by Marek Halter
Levine went to touch the tear running down her cheek. When she turned her face away, he lowered his hand.
“Do you know what the most extraordinary thing is, Marina Andreyeva?” he asked softly. “Yesterday, there was no reason why I should have come to meet you off the train. It was pure coincidence. I suddenly felt like going with Nadia, on a whim really. It wasn’t as if I had time to spare. What’s more, I was about to leave. … It was when I saw you step down from the car that I knew. The coincidence stopped being a coincidence. Do you understand that?”
Marina sensed that he wanted to touch her, and perhaps she would have wanted him to in another moment. Levine’s good looks and his voice were alluring, as was his kindness, his flattering admiration, and his reassuring air of self-confidence, if any of it was genuine. But wasn’t this just a show put on by a man who was too used to seducing women? How could she possibly tell? She was overcome with exhaustion and emotion.
Stiffening, as if banishing a thought from her mind, she murmured her thanks.
“Please excuse me, I think the journey has left me more exhausted than I realized.”
Levine smiled understandingly and glanced at his watch.
“Come with me. It’s time we paid our comrades on the Committee a visit.”
He flicked off the switches in the wings with the palm of his hand, plunging the stage into darkness behind them.
As Levine had assured her, neither Masha Zotchenska nor the Committee objected to Marina having temporary immigrant status. In addition to the politruk and Klitenit, the Committee was made up of four women and one man, the eldest of the bunch, a man who had been one of the first immigrants to arrive in Birobidzhan.
Levine spoke first. He assured them that having a great new actress from Moscow join the Birobidzhan troupe would not only be of great benefit to culture in the autonomous region, but also a vital asset to the company under his direction. After two lean years, having Marina with them would mean they could finally put on some new shows. Was that not what everybody was desperate for at a time when war and deprivation were making for such hard times? Obviously, it wasn’t about arguing with, and still less about flouting, the restrictions on immigration in the region. In Comrade Gousseieva’s case, it was only a matter of a temporary stamp in her domestic passport authorizing her to stay for two years. They would be filling the vacancy for a cultural worker at long last. Leaving the post unfilled could prove detrimental to MAT’s work. How many times had Levine asked for a candidate, even looked as far afield as Moscow? Plus, did they really want to snub the great Solomon Mikhoels, a fabulous actor and chairman of the Jewish Antifascist Committee, by turning down the help that he was once again offering the people of Birobidzhan?
Levine had the thrusting and confident delivery of a man accustomed to respect. Like Zotchenska, the other women on the Committee were having trouble keeping their eyes off his handsome face. Their stern features, hardened by the harsh Siberian way of life, seemed to soften as if caressed. Vice-Chairman Klitenit listened patiently from behind half-closed eyelids, his mustache constantly disappearing behind the smoke from his cigarettes. His elderly colleague nodded and shot Marina some kindly smiles. Briefly, it occurred to Marina that Levine must have a very different influence on the Committee than the average theatre director.
However, she hardly had the chance to give it a second thought. She was given a wad of forms to fill out. Her domestic passport was soon stamped, her name entered in the Jewish register for Birobidzhan. The Committee meeting ended with words of welcome. They showed a polite interest in her accommodations and needs, promised to give her any help she might need and to come and admire her onstage as soon as possible. Good grief! How right Levine was! Even in the remotest villages of the new Jewish state and the Red Army garrisons stationed on the banks of the Amur they were dying to see some new MAT productions.
Klitenit finally did the honors and declared the Committee decision final. He didn’t bother with a speech. After everyone had gotten up, Masha Zotchenska had a brief word in Levine’s ear. He smiled and whispered back. For the first time, Marina heard the politruk laugh.
When they came out of the meeting room, a photographer was sent for. He gathered everyone in front of the busts of Lenin and Stalin guarding the steps to the building, another brick construction, built ten years earlier, just after the theater. Like all Soviet administrative buildings constructed after Lenin’s death, it looked like a colossal, ostentatious tomb.
Nadia, who had come to wait for Marina and her cousin Metvei, posed alongside them. The very next day, two photos were splashed across the front page of the Birobidzhaner Stern, the “Birobidzhan Star,” the town’s oldest and most official Yiddish newspaper. Nadia braved a heavy snow shower to dash out and fetch it. Next to the group photo taken in front of the Committee building, a huge portrait of Marina took up a good quarter of the front page.
In the group shot, Zotchenska was obviously looking up at Levine, but he was staring straight at the lens, his hand on Marina’s shoulder. At his side, a sly-looking Klitenit was clutching a cigarette as usual. The others wore phony smiles. Studying her picture, Marina thought that her experiences had left a deeper imprint on her face than she had imagined.
In the photo, the blue of her eyes was a heavy gray, emphasized by the shadowy rings around her eyes. This made them look so much darker than she was accustomed to that she might have been made up for a silent film. Her untidy hair fell over her right cheek. A strand brushed across her lips, which were parted in an inaudible whisper. Her fragile startled face was peering at the lens as if anticipating some unknown danger.
She flung the paper onto Nadia’s bed.
“Burn it! I can’t stand seeing myself looking like that for a moment longer. Anyone would think I was a hundred years old!”
Nadia disagreed and said that, on the contrary, she was going to cut the photo out to keep.
“You don’t see yourself as you really are. Besides, there’s no use burning the paper. Every Jewish home in Birobidzhan will have a copy by now!”
Nadia translated the caption beside the snapshot for her. The paper made a play on the word stern, meaning “star,” in its own name. Underneath, the article described Marina as a protégée of the great Solomon Mikhoels, citing her work with Mosfilm and the Art Theatre in Moscow. It ended with the news that she would be taking “lessons to perfect her Yiddish” as of the following day.
“Where did they get that from? I didn’t say a word to the photographer.”
“Metvei, of course,” Nadia proudly reassured her. “He’s very good at dealing with journalists, you’ll see. When you start a new play, the Birobidjaner Stern will talk of nothing else for two days! Everyone knows who you are now, that’s what counts.”
When Marina pointed out that she would have preferred to remain incognito for a few more days or weeks, Nadia shrieked, “But why? That’s crazy. You should be thrilled. You’re an actress. Actresses are there to be admired. Dreaming about them helps people to forget about the war! From now on, you’re our new stern!”
Excited shouts were heard in the kitchen and corridor. The women had obviously spotted the Birobidzhaner Stern. Nadia’s room was soon ringing with laughter. The jokes flew thick and fast.
“Once you’ve put a bit of flesh back on your bones, you’ll be the belle of Birobidzhan, Marina Andreyeva. The men will be lining up outside the theater to bring you cabbages.”
“It’s the most precious gift there is here, you’ll see. That’s what people give as presents, even for weddings.”
“Unless Metvei gets jealous and locks her away in the dressing rooms!”
Nadia blushed, but that only made their teasing worse.
“Nadia darling, you can either laugh at your Metvei or dream about him.”
“Except that it’s not healthy to dream about him all the time!”
“You know very well that we don’t stand a chance with your handsome lady-killer!”
“The same can’t be said of our new star. … ”
While they were bringing the tea, one of them started humming the tune of the Amur River. For a moment, the laughter died away. They all joined in with the chorus, their eyes suddenly shining.
Twist and turn
curves of my river,
like the hips of a woman without a past,
the slow waters of enduring love,
where the innocent bathe.
Twist and turn
curves of my river,
like the hips of a woman without a past,
the slow waters of enduring love,
where the giant of illusions drowns.
Two days later, Marina still had the folk song stuck in her head when a man emerged from the shadows of the auditorium, clapping his hands.
For the past hour, she had been pacing the stage alone in silence, by the light of the lanterns lined up along its front edge. Her soft footsteps had been her only accompaniment. It was a curious but effective exercise developed by Mikhoels that Levine had suggested she try.
“Act without uttering a word. Think your lines, live your text from the inside. Let it come out through your whole body, without using your voice. Move, walk around as if you were really acting it out. Make your movements precise to the nearest inch. Exaggerate your facial expressions a bit. People should understand just from looking at you. … The audience should feel everything you’re feeling … should want to laugh and cry.”
Marina had chosen the role of Ophelia. She had put so much time into rehearsing it at the Art Theatre in Moscow. Besides, hadn’t Pasternak’s translation been consigned to silence too?
After she had gone over Scene One, Act III several times, something happened. She felt as though Ophelia’s sorrow and anger was still echoing around her, although not a sound had come out of her mouth.
A sudden burst of applause startled her. She cried out, “Is that you, Metvei?”
The figure stood up. It was someone very tall, not Metvei, but another man with blond tints in his hair. He strode down the center aisle toward her. His clothes were very ordinary. He wore a wool jacket and had a red and ocher scarf around his neck. Covered with golden down, his long slender hands were holding a copy of the Birobidzhaner Stern. When he spoke in broken Russian, he had such a strong accent that she could barely understand him.
“Not be afraid. Bravo! You very good.”
“Who are you?”
“Doctor in Birobidzhan. My name Michael. American. Michael Apron.”
He was now close enough for her to be able to see his face. Her stomach was doing somersaults. It was an entirely new sensation for her, an aching feeling somewhere between fear and joy that she couldn’t explain.
Perhaps it was because of the scene she had just acted out, because she had done quite a good job.
The man looked at her longingly with his big bright eyes. He said, “I recognized play. Shakespeare. Ophelia. True?”
She stupidly replied, “American?”
“Jewish too. I treat sick. Doctor Apron!” He laughed as if it were a joke. “I here since … ”
He ended the sentence by waving the newspaper, unfolding it to reveal the photo taken in front of the Committee building.
“To me, necessary to see you in person. Photo too bad.”
Washington, June 24, 1950
One Hundred and Forty-Seventh Hearing before the House Un-American Activities Committee
“MISS GOUSSOV! Miss, miss!”
McCarthy raised his hand.
“So you arrive in this town … Birobidzhan in January 1943?”
“That’s what I just said.”
“And you meet Agent Apron more or less right away?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“When Michael came to see me at the theater that first time, it was at least a week before we heard about the Red Army’s victory at Stalingrad. There were big celebrations. We were sure we were going to win the war. … It was right at the beginning of February. I remember it well.”
“Was it not unusual for a foreigner, an American, to be living in Birobidzhan? You’ve just explained that the region was a ‘no-go military zone.’ Your political commissars were turning new immigrants away. They were wary of spies, as you’ve explained. … But Apron came and went openly, practiced as a doctor, did he?”
“An American whose Russian was poor!” Nixon added with a snigger.
“Michael’s Russian wasn’t poor. He was pretending.”
“Pretending?”
“He spoke as he thought an American would speak. That was his cover.”
Marina Andreyeva smiled at them. Her lipstick had long since worn off.
“How do you know?”
“Because he told me.”
“When?”
“Later, when he decided to take me to the United States with him because he loved me. He didn’t want us to be apart. … ”
Her voice sounded strange as she said these last words, deep and low, with a kind of tender melancholic vibrato like a chord played on a cello. Her face was absolutely still, smooth, and almost happy. She was staring at a point that transcended the auditorium. For a couple of seconds, it was as if she’d escaped altogether, body and soul, to another time that was beyond our reach.
I remembered what she had told me in the privacy of the visiting room at the jail, that it did her good to tell her story. It must have been true. She was no longer showing any of the tension that had left her exhausted the previous day. In fact, she looked quite serene and was certainly composed enough to put McCarthy and Nixon in their places. Her gaze turned back to them.
“Michael’s Russian was very good actually, and so was his Yiddish. He pretended he was learning it. Every day he would jot down new words in his notebook. Then he would pronounce them badly for weeks, gradually getting better. We found it amusing. He even went to the Yiddish language school. I suppose that’s what you train your spies to do over here, is it?”
This last sentence was directed at O’Neal.
I had been keeping an eye on the Irishman from the CIA for a while. He had been very attentive while Marina was talking, taking brief notes in a little notebook. A couple of times, he had seemed surprised. Just then he was taking off his glasses to wipe the lenses. He was just the sort to clean them ten times a day. Though he didn’t look as if he was paying attention, he wasn’t missing a word of anything that was said.
Since McCarthy had stepped in, O’Neal had been much less at ease. He didn’t answer Marina but shot the senator a dark look. Maybe McCarthy had just made a big mistake, asked a question that he would have done better to keep to himself.
But, unfortunately for McCarthy, Wood hadn’t noticed anything was amiss. He saw no reason not to persist.
“You’re not here to question the witnesses, miss. Was Agent Apron in Birobidzhan in 1943, Mr. O’Neal?”
O’Neal sighed.
“I’m not authorized to talk about our agents’ missions, sir, not here in any case.”
His myopic gaze drifted to the stenotypists’ table and slid over Shirley before coming to rest on my face. I smiled at him, but he quickly turned his head away.
“You’ll find all the details of that mission in the file I gave you at the beginning of the hearing,” he added.
Wood pressed his lips together in embarrassment. He fingered the fat envelope in front of him and was about to open it and take a look at the documents when McCarthy whispered something in his ear. Nixon reached for the envelope, but Wood clapped his hand over it, determined to stay in charge of the masquerade. He turned to Cohn, our foppish chief investigator, who was keeping very quiet, but before Wood could open his mouth, Marina cut him off.
“If that gentleman, your spy, doesn’t wish to reply, I’ve got an answer for you. After all, that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it, to tell the whole truth?”
I noticed that Shirley and her colleague couldn’t su
ppress a snigger.
Cohn exclaimed, “Miss Gousseiev! … ”
“I have to tell you what I know, don’t I? You’re the one who asked me to. You made me swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Otherwise, I’ll have committed perjury, won’t I?”
She observed a minuscule silence, as if before dealing a deathblow.
“Michael learned Russian at school in Berdychiv, in the Ukraine. There were lots of Jews living in the town. He learned Yiddish from his parents. All the Jews in Berdychiv spoke Yiddish. His father died a couple of years after the Revolution. It was during the famine. Many Jews met their death at that time, but Michael’s father didn’t die of starvation. The Cheka killed him for stealing eggs for his wife and son. Michael was fourteen at the time. As soon as it could be arranged, his mother left for Germany with him. They stayed there for three years, but she couldn’t find work, so they took the boat over to New York.
“Initially they lived in the Lower East Side but later moved to Brooklyn. There were lots of Ukrainian Jews there. They helped each other out. Michael’s mother found work again. She was very good at embroidery. Michael learned English. It came easily to him as he already spoke Russian, Ukrainian, Yiddish, and German. He had a flair for languages, but he wanted to be a doctor, had always wanted to be one. He told me, ‘As far back as I can remember, wherever we went, whichever town or country we happened to be in, we were surrounded by sick people. I hated it.’
“When he was at college, he was headhunted by the OSS, partly because he knew so many languages and partly because the people recruiting him knew he hated the Bolsheviks and Stalin because of his father’s death. He didn’t agree to it right away. When he did, it was only because they said he could go to Birobidzhan as a doctor. That was different. It would mean he could practice medicine, treat the sick. He was a good doctor. Everyone liked him, not just the Jews. He went right out into the sticks, even in winter in the snow. We found his accent amusing. Nobody suspected anything. However, the Committee—”
“Mr. Chairman!”