The Birobidzhan Affair: A Novel

by Marek Halter

O’Neal had been fidgeting for a while before rudely interrupting Marina.

  “Mr. Chairman, I don’t think it’s a good idea to allow your witness to continue. Her testimony about the OSS agent is simply not credible. … ”

  “Why not? I’m just repeating what Michael told me.”

  “Miss Gousseiev … ”

  “If you think I’m lying, tell us what you know … and we’ll soon find out.”

  “I’m not here to comment on the personality or past of one of our agents. … ”

  “So what are you here for then, sir?”

  That was Senator Mundt. We hadn’t heard much from him until then. Now he was perched stiffly behind his microphone, his eyebrows raised and his immense pasty brow knitted in anger. More than ever, he had the haughty, slightly superior air of a know-it-all academic.

  “Have you come before this Committee just to testify that you can’t tell us anything?”

  “Chief Investigator Cohn agreed that I would disclose only authorized information on Birobidzhan in my testimony!” the Irishman protested. “Not details of an agent’s mission. … ”

  “Chief Investigator Cohn has his powers, and the Committee has a few of its own, Mr. O’Neal. We are inquiring into the circumstances of Agent Apron’s death, after all. … ”

  McCarthy tried to step in. “Senator Mundt, we could … ”

  Without even looking at him, Mundt allowed his irritation to show.

  “Mr. Chairman, I don’t see what’s to stop Mr. O’Neal answering questions that have no bearing on national security! The mission in Birobidzhan ended five years ago. Agent Apron’s name was made public yesterday. If Mr. O’Neal has reason to contradict Miss Gousseiev, we need to hear about it.”

  Despite his fury, Mundt had managed to pronounce Marina’s name correctly. Could it be that he was starting to take a shine to her?

  Flashing him a grateful smile, she softly said, “Michael told me that he arrived in Birobidzhan in spring 1942, a few months after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.”

  Wood was out of his depth. He lifted his gavel, but Mundt didn’t let that deter him.

  “True or false, Mr. O’Neal? Surely you can confirm that for us, if nothing else?”

  The Irishman looked appealingly at McCarthy and Nixon, but they remained unmoved. Wood put his gavel down again, grumbling.

  “Can you answer Senator Mundt, Mr. O’Neal?”

  “I would have to check the documents,” the Irishman replied, motioning angrily at the file.

  “Mr. O’Neal … ” Mundt began.

  “I’m answering you, sir. I don’t remember the exact date. As I explained to you this morning, we had seized an opportunity to send some of our men over to Stalin’s Russia. Almost everything was in place. For five or six months after Hitler invaded the USSR, we seriously thought that the Soviets were going to take a hammering. It was in our interest to give them a helping hand. We sent them trucks, machine tools, medical supplies, and even weapons. … And then, when the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor out of the blue, we started to worry about Manchuria. That was their supply base, right under Stalin’s nose. And he couldn’t be in two places at once, could he? He couldn’t deploy all his divisions against the Nazis at Stalingrad and at the same time be watching his back at the other end of Siberia, could he? Not to mention that we had intelligence suggesting that the Japanese were trafficking new weapons for the Pacific War. They had arms factories in Harbin, just across the border from Birobidzhan. It was our job to investigate. We took advantage of a medical convoy bound for Birobidzhan. A significant amount of money and supplies had gone into it, but the Soviets weren’t too keen … ”

  Mundt was like a dog with a bone.

  “So, to summarize, you can confirm the witness’s statement. Your agent entered Soviet territory in 1942?”

  O’Neal pointed at the file in front of Wood.

  “You’ll find the details of the operation that you are authorized to access in the report.”

  Wood struck his gavel before Mundt could comment on what O’Neal had said.

  “Mr. O’Neal’s explanations will do for now, Senator. I agree with him that the Committee ought to take a look at the file before continuing with the hearing.”

  Wood consulted his watch and added drily, “It’s time we had some lunch. We’ll resume in three hours.”

  That came as a surprise to all of us. There was a fine flurry of glances. Superior as ever, Mundt looked daggers at Wood, his gray eyes glinting. Wood stuffed the precious file into his satchel and muttered something that drew a grin from Nixon. Cohn left his seat without taking his eyes off McCarthy. McCarthy pouted approvingly before glancing at the Irishman. O’Neal was watching Marina while closing his briefcase. As for her, she carefully unfolded her white caraco jacket and wisely slipped it on, before the guards snapped the handcuffs onto her wrists.

  If she realized I was there, she certainly showed no sign of it.

  No sooner had the guards taken Marina away was the auditorium vacated. Cohn disappeared through the big door with the Irishman, closely followed by McCarthy and Nixon. They were good company for each other and must have a lot to talk about.

  I didn’t dawdle either. Shirley was having trouble taking the paper strip out of her stenotype machine but, most ungallantly, I left her to sort it out. As I went by, I slipped a note into her handbag. I would have given anything to know what O’Neal’s file said about Apron’s mission, but I didn’t expect any miracles. There wasn’t much chance of Wood leaving it lying on his desk, but I might be lucky. Good secretaries have X-ray vision and supersonic hearing, and Shirley was head and shoulders above the rest in every category.

  On autopilot, I drove my Nash to my office on the other side of Vernon Avenue. The lunchtime traffic was heavy, and the wind had changed to an easterly direction. In the streets, the asphalt gleamed and the umbrellas were out. A light drizzle made the town look sad and muggy.

  The office was deserted. Three quarters of the staff had gone out for lunch. Two or three secretaries were making do with sandwiches to save a few cents. There was a message for me on my typewriter. Sam Vasberg, my boss in New York, had called. He wanted me to return his call as soon as possible.

  Sam could wait. I dialed a number on my telephone. Ulysses’s steady voice resonated in the handset. He assured me that I had indeed gotten through to his employer’s, T. C. Lheen’s, residence. It was a few more minutes before T. C. came on the line with a grunt that I recognized as his greeting.

  “I’ve got some new information, T. C.”

  “I’m listening, my friend.”

  I told him in great detail about the hearing that morning but didn’t dwell on Birobidzhan. Instead I focused on what I’d learned about Apron, rounding off with Mundt’s tiff with his colleagues on the Committee.

  “Mundt seems to be nursing a grudge against McCarthy. He’s said to be quite pally with Nixon but reluctant to commit. Could it be that he’s just a bit less of a fanatic than they are? Is it possible that he’s taken a shine to Marina? I’ll try and find out more. As for O’Neal, the guy from the CIA, he’s one of these pen-pushers who fancy themselves as master spies. He’d sooner die than release a scrap of information. You should’ve seen his face when Marina let slip about Apron’s past.”

  “Is your Russian telling the truth about Agent Apron? That’s the question. She might have made it all up.”

  “She might have, but O’Neal didn’t contradict her.”

  “If the information in that file in Wood’s care contradicts what she’s said, then there’s no need to make it public.”

  I explained that I might be able to find out more about the file, adding, “Likewise, there’s nothing to stop the CIA from making up whatever it likes about Apron. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “True.”

  “I thought we could do a little investigating ourselves. It shouldn’t be too complicated. If Apron really was a doctor, he must have registered with a healthcare bo
dy of some kind. And he probably studied medicine in New York. I’ll have to have a chat with Sam over in our New York office. The name Apron may ring a bell with some Jews in Brooklyn or on the Lower East Side, you never know.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. I heard a match being struck. I could almost see the smoke floating around T. C.’s chubby face as he said, “We’d better hope that he was honest with your Russian. How can you be sure that the name Apron wasn’t an assumed name? Perhaps that’s what O’Neal wants to keep under wraps, his real identity. There’s a kind of etiquette and superstition among guys like him. They’re supposed to go out of their way never to be who people think they are.”

  T. C. was right. It hadn’t even occurred to me for a second.

  I couldn’t help muttering, “He was her lover and—”

  “All spies have mistresses.”

  “I meant that he … ”

  I stopped short. What I was going to say didn’t hold water. T. C. didn’t spare me.

  “That he loved her? What do you know, Al? She might think so, or else she’s trying to make you believe it, you and the Committee. That’s fair enough. So where does that leave us? At the moment, the only thing we know for certain is that the agent is dead. Your Russian is the only one who knows how he died. But she has to watch what she’s saying, because one wrong word and she could find herself frying in the electric chair. In my twenty years as a lawyer, I’ve never known love to encourage anyone to tell the truth.”

  “T. C. … ”

  “What would love change in any case, if indeed that’s what it is, Al?”

  He drove the point home before I could so much as speak.

  “And since when has an OSS agent gone around enemy territory telling everyone his real name?”

  “It must have happened on occasion, though not since the last war. The truth is sometimes stranger than you’d think.”

  T. C. agreed with a light laugh, which did nothing to reassure me.

  He was spot on and I knew it. Whether you called him Apron or Mr. Nobody, everything that had come out of the guy’s mouth was suspect, starting with the sob story he’d told Marina about his past.

  “Okay, but we’ll never find out unless we do some digging in any case,” I mumbled before changing the subject. “There’s one thing that’s puzzling me. Cohn didn’t say a word this morning.”

  “Perhaps his mind is on other things. There’s been quite a lot of activity around that guy they arrested last week. You know, that Greenglass character I was telling you about yesterday. It’s also possible that Cohn is planning a surprise for us. Apparently his office was very busy this morning. They’ve been in touch with the FBI in New York. … ”

  “Holy Moses! They’ve been searching Marina’s apartment! How could I forget? Cohn announced it at the hearing yesterday.”

  “Ah yes. Well, you may hear how it went this afternoon. … If they haven’t drawn a blank, that is. You’ll have to keep your ears pricked up. That old boy has a vivid imagination.”

  “Will do. I’ll call you back this evening, T. C.”

  “Why not.”

  “I know it’s a big thing to ask, T. C. I don’t expect you to do all this work for free.”

  “I see you have good intentions.”

  “And I mean to pay your expenses.”

  “It’s only fair.”

  “I’m going to arrange for the Post to cover a share, but I can tell you now that it won’t go far. As for the rest, well, I’m afraid my salary won’t stretch to your fees.”

  “That’s entirely possible.”

  “But I’ve got a business proposition to put to you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I’ve decided to write a book about this episode. I don’t want to confine myself to articles for the Post. I could offer you a share of the rights, under a contract of course.”

  I heard him striking another match. He was in no hurry to give me his opinion.

  “Do you think you can stop McCarthy and Nixon hustling your Russian off to death row on the strength of a novel?”

  “I can always try. Radio broadcasters and newspapers, even the Post, are beginning to shy away from contradicting McCarthy. They’re too afraid of being seen as bad Americans, or dangerous commies. A book has the potential to make more of an impact, and right across the country.”

  “And what if your Russian doesn’t turn out to be as innocent as you’d like her to be?”

  “The story won’t be any less appealing, or the heroine either. It’ll just be a different kind of book, a story of disillusion. It’ll probably sell even better. It’s not every day you come across a woman of her caliber.”

  “And elegant, so I’m told. She was wearing a pretty frock this morning, taken into the Old County Jail by a helpful soul, I presume. … ”

  “T. C … ”

  “The description I was given of the early morning visitor was to your credit, Al.”

  “Who told you?”

  “How much would I have to charge for that information? Isn’t she being held under special regulations for FBI witnesses? Doesn’t that mean no mail and no visitors?”

  “I had a permit.”

  “An illegal one, of course.”

  T. C. reduced me to silence for a moment. I had deliberately neglected to mention my visit to the jail to him, though I don’t really know why. Was it because I wanted to keep that time with Marina to myself, or was it to avoid dropping Shirley into it?

  I was furious but more worried than anything else.

  “Who else knows about it?”

  “Nobody in a position to do you any mischief for the time being, and since I’m your lawyer, I’m going to do what it takes to keep it that way. What percentage were you offering me just now?”

  “I was thinking somewhere around the twenty.”

  “Thirty would be more appropriate in my opinion.”

  “I don’t suppose I have any choice, do I?”

  “Your Russian is suspected of belonging to a network that has pinched the plans for the atomic bomb, some defense radars, and the last B-52 model. She may even be one of the ringleaders. All that in the middle of a pretty fierce election year. … She’s not a down-and-out, up for stripping in front of the drunks in the red-light district, Al. You don’t want to mess with the little men in gray suits from the FBI. You’ve got no idea what Hoover and his minions might hit you with.”

  “That doesn’t change anything, T. C. Nixon and McCarthy have too many cards up their sleeves. The Committee is an obscene show. Nobody’s there to hear the truth, so somebody’s got to stand up for it.”

  “Then take my advice. Don’t put your head in the lion’s mouth without warning me first. It’s always going to be easier to give you a stick to jam its jaws open than to fish you out of its stomach.”

  I didn’t have long to digest T. C.’s advice. No sooner had I put down the handset did the sound of my phone ringing remind me of my duty.

  “Hello, Al.”

  It was Sam Vasberg. He hadn’t had the patience to wait for me to call him back. That wasn’t like him at all.

  “Tell me where you’re at.”

  I had to go through it all again. Once again, I neglected to mention my early morning visit to the jail, and the deal I’d just struck with T. C. That could wait. At least that way I’d be spared a tiresome discussion about expenses.

  As usual, Sam let me talk without commenting. I spent a good quarter of an hour telling him about Marina’s arrival in Birobidzhan and what O’Neal had shared with us about that forgotten corner of Siberia. Despite his silence and the crackly line, I knew he was listening to every single word of what I said. It wasn’t until I told him how moved Marina had been when she’d found out about Solomon Mikhoels’s death that I got any reaction out of him.

  “Oh, so they decided to bump him off in the end then?”

  “In Minsk. They covered up his murder and made it look like a road accident, according to O�
��Neal.”

  “That can’t have been too difficult. They’re masters of cover-ups. And their man from the CIA is right: Uncle Joe made big gains from Mikhoels’s tour, and I don’t just mean the millions of dollars raised either. For a time, we had come to see the Soviets as heroes over here. I dug out my article and notes on Mikhoels’s talk at the Polo Ground Stadium in July ’43. The war was in full swing. The Krauts had just surrendered at Stalingrad, the Red Army was making steady progress on the Volga, and we were going into Palermo. … ”

  “And Marina had been in Birobidzhan for five or six months,” I calculated.

  “It was one heck of a success,” Sam went on. “The stadium was jam-packed. Fifty thousand people showed up, mostly Jews from Brooklyn and the Lower East Side. There were some big names too, including Einstein, Chaplin, Thomas Mann, Eddie Cantor, and Menuhin—the violinist—a curious mix. McCarthy has already thrown most of them out of the country! But at the time, it was acceptable to speak well of the Soviets. And Mikhoels was a remarkably good communicator. He was an incredible guy, pug ugly, but fantastic as soon as he opened his mouth and moved. He wasn’t there in his capacity as an actor. He was chairman of the Jewish Antifascist Committee. His message was simple. The Nazis wanted to exterminate every last Jew. It wasn’t a pogrom, not one of those outbreaks of hatred that had been occurring in Europe for the past two thousand years. This time it was different. The Krauts wanted to get rid of us for good. Some of his lines have stayed with me to this day.

  “‘Remember brothers that it’s your destiny we’re fighting for in our country, in the USSR, on the battlefields. Let’s not have any pipe dreams. Let’s not be under any illusion. You won’t be spared Hitler’s hatred. No ocean is vast enough to hide you. You’ll be roused by cries all the way from the Ukraine, Minsk, and Bialystok. Remember that we are one people. The Great Patriotic War led by the Soviet people is yours. … ’

  “When he fell silent, we were thunderstruck. Nobody clapped, at least not right away. We had goose bumps. Most of the audience had fled Europe in 1932 or 1933 after Hitler had come to power, or else their parents had. There was no need to spell it out for them. … It was one hell of a moment!”