least it wasn’t snowing. She looked around the cluttered wood-planked room. Dusty radios, phonographs, stacks of records. A sign, ‘Make your very own recording.’

  A white-haired old man, wearing an apron over a heavy sweater, was bent over a worktable covered with pieces of electronics. A wisp of smoke floated up from something in the man’s hand. He was soldering some wires together.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Yitzy said. “Sorry to disturb you. I would like to make a recording for my young lady.”

  The man set down the tool he was holding and wiped his fingers on his stained apron. He came out from behind the worktable and led Yitzy into a windowed booth in the back of the room.

  She watched through the glass as Yitzy sat down at a small table, a microphone in front of him. There were large white squares that looked like ceiling tiles covering the walls and ceiling of the booth. The old man left the booth, then went to a table near Mari, where he fumbled with switches on a large machine that looked a bit like a phonograph, except more mechanical.

  She rubbed her hands together in front of the machine’s glowing tubes, hoping to warm up.

  “You’ll be able to hear him,” the old man said to her. “I put in a speaker up there.” He pointed to a funnel shape coming out of the ceiling by the booth. “In the summer, people like to come and listen to the singers. Good for business. Not much going on in the winter, though, so I take in repair work.”

  He signaled to Yitzy and Yitzy gave him a nod.

  Over the speaker, Mari heard Yitzy give a little cough to clear his throat. And then he smiled at her, so warm and full that the coldness melted around her.

  He began to sing.

  Embrace me, disgrace me

  Just don’t erase me.

  You are the apple of my soul

  If you love me, don’t let me go.

  Believe me, deceive me

  Darling, just don’t leave me.

  You are the apple of my soul

  If you love me, don’t let me go.

  One promise I will make to you

  Wherever I am, whatever you choose

  I will love you till my last breath’s drawn

  I will love you long after my time is gone.

  * * *

  Mariasha was startled out of her reverie by the sound of the needle going around and around in the run-out groove. She lifted the arm from the record.

  Yitzy was still smiling at her with his clear blue eyes.

  When she was with him, she had felt charmed, special, no longer ordinary. As though, with Yitzy by her side, she could do anything, be anyone. Untouchable. Invulnerable. But that had been her downfall.

  And his, as well.

  CHAPTER 17

  The afternoon seemed charmed, almost magical, as Annette sat on the park bench with Julian talking about their childhoods, their families, how much he loved painting, and she journalism. But the hours went by too quickly. The crisp blue faded from the sky, replaced by pink and orange hues from the setting sun. Then, the last ray of pinkish light disappeared and the temperature dropped suddenly. The chill bit through Annette’s leggings and even her ski jacket.

  “I’d better get home,” she said.

  The streetlights had come on along the jogging path, reflecting the disappointment in Julian’s face. “You sure?” he asked. “It’s almost five. We can have that beer now.”

  She laughed. She wanted to say yes, and yet she was afraid of where this was going. Their friendship had started with a lie and at this point she didn’t know how to tell Julian the truth. For now, she needed to keep some distance. “Another time.”

  “Tomorrow then,” he said. “We’ll have lunch with Nana. One o’clock?”

  “Does that mean I passed the essay part of my exam?”

  “With flying colors.”

  “One o’clock tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll bring the food this time.”

  “Croque-monsieur? Coq au vin?”

  “A surprise.”

  “As long as it isn’t escargot,” he said. “Those slimy little guys creep me out.”

  “No snails. I promise.”

  He walked her to the subway station on Delancey Street and waited at the upper railing while she went down. She looked up when she reached the midpoint of the stai
rs and waved to him.

  He gave her a salute, then turned and disappeared into the darkness.

  When Annette got home, she wrapped herself in the afghan Grandma Betty had made her years ago and curled up on the sofa. She felt homesick for family, for her mother. She could call her, but it was just after eleven in Paris and Mama would probably be asleep. Besides, what could Annette say to her? That she was lonely? That she wished Mama would finally talk to her? That she missed her?

  Sitting on the park bench with Julian had awakened feelings and realizations, not the least of which was the awareness that she liked Julian more than any guy she had ever known. The prospect of seeing him again tomorrow was thrilling and terrifying. What if she let him in and then he dropped her? But wasn’t she doing what her mother had always done? Blocking out any possible happiness for fear of losing it?

  She opened Grandma Betty’s photo album. There was a great deal of happiness captured in these pages. The photos ended when there was no longer anything to be joyful about. No one wanted to remember the family stories that came once Isaac Goldstein was arrested. Not Grandma Betty, not Mama.

  She studied the photos of Mariasha Lowe with her husband and Annette’s grandparents. Annette had been able to glean something of her grandparents’ world from Mariasha’s stories, but she desperately wanted a closer connection to her family.

  She turned to the group wedding photo taken of the bride and groom and their immediate families. Everyone in the picture was dead—Betty, Isaac, their parents, Betty’s only sister Irene and her husband. Irene had given her sister The Jewish Home Beautiful book that Annette had taken from Grandma Betty’s house. The book now sat in front of her on the trunk. She looked again at the inscription. To my dearest sister Betty. Love, Irene.

  She knew the sisters had been close. Irene, her daughter Linda, and Linda’s daughter Jen, had visited them several times in Paris. Jen, who was a year younger than Annette, was a nasty, spiteful child who liked finding ways to hurt Annette. So it was with mixed feelings that Annette would say goodbye to these people who were the closest ones she had to a family besides her mother and grandmother. But the parting between Betty and Irene was always heart-wrenching. She could remember the two sisters clinging to each other until Linda and Mama finally pulled them apart.

  A few years ago, when Irene was too frail to live alone, she moved in with Linda and remained in her daughter’s house until she passed away.

  Might Irene have told Linda stories about Isaac? After all, Isaac had been Linda’s uncle. But although Annette had stayed in touch with Linda, they never brought up Isaac Goldstein. The subject had been a source of humiliation for Annette and embarrassment for Linda, and neither liked to recall the day when Annette first learned who her real grandfather had been.

  It had been over winter break and Annette was spending the holiday with her father. She’d been mopey, and with reason. At sixteen, she hadn’t wanted to come to the States that winter. There was a boy she liked in Paris and she hated being apart from him. Her dad brought her to Linda’s house for the day, perhaps hoping the visit would distract her. He had no inkling how far his wish would be fulfilled.

  Annette had been working on a half-completed puzzle on the bridge table when Linda’s daughter Jen skulked into the family room. She was fifteen, messy black hair down to her waist, wearing worn jeans that were so tight that a roll of baby fat was visible beneath her pink sweater and hung over her waistband.

  “I already did that one,” Jen said, hovering over the table. She smelled unwashed. “I don’t know why my mom keeps taking it out.”

  Annette kept her eyes on the puzzle, not interested in having a conversation with Jen. She tried to fit a piece into an open spot.

  Jen pulled it out of Annette’s hand. “It goes here.” She slammed the piece into its correct place near the top of the puzzle.

  “Thanks,” Annette said, though she would have liked to tell her to go away.

  “I’m working on a project for school,” Jen said. “A family tree. Mom says I can’t show it to you.”

  Annette looked up from the puzzle slowly. Jen’s pale eyes were on Annette, her lower jaw pushed out like a bulldog’s.

  “Why not?” Annette asked.

  Jen shrugged. “I don’t know. Granny Irene’s been helping me. She and your grandmother are sisters, so I even have your side of the family.

  Annette couldn’t help herself. She was curious. Her mother and grandmother never spoke about family. And Annette, being an only child, often felt very alone.

  Jen examined a handful of her long, greasy hair for split ends. “If I show you, do you promise not to tell my mother?”

  Annette couldn’t imagine why Linda would object, but decided to play along. “I promise.”

  Jen released her hair and grinned. The sight caught Annette off-guard. She couldn’t remember ever seeing Jen smile and her second cousin was almost pretty. If she lost weight, she’d be very attractive.

  “Come on,” Jen said in a stage whisper, though there was no one aside from Annette to hear her, then hurried up the stairs with exaggerated tip-toe steps.

  Annette followed, wondering what Jen was up to. Her friendliness was out of character, but maybe she was lonely or bored.

  Jen’s room was at the end of the hall. They passed an open door and Annette saw great-aunt Irene sitting on her bed rifling through a pile of envelopes. On a perch beside the bed was Irene’s parrot, Prettybird.

  Annette continued on to Jen’s room. She hadn’t been here in years. The Danish-wood bed, desk and dresser were the same, but the room was completely transformed from a neat little girl’s room. The bed was unmade, clothes were piled on the floor, and there were food wrappers and Coke cans scattered everywhere.

  She was surprised Linda didn’t make Jen clean up, but Linda’s style had always leaned toward permissive, unlike Annette’s own upbringing, which bordered on oppressive.

  Even the posters on the walls were far more risqué than anything Annette’s mom would have been permitted. There was one of Madonna and Britney Spears kissing. Another of a bikini-clad Paris Hilton in a provocative pose.

  Jen picked up a piece of white poster board covered with words and diagonal lines. “I was really confused when I made this,” Jen said, scrunching up her forehead. “Especially your grandmother’s part of the tree.”

  Annette stepped around a pile of sneakers and a black lace bra and went over to the desk.

  Jen held the poster board against the wall. “You see here it shows the sisters—Betty and Irene Lustig. Your grandmother Betty’s older, born in 1920. My Granny Irene was born in 1925. But here’s the part that confused me at first,” Jen said. “Betty married Simon Revoir in 1955.”

  Jen’s hand blocked part of the family tree, but Annette felt unsettled. She knew where this was going. The timing of Grandma Betty’s marriage didn’t make sense.

  “Your mother was born in 1945, wasn’t she?” Jen said. “Ten years before Betty married Simon Revoir.”

  “What’s the big deal?” Annette hoped her face hadn’t turned red. She hated that Jen knew more about her background than she did. “Maybe my grandmother was married before. Maybe her first husband died.”

  Jen smiled broadly, like she was having the best time of her life. She took her hand away from the poster board. “You’re right about that. He sure did die.” She made a loud buzzing sound and pointed to a name attached to Betty’s with another line. It said ‘Isaac Goldstein (b.1918—d.1953)’

  The name didn’t mean anything to Annette. The line extending down from the union of Betty Lustig to Isaac Goldstein showed Annette’s mother, Sally Goldstein Revoir (b. 1945-- )

  So Grandma Betty had been married to someone named Isaac Goldstein and this man, not Grand-Père, had been Annette’s mother’s real father, making him Annette’s grandfather. But why had her mother and Grandma Betty kept this from Annette?

  Another line joined her mother Sally to Michael Carter in 1986 a
nd from their union came a downward line showing Annette Revoir Carter (b. 1987-- )

  Seeing her name on this family tree was a little eerie, but ‘Annette Revoir Carter’ felt like some other person. Annette had never used her father’s last name. She didn’t understand why Linda wouldn’t have wanted her to see this. Maybe Linda thought she’d be upset that Grandma Betty had been married before.

  “Isaac Goldstein.” Jen jabbed her finger against the scribbled words on the family tree. “Do you recognize the name?”

  “Not really,” Annette said.

  “You never heard of Isaac Goldstein the spy? The biggest traitor in history? The man who gave the Russians the secret to the atomic bomb?”

  Annette felt a flush of heat. They talked about traitors in history class. Judas, Brutus, Marie Antoinette, Benedict Arnold… Isaac Goldstein.

  But Isaac Goldstein couldn’t be related to her. Jen was making it up to upset her.

  “Look here.” Jen turned her computer screen so Annette could see it. The face of a monstrous man with one drooping eyelid. “Isaac Goldstein, the notorious American spy, died in the electric chair in 1953,” Jen read, then looked back at Annette. “Didn’t your grandmother move to Paris in 1953? That’s what Granny Irene told me.”

  “That isn’t my grandfather,” Annette said, kicking aside a sneaker as she stormed toward the bedroom door.

  “Don’t believe me?” Jen said to her back. “Ask my mom. She’ll tell you. Or why don’t you ask your own mother?”

  Annette left the room, slamming the door behind her. “Menteuse,” she muttered. “Liar. Jen’s a liar.” But her face was hot with a deep-burning shame as Annette sensed Jen had told her the truth. Isaac Goldstein was her grandfather. She was descended from a monster.

  Annette turned to the photo of her grandfather—a decorated army hero. Not a monster. It had taken her many years to realize that.

  She closed the photo album. Whenever she remembered that day, she was filled with shame. But this time, she felt something different. There was a detail in the memory that she had never paid attention to before. Irene sitting on her bed sorting through letters. Was it possibly those letters had been from Grandma Betty and contained insights into the persecution of Isaac Goldstein?