The Other Traitor

by Sharon Potts

  He turned to the left, then back to the right. Art and medicine. There hadn’t been any conflict between them. They’d always been two halves of the same whole.

  That’s when the truth hit him. He had always wanted to become a physician. No one had stopped him from following his dreams. No one, except himself.

  The revelation was thrilling, and he wanted to tell Annette. He reached for his phone and scrolled to her contact info. There was her headshot. She was smiling at him, and his heart contracted in a spasm of pain. Annette was no longer in his life. He could delete her from his contacts, but he knew he never would. He clicked off his phone and closed his eyes.

  He awoke with a start, smelling smoke. Where was he? Then he remembered. His childhood bedroom. His mother had probably gotten home while he had dozed off and made a fire in the fireplace.

  He went downstairs. With the fire going, the living room was warm and homey, like it had been when Dad was alive. Saul’s painting was gone from above the fireplace mantel. In its place was an enlarged framed family photo taken on Julian’s sixth birthday, right here in this living room. Rhonda was sixteen, her curly black hair in ripples on her shoulders like a gypsy’s. Dad was grinning, his arm around Rhonda. Julian, wearing Ninja Turtle pajamas, was on his mother’s lap, cuddled against her. Both of them were smiling, as though this was the most natural thing in the world.

  “I hope I didn’t disturb you,” his mother said from the entrance to the room. “I saw you were napping.”

  “I guess I was more tired than I realized.”

  “It’s been a strain,” she said. “I’ve got dinner going, but it’ll be awhile. Are you interested in a game of chess?”

  “Sure,” he said, relieved to have something to occupy his thoughts other than Annette, though surprised his mother had suggested a game she rarely played.

  He brought his wooden chess pieces down from his room, then arranged them on the game table. He and his mother sat down to play. The strategies came back to him quickly, even though it had been years since he’d played. He was surprised by how challenging an opponent his mother was, matching his moves with her own. The game was almost at a stalemate. Then his mother moved her queen, blocking most escape routes for his king. It was clear to him that it was only a matter of a few moves before he would lose.

  He gently tipped over his king. “I resign,” he said, following the chess etiquette instilled in him as a child. He reached over the table to shake her hand. It was soft and warm, her grip strong. Something familiar about it. “Good game,” he said.

  “I had a lot of practice,” she said.

  “You did? When?”

  “When you were young, you and I played most nights and weekends.”

  “We did?” He was perplexed. “I only remember playing with Dad.”

  But now, it was coming back to him. Feeling upset with himself for losing a game. His mother on the other side of the chess table. How he’d reach across to shake her hand. Soft and warm, her grip strong.

  “What else do you remember about your father?” she asked.

  “He took me to ball games. We’d shoot hoops.” He thought for a moment. “And I remember after I got hit by the firecracker when I was a kid how he took me into the shower to wash off the dead skin on my arms. I think he cried harder than I did.”

  “That was me,” she said quietly.

  “You?”

  “I was the one who went into the shower with you. Your father was too squeamish, and I’m the doctor, after all.”

  How could he have been so mistaken? Then the real memory started to take hold. His arms began to tingle with remembered pain. The spray of water in his eyes. The agony growing. Stop! Please stop. His mother in a blue one-piece bathing suit. Water running through her hair and down her face. Tears glistening in her eyes. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.

  His mother had said those words, not his father. She had always loved him, even though Julian had denied it.

  A piece of wood crackled in the fireplace. Julian turned. His eyes were drawn to the photo of his family above the mantel.

  Had he been misleading himself about other things because it was easier than accepting the truth?

  “You know, Mom,” he said. “I spent most of my life convincing myself that my unhappiness was your fault. That everything I did was to please you. I gave up painting for you, went to medical school for you, got a PhD for you. I created a barrier between us, and reinvented a past that had you playing the villain.”

  She looked away. “But I was the villain. After your father died, I should have reached out to you.”

  “Maybe, but even if you had, I probably would have pushed you away.” He leaned toward her. “I’ve been my own worst enemy, haven’t I?”

  “It seems to run in our family.” Her eyes looked pained. “I did the same thing with my mother.”

  “Maybe it’s time to stop blaming ourselves and each other,” he said. “Maybe it’s time for us to move forward.”

  “I’d like that.”

  He reached across the chessboard and took his mother’s hand. Soft and warm, her grip strong. Just as it had always been for him.

  CHAPTER 56

  Three months later

  The East River Park was filled with people, some on blankets in the grass, others jogging along the waterfront path. The park was completely transformed from three months before, the last time Annette had been here with Julian. The trees were no longer barren, and the patches of dirty snow and mud were gone from the fields. Instead, oaks, elms, and maples gushed pale green leaves, and a thick rug of grass covered the grounds.

  Annette hugged the thick bundle of papers against her chest, as she crossed the wide field where kids had been playing football that last time. In front of her, the Williamsburg Bridge stretched across the blue-gray river, the low silhouette of Brooklyn backlit by the morning sun.

  She sat on their bench, shaded by the enormous oak, and left the heavy Sunday newspaper unopened on her lap. She could smell the still-fresh newsprint and shuddered.

  Had she made a mistake?

  But everyone had been behind her to do it. Bill especially. He’d said that not only was it important for her as a journalist, but she needed to write the article so she could finally emerge from the shadow of her grandfather’s false legacy. She’d been hesitant, worried about reopening old wounds and hurting fresh victims. But much to her surprise, both Essie and Rhonda had wanted her to write it. All of it, they’d insisted—including their Uncle Saul’s controversial role. It was important to them that the world learned to what lengths some people would go to safeguard peace. They didn’t care that they might be tarnished by their previously unknown relationship to Isaac Goldstein.

  What amazed her more, though, was how supportive her mother had been, despite having already suffered from enough public exposure to last a lifetime. But this time was different, Mama had said. This time, it was the complete story. This time, it was Annette’s story.

  But it was also Julian’s. And although he’d responded to her email about writing the article with a terse, “OK with me,” he probably hadn’t considered all the implications. Of course, at the time she’d conceived the article, she hadn’t either. She had sent it to a minor editor she knew at the New York Times, expecting a rejection, or at best, a shortened, watered-down version of her submission that would be buried somewhere in the middle of a weekday edition. So when she’d received the call from a senior editor, she had been elated. Then shock and dread set in. How would Julian cope with this very public exposé of his family? Had Annette inadvertently relegated him to a life of shame and shadows, like she had known as the granddaughter of the treacherous Isaac Goldstein, or would Julian see beyond that?

  A flock of small brown sparrows settled on the grass near her.

  When she’d emailed Julian about meeting this morning, her thoughts had been muddled, her emotions still raw and exposed. Aside from that brief email exc
hange about her writing the article, they hadn’t communicated or seen each other since Mariasha’s funeral. But that didn’t mean she’d stopped thinking about him. The truth was—she couldn’t stop thinking of him.

  A shuffling sound startled her.

  She turned, and there he was.

  Her heart crashed against her lungs, taking her breath away.

  A smile lit up Julian’s face. His black hair was longish and his face clean-shaven, making the dimple in his chin more pronounced. He wore light blue scrubs, covered with what looked like scribbles. He looked…happy.

  Was she about to take that away from him?

  He slid next to her on the bench. He hesitated for barely an instant, then his arms tightened around her. She fit against his breastbone, beneath his chin, just like she remembered, and it felt so right. She filled her lungs with his rich licorice scent, not wanting to let go—ever.

  The weight of the newspaper on her lap pressed against her. She pulled away.

  “Thanks so much for coming,” she said, hearing the strain in her voice.

  He glanced at the newspaper, then ran his hand through his hair. “I’m glad you emailed me,” he said. “It’s really good to see you.”

  She draped her arms over the paper, not yet ready to end this. There was so much they needed to say to each other before the article took their words away.

  “You look well,” she said. “You look…you look like I always imagined you were supposed to look. Like you.”

  “That’s because I am me.” He smiled again. “I’m living in Brooklyn, like we’d talked about. And I’m working with my mom at her clinic. It’s what I always wanted, even though I’d refused to accept that.”

  “And your art work?”

  He ran his hand over his scrubs, and she realized the scribbles were beautifully executed ink-drawings of superheroes. “I make these to entertain and distract the sick kids,” he said. “That’s satisfying enough for me. That, and helping to get them well.”

  “So you’re happy,” she said.

  “Almost.” His intense blue eyes held hers. She looked away. “What about you?” he asked softly.

  Almost.

  The sparrows pecked at the grass by their feet.

  “I miss you, Annette.”

  I miss you.

  He rested his hand on her shoulder. “Show me the article,” he said.

  Not yet. She wasn’t ready. She wanted to hold onto these few moments with him for as long as she could.

  “It’s okay,” he said softly.

  She took a settling breath, then opened the newspaper and thumbed through the different sections until she found the magazine. She pulled it out.

  The cover story, as the editor had told her.

  Traitors or Heroes? By Annette Revoir

  She couldn’t bring herself to look at Julian, anxious about what he was thinking and feeling to see his grandmother and real grandfather revealed like this. Instead, she stared at the prints of the two black-and-white photos she’d submitted along with the article, the newsprint around their faces slightly smudged.

  Mariasha was dazzling in her rhinestone earrings. Her dark eyes wide and intense. So young. So beautiful. So different from the old woman whose revelations had torn Annette’s heart.

  Isaac seemed to be gazing longingly at Mariasha, and she, at him. He was wearing his U.S. Army uniform, medals and ribbons clearly displayed. So handsome. So charismatic. Not the monster in the photo that had been on the ‘Death to Goldstein’ posters.

  Her grandfather.

  But they were both Julian’s grandparents. He gently took the magazine from her and turned the pages as he skimmed the article. He already knew what it said. He’d heard most of the story himself.

  He closed the magazine, a thoughtful expression on his face, not the hurt she’d feared.

  A boat horn sounded—melancholy and far-away.

  “Do you suppose they ever came here?” he asked, his voice wistful. “Maybe even sat on this bench, beneath this oak tree, and looked out at the river?”

  “I believe they did.”

  “They really loved each other,” he said.

  Was he only speaking of Mariasha and Isaac?

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for setting them free. For setting all of us free.”

  Free? She was relieved by his words, but she didn’t feel free.

  “It took a lot of courage for you to write this.”

  “Not courage,” she said. “It was something I had to do. I only hope you won’t regret it.”

  “Regret the truth?” He shook his head. “This is my past. It’s who I am. Who we are.” He picked up the newspaper from her lap and set it down on the other side of the bench.

  He was right. It was their past. And at last, she no longer felt its crushing weight.

  “I won’t deny the past,” he said. “And I won’t deny how I feel about you.” His eyes seemed to penetrate her. “I love you, Annette.”

  A shift in the wind unsettled the sparrows. They rose up, up, up. Above the park, over the river, toward the infinite blue sky, until they became tiny specks.

  Free. They were all free now.

  She placed Julian’s hand over her heart, pressing so tightly that she could feel his pulse pounding along with hers.

  And then she kissed him.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  When I was a child, my mother mesmerized me with her stories about growing up in Brooklyn during the Great Depression. How her father died when she was seven, and how her mother, penniless and illiterate, went to extraordinary measures to survive with three small children (my mom was the oldest!) Despite the adversity in her life, my mother went on to graduate from college and lived a happy and rewarding life, but her memories of being a ‘red-diaper baby’, influenced by socialism and later communism, often seemed to take her to another place. The mention of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, who had been executed as atomic-bomb spies in 1953 would bring tears to her eyes. The Rosenbergs were a young married couple with two small children. They had lived in the same Lower East Side neighborhood as my family and my oldest brother had gone to elementary school with one of their sons. Had they deserved to die? It was a question that haunted me.

  The idea to merge my mother’s early years with the story of the execution of an atomic-bomb spy seemed inevitable. Of course, the result—this book—is very much a work of fiction. My mother didn’t have a secret life like Mariasha did. She and my father were perhaps the most loving, devoted couple I’ve ever known. But I believe both my mom and dad would have been pleased with this story of Mariasha, Isaac, and their offspring, and of their desire to do the right thing.

  While my mother’s stories were the basis for many of the flashbacks and memories in The Other Traitor, I worked hard at getting the details and atmosphere right. The Internet provided me with some wonderful source material, including Brooklyn College’s Spotlight magazine. But above all, Sam Roberts’s brilliant biography, The Brother—The Untold Story of the Rosenberg Case, enabled me to enrich my fictitious world.

  There are many others to whom I’m grateful for helping make this book a reality. My early readers and support system—Delia Foley, Maureen O’Connor, Jack Turken, Arnold Weiss, and Neil Nyren, who gave me encouragement and focused me on my theme of the past haunting the present. My wonderful critique partners—Christine Jackson, Kristy Montee, Miriam Auerbach, Christine Kling, and Neil Plakcy, who once again played muse for me. Kelly Nichols, who designed the amazing cover. The photo, by the way, is one of my favorites of my children’s other grandparents—Susie and Frazier Potts.

  As always, my remarkable husband Joe, the force behind Churlish Press, made sure I got the details right—the little ones like commas and spelling, the big historical ones, and everything in between. It’s convenient to be married to a genius, but even better to be married to one as supportive and encouraging as mine!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Sharon Potts is the award-w
inning, critically acclaimed author of five psychological thrillers, including In Their Blood—winner of the Benjamin Franklin Award and recipient of a starred review in Publishers Weekly. A former CPA, corporate executive, and entrepreneur, Sharon has served as treasurer of the national board of Mystery Writers of America, as well as president of that organization’s Florida chapter. She has also co-chaired SleuthFest, a national writers’ conference. Sharon lives in Miami Beach with her husband and a spirited Australian shepherd named Gidget.