by Marek Halter
By the time I had finished, dusk was closing softly in on us. It was around the summer solstice and the days were long. Night was taking its time, but the reflections on the Potomac were already as black as my mood. T. C. raised a surprised eyebrow.
“I’ve never heard of Birobidzhan.”
I repeated what Sam Vasberg had told me about it on the phone the previous day.
“I’ll know more tomorrow after the CIA analyst has made his appearance.”
“If they let you hear what he has to say. … ”
“For the moment, I’m still in the loop.”
T. C. nodded. He had already lost interest. Something else was niggling him. I had a nasty feeling I knew what.
“Al, I’m going to be honest with you. I couldn’t agree with you more that Nixon, McCarthy, and the HUAC clique are the scum of the earth. We know what they’re capable of. But that doesn’t mean that the Soviets are angels, or that Stalin hasn’t planted a few spies in our country. Your Russian might well be one of them. Hiding vital evidence in a sea of useless information is common practice among spies, the real ones, I mean—the trained professionals.”
“Some training that is. I don’t see how it’ll help her to get off. … ”
“Exactly, Al. That’s the clever part. You don’t see, and when you do, it’s too late.”
I made no reply. T. C. might be right, but then again he might be wrong. He hadn’t seen Marina telling her story. That was the main difference between him and me, but it didn’t solve anything.
As the silence dragged on, I lit another cigarette. T. C. treated me to one of his strange smiles. I must have looked like I was in need of encouragement.
“I’m all ears,” I said, exhaling smoke.
“I might have some idea what’s in that file that’s worrying you. It’s currently rumored that the FBI has found a hot lead on the Los Alamos affair … ”
The Los Alamos affair was nothing less than the theft of secrets to the atomic bomb by Stalin. The previous summer, the Soviets had detonated their first bomb, Joe-1. Nobody had any idea how powerful it actually was. Even so, Truman himself had been pretty shaken up by the shock wave produced by Joe-1. All the experts agreed. Only five or six years earlier, Soviet physicists hadn’t known the first thing about nuclear fission. They must have stolen the formula from the laboratory where it was made in the US, at the Los Alamos nuclear facility.
“Rumors have been flying around since May,” T. C. explained. “Allegedly, the FBI has taken a British-based physicist into custody, a guy called Klaus Fuchs, a dyed-in-the-wool German communist. He fled to England in 1934 because the Nazis wanted him dead. But from 1944 to 1946, he was at Los Alamos, working out theoretical calculations for the bomb, the fission of uranium and other small fry of that kind. He was a Soviet agent the whole time. The British arrested him six months ago. In March, he admitted to having passed all kinds of data to the Russians over the last ten years.”
I whistled in admiration.
“That’s not all. Fuchs disclosed the names of some of his comrades to the Brits. Three weeks ago, the FBI arrested the spy ring’s courier, a man by the name of Harry Gold. He doesn’t seem to have kept his mouth shut for long either. They’re currently working their way up the chain, Al. Last week, the FBI collared a certain David Greenglass, a Jewish mechanical engineer who was working at Los Alamos at the same time as Fuchs. Gold allegedly paid him to steal documents. … That might well be the kind of information in the file that McCarthy found so fascinating. Especially when you think that … ”
T. C. stopped short like a scandalmonger. I didn’t fill the silence. There was no need. I could see he was going to take care of that in his own time.
“Especially when you think that the US Attorney General in charge of Gold’s and Greenglass’s files is none other than old Saypol, Cohn’s boss, and that he sits on the Committee every day and is taking care of your Russian. I suppose you get the picture now?”
Of course I got the picture. We had come full circle.
If Nixon and McCarthy managed to prove that there was any link between Marina Andreyeva Gousseiev and those guys, they would have evidence that one of Stalin’s agents had been quietly living and spying in our country for years, giving away our secrets. If, on top of that, she had killed the OSS agent, they would have hit the jackpot, so to speak. They would have proof of what they had been shouting from the rooftops for months. President Truman was not only allowing the Reds to do exactly as they pleased in the United States, but he was not even taking the trouble to protect our country. Worse still, he may even have chosen to protect the Soviets.
I sighed, crushing my cigarette butt. Without asking T. C.’s permission, I helped myself to another shot of bourbon. At least he had given me the information I had come for without me having to ask any questions.
“It’s an amusing situation, Al, if you don’t get too attached to the people involved. Amusing and, well, intriguing. I’d be only too happy to help you out, but you might not like what I dig up.”
“I’m a journalist, T. C. You know that I’m only interested in the truth and verified facts.”
I tried to speak with an air of assurance, but T. C. didn’t seem at all convinced. His laughter was still echoing in my ears as I drove my Nash down the long straight road of Washington Parkway back into town. This time, night was falling for real.
Shirley lived in an elegant two-bedroom flat in one of the new apartment buildings on Massachusetts Avenue. The balcony off her bedroom overlooked the long expanse of Rock Creek Park. I happened to know that breakfast on that balcony was divine. Shirley opened the door for me in a golden kimono with swallows dipping and diving between some cleverly placed peony blooms. She wasn’t smiling. Like a fool, I stated the obvious.
“I’m late, Shirley, sorry.”
She stood aside to let me in. I left my hat on an empty vase. Shirley was wearing perfume I hadn’t smelled on her before. It was subtle and spicy with musky undertones, possibly a French scent, a gift from some filthy rich guy.
A tatty tartan bag stood ready in the middle of the living room. Shirley asked me if I wanted to see what she had packed. I didn’t take her up on her offer. She had put two glasses and a jug of lemon gin out on the coffee table. We were like a pair of embarrassed teenagers. It was the first time I’d set foot in her apartment in months. For about ten seconds, I felt as if I could have rolled back all those months with one move. I was sorely tempted. For a brief fanciful moment, I imagined Shirley’s skin warming my palm through her silk kimono. Breathing in her perfume was like feeling her lips brushing across mine.
She must have guessed. There wasn’t much she didn’t know about male instincts. She moved away from me and pointed to the bag at her feet.
“Were you planning on giving it to her in the auditorium, Al?” she asked, without even a hint of sarcasm.
I had given it some thought, but not a lot.
“I should be able to get it to her at the jail. I thought I’d pass it off as a thoughtful gesture from a friend. It should be all right, as long as you haven’t put a bomb inside.”
“Unless the jail guards take it upon themselves to empty it.”
It was a possibility. If Marina had been a common criminal, it would have been a near certainty. I pulled a face.
“Perhaps not emptied, just lightened.”
Shirley smiled weakly.
“That would be a shame. I’ve found her such a pretty nightgown.”
While I did my best to remain cool and indifferent, she added in the same tone, “Getting the bag to her won’t be that easy, Al. Miss Gousseiev is one of the FBI’s special guests. She’s not allowed any visitors or mail.”
I should have guessed.
“How do you know?”
“I stopped off at work after picking up those bits and pieces for you. The chief investigator’s office had just sent through Cohn’s orders.”
I swore under my breath. Nothing got past good ol�
�� Shirley. Turning her back to me, she went to fetch an envelope from her writing desk in an alcove behind the sofa. She held it out to me.
“I took the opportunity to write that for you. … ”
I unfolded the piece of paper bearing the letterhead of Congressman Wood, the chairman of HUAC. It was no less than a visitor permit authorizing me to see Marina Andreyeva Gousseiev. An acceptable scrawl was superimposed on the congressman’s stamp.
“You must be crazy, Shirley! Do you realize what you’re risking here?”
“Not as much as you’ll be risking when you show it over at the jail tomorrow morning. I gave them a call. They’re expecting you at seven thirty. You’re taking her some clothes on behalf of the Committee. They’ve instructed you to hand them over to the spy in person and satisfy yourself that she’s being well treated.”
We looked at each other. A thousand points of light were twinkling in her eyes.
“Don’t worry. I pretended to be Lizzie, our office manager. She’s got a dreadful Texas accent that’s very easy to imitate, and we’ve got some old scores to settle between the two of us.”
I nodded, only half-convinced, perhaps because I couldn’t help thinking that it was a long drive to the Old County Jail. The time Shirley had specified for the visit didn’t leave me much hope of breakfast on the balcony off her bedroom.
She filled our glasses with lemon gin. Our fingers touched when she gave me mine. Once again I breathed in her perfume. She took a step back. I’d been just like an open book to her for some time now.
“It’s too late for a little fiesta. Drink up, then take the bag and your hat, Al.”
“Shirley … ”
“You have to get some sleep, dear. You’ve got a long day ahead of you tomorrow. You’ll be getting up early to go and admire a Russian spy fresh from her slumber, but you’ll still need to be in top form for dinner with a woman who’s counting on commanding your full attention.”
Her words stayed with me all the way back to my apartment. Perhaps it was in the hope of putting them out of my mind that I consulted the notes I’d taken during the hearing instead of retiring for the night, as I ought to have done. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning by the time I looked up from my work. I’d spent two or three hours typing up about twenty pages of Marina’s story. It was now patently obvious to me that I wasn’t going to stop at writing articles for the New York Post. I was going to write a book, tell Marina Andreyeva Gousseiev’s true story as I knew it.
Day Three
Washington, June 24, 1950
One Hundred and Forty-Seventh Hearing before the House Un-American Activities Committee
I ARRIVED AT THE Old County Jail close to a quarter to seven in the morning. Day had long since dawned and I could have done with another pot of coffee, but the chief officer didn’t offer me any when I produced my visitor permit. Still, he seemed satisfied with the Senate letterhead and the official stamp of Wood’s office. I told him I needed my pass back.
“It’s a permanent permit. There’s no date limit on it, and I might have to drop in again.”
Truth be told, that wasn’t very likely. My visit to Marina Andreyeva Gousseiev was unlikely to pass unnoticed for long, but if I left the fake behind, Cohn and company would be able to trace it back to Shirley.
The chief officer hesitated, then shrugged his shoulders and returned the document to me. I still had to sign the visitors’ book all the same, so I scrawled an assumed name that had already proved most useful, Art Edwards.
When that was done, I was hustled into the search room. Two female officers asked me to open the bag. I hadn’t put it down since my arrival. Apart from some essential toiletries and a pair of flat shoes, it contained only the clothes I’d specified. The two women took their time over inspecting them. They were delighted with Shirley’s choice. Thankfully the gray silk nightgown was plainer than I had feared. Like the black nylon set of panties, bra, and stockings with their lace trims, it still bore the Woolsow label. Shirley hadn’t been stingy.
“I didn’t choose it myself,” I snapped in response to the officers’ stares.
“We did wonder,” one of them sniggered.
“Even if you didn’t choose it, you sure paid for it,” the other one chimed in. “It’s obvious just from looking at you.”
She was a smart cookie. I wriggled out of it as best I could. They led me to the visiting room booth. The walls of the Old County Jail hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in a long while. The ceilings were flaky and layers of grime had built up on the window moldings and bars. The tiled floor in the corridors was so worn down that it had lost its color. Everywhere there was an overpowering odor of industrial disinfectant. Where two corridors crossed, I caught sight of the communal showers behind a double gate leading to the cells. There, a sickening cocktail of cheap perfumes and eau de toilette supplanted the whiff of disinfectant. For a few brief seconds, I thought of Shirley’s perfume. I hadn’t seen any in the bag. She must have forgotten.
The visiting room was just a narrow passageway with a glass door at each end. The windows were reinforced with steel grating. I left my hat and the bag on a table no wider than a meal tray. Pushing the metal chairs aside, I preferred to remain standing while I waited for Marina.
During the hour it had taken me to drive there, I had imagined that moment and what I was going to say. I might as well not have bothered. She arrived in a green prison uniform, a kind of loose-fitting smock that fell in loose gathers down to her knees. Her puffy gray face looked strangely pale, and so did her bare calves above a pair of battered old shoes that must have been worn by at least fifty convicts. It was the first time I’d seen her with her hair down. A tangled mat, it lay flat against her temples, half covering her cheeks. Only her chapped lips had any color.
I couldn’t bring myself to find her ugly. My first instinct was to take her in my arms so that she could relax a little, let herself go. I had forgotten that they didn’t let you sleep after six thirty in jail.
She didn’t seem surprised to see me. Passive and patient, she showed no emotion, as if my turning up at the jail was just another of the unforeseeable events that was to fill her days from then on. Perhaps it was a symptom of exhaustion. She stopped six feet away from me. Those blue eyes of hers fastened on me. She waited for me to speak.
The officer accompanying her closed the door, staying on the inside. Putting on a self-important air, I flashed my visitor permit, making sure that the Senate stamp was clearly visible.
“I’d like to speak to the witness in private.”
The woman eyed the pass, jangling her bunch of keys. For a moment, I thought she was going to refuse. Perhaps I really did come across as an arrogant so-and-so, who knows? She muttered that I had half an hour, no more, and went out. I waited until she was behind the grated window before opening the bag.
“I’ve brought you some clothes and some essential toiletries, Miss Gousseiev.”
A crease appeared between her eyebrows. She wrung her fingers as if to suppress a shudder. I smiled at her.
“I thought you might like a change of clothes.”
She didn’t relax one bit, just asked, “Who are you?”
“You saw me at the hearing … ”
“I know. You were the one with the water jug. The chairman called you Mr. Koenigsman. Who are you? Who sent you here?”
She had a good memory, as if I needed confirmation of that. Clearly she wasn’t the sort of woman to accept gifts either. I checked that the guard had moved away from the glass door and hoped to God that there was no microphone in the room.
“Nobody sent me, Miss Gousseiev. I’ve come because I believe you. I don’t think you killed the OSS agent or that you’re a spy.”
She didn’t bat an eyelid and her breathing didn’t change at all. The blue of her eyes darkened ever so slightly like a night sky.
“I’m a journalist. I write for the New York Post. I can help you.”
“You’re lying.�
��
“No, why would I … ”
“You’re lying. The guards told me that nobody was allowed to come and visit me here in this jail, especially not journalists.”
“I’ve got a permit, miss … ”
I started to get it out of my pocket, but she didn’t even give me the chance.
“Don’t bother. You’re not a journalist either. Journalists aren’t authorized to listen to what I say at the hearing.”
Her accent had come back, making her sentences heavy.
“Miss Gousseiev … Marina … Hear me out! I am a journalist. My paper has a deal with the committee chairman, Congressman Wood. They’ve given me permission to attend the hearing. I’m going to write an article about you, a full-length feature telling your story—”
Unclasping her hands and pointing at my jacket pocket, she interrupted, “Is it a fake permit? Did you pay for it?”
I had to think fast. What could I say to win her over? Not a lot, was my conclusion.
“I’ve brought you some clothes to help you feel better about facing them. I’ve been attending HUAC hearings for two years. They’re not going to let you off lightly. Senator McCarthy and Congressman Nixon need to prove you’re a spy for their political purposes. They don’t care that it isn’t true. They’ll fabricate all the necessary evidence with the help of the FBI. Everyone will believe that you killed that guy Apron, and you’ll spend the rest of your life in jail.”
She shrugged. Her air of resignation brought a lump to my throat.
“I can help you. I can make your story public, the true story, the one you’re telling. There are some good people in this country. We’re not all as bad as Nixon and McCarthy. … ”
She had folded her arms under her chest while I was talking. Her smock had ridden up above her knees and looked even more like a sack than ever. Fatigue and fear had put years on her. It crossed my mind that this was what she would look like at the end of another chapter of her life, in about ten years.