by Marek Halter
Shirley had already taken the paper strip out of her stenotype machine. She was rolling it up to tuck it into a custom-built little wooden box. It would go in a chest in Wood’s office until it could be transcribed into proper English. She smiled when she saw me coming.
“I was wondering whether you were going to come over and see me.”
“No, Shirley, you weren’t wondering at all. You knew. You know me.”
She gave a small throaty laugh, carefully closing the lid of the box.
“That trick with the water jug was very chivalrous.”
“The methods used by McCarthy and his pals are like something out of the Middle Ages.”
Shirley agreed. We had been almost as well matched in our politics as we were in bed. The fact that she worked for Wood didn’t change anything. You can’t always choose your boss.
“Only this time, they’ve found themselves the perfect candidate.”
“It seems like it.”
“Have you ever heard of a woman trying to save her life by passing herself off as a Jew? It’s certainly a first for me.”
Shirley’s father was Jewish, so she was half-Jewish. It was a touchy subject with her.
“No, it’s a first for me too,” I admitted. “And I’ve never heard of Birobidzhan either, so apparently I’m no better a Jew than Cohn.”
Shirley put the box containing the paper strip away in a big bag, slipped on her jacket, and took my arm. We said our goodbyes and left the room.
She waited until we were in the stairwell leading to the parking lots west of the Senate before asking me, “Do you think she’s telling the truth?”
“It’s too early to know.”
“So you need me.”
“I was thinking of taking you out for dinner. … ”
“Oh, I see! So you need me very badly then.”
“It would be great if you could make me a copy of your stenotype notes from today and the next hearings.”
“I knew it.”
“I’ve never been any good at hiding anything from you, Shirley. You heard Wood. They want to hold the hearings behind closed doors. We’ll only have access to their predigested version.”
“Do you have any idea what I’d be risking, Al?”
“Less than you’d think. Nobody will notice. … ”
“Not until you publish the contents in your articles.”
“I have no intention of publishing them. I just want to know what the woman is going to tell them. Perhaps she’s lying, but then again, perhaps not. You can bet your bottom dollar there’s some truth in what she says though.”
“She’s an actress. Actresses lie, particularly when they’re good at it.”
“Shirley, do you know many women who could stand in front of our congressmen and tell them they spent the night with Uncle Joe? And that they escaped from Bolshevik paradise with a passport in the name of an OSS agent?”
“So you like the girl then.”
“It’s her story I like. Even if she is telling the truth and she isn’t one of Stalin’s spies, McCarthy and his band of men will do everything in their power to make mincemeat out of her. She has to be guilty; otherwise they’re not interested in her. They’ll find some pretext for getting rid of her. They need a spy, a good ol’ witch of the hour—just the thing to put the fear of God into the trusty electorate and ensure them thousands of extra votes. If not, they’ll put her on a plane and send her back to Stalin. Then Marina Andreyeva Gousseiev will never be heard of again, and we’ll never know the truth. … ”
“Anyone would think you’d been practicing pronouncing her name.”
“I’m serious, Shirley. Those guys are compulsive liars. It’s a real curse. They’re going to do more damage to this country than the Japanese did to Pearl Harbor. And I’m sick of them using me to make people forget that they hate the Jews.”
“Where were you going to suggest taking me for dinner?”
We negotiated for the sake of formality, but I already knew that I would inevitably find myself booking a table at Chez Georges. It was a typical Washington restaurant with a French chef, celebrity guests, and eye-watering bills. Shirley gave me three days to scrape together the cash to keep my promise.
Once that was settled, I dashed over to my office to call the newspaper’s head office in New York. James Wechsler had been running the New York Post since the previous year. Ambitious and competent, he was in the process of transforming the Post into a popular newspaper with a liberal slant. The HUAC congressmen didn’t like it, but we were printing over six hundred thousand copies a day, and that was worth some consideration. Wechsler’s right-hand man was Samuel Vasberg. I owed him my job at the paper. He was the one I called. I told him about the hearing and sketched him a picture of the Russian. I finished with the same arguments I had used on Shirley. As if he didn’t already know, I reminded him that Nixon was currently fighting tooth and nail for the seat of senator of California. His whole campaign was based on the threat posed by the commies, those communist traitors in the US government. His speeches put President Truman and the Democratic Party in that base category. However, to make himself even remotely credible, he needed to sustain his lies with convincing victims.
Just to hammer the point home, I added, “What’s more, you never know, perhaps there’s some truth in what they’re saying. Maybe the woman really is in cahoots with the network that stole the secrets to the atomic bomb.”
We knew for a fact that the secrets had been stolen. The previous year, in the summer of 1949, the Soviets had detonated their own atomic bomb. All the experts agreed that they couldn’t have managed it without copying the Los Alamos production method.
On the other end of the line, Sam wasn’t taking the bait. He remained silent for half a minute and I respected that. I could practically hear the questions whirring in his brain. In the end, he said with a note of surprise in his voice, “I thought the CIA had proof that Stalin had killed his wife himself.”
“They must have been oversimplifying. According to the Russian, it was more that Uncle Joe had driven his wife to the point where she was desperate enough to want to end it all herself. From what we know of later events, he seems to be pretty good at that, doesn’t he?”
“Hmm … You know that Jewish region in Siberia … ?”
“Birobidzhan?”
“I’ve heard of it. Six or seven years ago, during the war, a group of antifascist Jews came over to push propaganda for Stalin in New York and Hollywood. A Yiddish actor led the delegation. I can’t remember his name. He toured around giving lectures and collecting money for the Soviet war effort. At the time, I was covering the story for the Times.”
“So there is some truth in what she’s saying then. … ”
“That’s a separate matter, young man. We all know that the best lies are seasoned with a bit of truth.”
“This is no ordinary woman, Sam.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Pretty isn’t a good enough word for her.”
“Hmm … What do want me to do?”
“I want to know if you’ll back me up if I scratch below the surface. It could take time.”
“And … ?”
“I want Wechsler to persuade Wood to let me attend the hearings.”
He relapsed into silence.
“Why would Wood do that for us?”
“Because we would be within our rights to release the story without his approval, in which case we would depict him as Nixon and McCarthy’s poodle. Wood might not like that. He has to stand for reelection in November and he needs the moderate vote.”
There was silence.
“Hmm … If he were to refuse, would you have enough material to carry out your threat?”
“I would. I’ve already taken care of that. Sam … those guys reek to high heaven of anti-Semitism. They want spies, especially Jewish spies, and they’re going to use the fact that the girl has passed herself off as a Jew to come up with the most abominable filt
h.”
“Let me run it by Wechsler. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”
Later that evening, I spent quite a while writing up the notes I’d scribbled down during the hearing. That got me thinking. The story that the Russian had fed us could be pure invention. There was that to consider too. It was part of my job to not just follow my instincts. It might have been a stroke of inspiration on her part to claim that she had slept with a man like Stalin. The mere thought of it was repulsive, even if she hadn’t presented it as rape, at least not in the usual sense. Then there was the fake passport, and not just any old passport either, a passport created by the OSS, no less. As if that wasn’t enough, there was this Agent Apron, a man we knew nothing about but someone she seemed to know well.
In short, there were lots of unknowns, perhaps too many.
Sam Vasberg was right. The best lies were seasoned with a bit of truth. Cohn, Wood, and the others knew that only too well. They were masters of mystification themselves.
I consoled myself by saying over and over that it was too early to be arriving at any conclusions. The woman wanted to tell her story. Apparently, it was all she had left. My job was to keep my ear to the ground.
I tried to imagine her in her cell. There was no shortage of jails in Washington, but I couldn’t think of a single one that anyone would choose to stay in. What was she thinking about? How was she coping?
Did she have friends or a support network that could help her? Was anyone out there worrying about her? Now that she was inside, a lawyer would have been more useful. Wood and McCarthy wouldn’t have been in any hurry to recommend one to her, and she probably couldn’t afford the services of anyone equal to the task.
I hoped that Sam and Wechsler would manage to persuade Wood to let me sneak in the back at the next hearings. Otherwise, I still had a couple of tricks up my sleeve. Shirley was going to make me a copy of her stenotype notes, and I might be able to talk a lawyer into taking on the Russian’s case before it was too late. Rule number one of my profession is to go in through the window if they shut the door in your face.
It took me a while to get to sleep. Shirley was right. I enjoyed saying the woman’s name over and over. Marina Andreyeva Gousseiev. The syllables echoed in the dark like an enigmatic promise. It was once in a lifetime you came across a woman like her, or her blue eyes. I could at least be certain of that.
Just before two in the morning, I decided that I was going to use her first name, Marina, in my head and in my notes from then on. She was no longer such a stranger to me that I could go on calling her “the Russian.”
Day Two
Washington, June 23, 1950
One Hundred and Forty-Seventh Hearing before the House Un-American Activities Committee
“AL?”
It was half past eight in the morning.
“The Russian’s hearing is scheduled to resume at two o’clock this afternoon. We got you in.”
“Under what conditions?”
“That we don’t release a single article before the end of the hearings, and none at all if the Committee believes that the information obtained during the hearings could compromise national security.”
“And Wechsler has agreed to that, has he? The chances are ten to one that their get-out clause will turn out to be a con! They spin that line about national security every time they want us to keep our mouths shut.”
“Calm down, Al. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. You should be aware that Wood thinks you have excessively left-leaning tendencies. He’s not in the least surprised that you want to leap to the defense of a communist.”
I chuckled.
“Those guys’ idea of socialism will go down in history. If you so much as give a beggar a dollar, you’re suspected of setting up a kolkhoz!”
“Exactly, he’s asked that you treat him with respect, and even a bit more than that.”
“Meaning … ? Do I have to give him flowers at every hearing or something?”
It was Sam’s turn to laugh.
“Figuratively speaking, that’s part of it. After all, you were the one who suggested giving him preferential treatment, weren’t you? Wechsler thought it was a good idea, and so did Wood. You need to go easy on him. He’s the Committee chairman. That puts him out of the fray. He’s not as radical as Nixon or McCarthy, and he has nothing against Jews. All he’s doing is defending American values. … I’m sure you’ll have no trouble thinking up the rest yourself.”
“Okay, thanks Sam.”
“You can thank me when I tell you you’ve done a good job.”
I spent the better part of the morning going around to the police stations, trying to find out which jail they’d put Marina in. The Committee seemed to have made it a state secret. But everyone knows that secrets are meant to be told. It’s all about connections and favors.
They had put her in the women’s wing of the Old County Jail. Nobody could accuse them of letting her off lightly there. The Old County Jail dated back to the 1890s. It was a huge mass of decrepit, foul-smelling brickwork. In its day, it had looked uncannily like a church. They had extended the building every decade, but that hadn’t made it any less Draconian. What was more, it was outside town, an hour’s drive from the capitol. No doubt Cohn had persuaded the judge to lock Marina up far from prying eyes.
I arrived at the Senate building well ahead of time, but the new auditorium was well hidden in the maze of corridors and levels, and it took me a while to find it. Shirley was busy setting up her equipment with a colleague. She frowned when she saw me.
“Are you sure you’re supposed to be here, Al? The congressman didn’t mention you were coming.”
“No worries, my beauty. I’m the invisible man,” I reassured her and whispered in her ear that our agreement still stood. She would have her dinner.
Shirley was dying to hear more, but it wasn’t the time or the place for that. Her colleague’s ears were flapping so hard she could have picked up a message from the other side of the universe.
The room where the in-camera session was to be held was small. The chief investigator’s stand, the witness table, and the congressmen’s platform formed a triangle. The stenotypists’ table was along the wall behind the witness bench. Taking advantage of the fact that Wood and the others had not yet arrived, I parked a chair at the far end of it. From that position, I would be able to see Marina in profile. I hoped I wouldn’t be asked to move.
The Committee members entered via a small door behind the platform. McCarthy carried a hefty file under his arm. He dropped it with a thud on the big table. If he’d been trying to draw attention to himself, he couldn’t have done a better job.
The Committee, chaired by Wood, was down to three members: two senators, Mundt and McCarthy, and Nixon from the House of Representatives. They’d managed to root out the deadwood and appoint a select few.
Their choice of Mundt as the third rogue to their quarrelsome twosome was understandable. Despite his upper-class intellectual airs, he seemed to have a real passion for the communist witch-hunt. He often colluded with Nixon. I had frequently seen him at work during the other hearings. Although he rarely interrogated the witnesses, he was always there when they went in for the kill.
They sank back into their armchairs without so much as a glance at me. As it turned out, I had been right when I told Shirley that I was the invisible man. Only Cohn so much as glanced at me. That day, wearing a cream suit, he looked more like a kid than ever. He seemed on the verge of acknowledging me but thought better of it. His upper lip tightened as he reminded himself that the others had ignored me and he hastened to do the same.
The door opened again and Marina entered, handcuffed. Her face was white without a trace of makeup, her eyelids swollen. The blue of her irises seemed denser, deeper, and harder than ever. She had her hair tied back. It was held in place by a very ordinary metal barrette. One of the officers must have given it to her. She wore the same frock as the day before, now all crumpled ar
ound the hips. Although her dress was pinned at the bust with a brooch, the left strap was gaping at the shoulder. She must have slept in it, if she had slept at all.
There was an answer to one of the questions I had asked myself the previous evening. Nobody cared about her or had tried to send her a change of clothes, though she must have known other actresses. She had said she was a teacher at the Actors Studio. She must have had students and colleagues there, perhaps even friends, but that had been before the FBI picked her up. By now, everyone must know that she had fallen into the steely clutches of McCarthy and company. There was no longer any question of her having friends, or even acquaintances. People who had exchanged pleasantries with her at work every day for months wouldn’t even recognize a photo of her now. If McCarthy and HUAC had made anything crystal clear to the country, it was that communism and espionage were more contagious than a venereal disease.
The guards escorted Marina to her seat. They took her handcuffs off and sat down behind her. Her eyes combed the room, lingering on me. She seemed surprised to see me there. At least, that’s the impression I got.
After Woodopened the session, Cohn announced that the witness’s lodgings were to be searched first thing the following morning. Marina showed no emotion whatsoever at this news, or Cohn’s announcement that he had requested information on Agent Apron from the CIA. He shot a cursory glance in my direction before continuing.
“Provided that this Committee is in camera, the CIA has agreed to forward us the OSS agent’s file. I have also asked for some information on the autonomous region of Birobidzhan mentioned yesterday. With your permission, Mr. Chairman, a specialist from the Office of Strategic Services could come and testify as early as tomorrow.”
Wood consented. No doubt they had already settled the matter between themselves. Cohn was just trying to intimidate Marina. He wanted her to know that anything she said, however trivial, would be gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Wood invited him to resume his questioning. Like a loyal dog, Cohn once again set off down paths he’d been down a thousand times before.