"Patsy!": The Life and Times of Lee Harvey Oswald (44 page)

Breaks in the monotony arrived in the form of a flurry of invites to homes of local ‘White Russians.' In particular one senior citizen, George Bouhe, a successful accountant and ardent capitalist, accepted Lee and Marina with open arms.

At one party that took place in late summer at Bouhe's home, another guest, Anna Meller, noticed a sincere if terrible contradiction whenever Lee was asked to join a conversation. Years later, she would recall: “He's against the Soviet Union; he's against the United States. He made the impression that he didn't know what he likes.”

In fact, Lee had finally come to understand precisely what as a unique individual he did and not like. “Each one of us,” Lee explained to Meller, “ought to be always out and about, attempting to take the best of possible worlds we can imagine, and make that come to life around us.”

“If you want to live in a dream world go visit Disneyland.”

“That's just my point. What is that called? ‘The Happiest Place on Earth?' Well, why not make the world more like
that
?”

“Because it's a fantasy. This? Reality!”

“Sometimes dreams do come true.”

“Yes. I believe they're called nightmares.”

Somewhere in-between the extremes of raw capitalism and corrupt communism, there might be a Utopia in which the people, actual people, true people, the workers, could at last become the center of interest. Could America, if we would only accept and adopt the best aspects of socialism, become that Shangri-La?

*

Lee was wondering about that one day when a sudden rapping came at the front screen door. Hurrying to see who it might be, Lee found himself face to face with a 6' 2,” early fifties, immaculately coiffed, expensively suited gentleman; his hair silver-grey, the stranger spoke in an upper-class European manner that combined elements of the old Russian aristocracy with a seductive Austrian lilt.

Epicurian. That's the first word that come to mind upon meeting whoever this is. I don't mean that in a positive way.

“Hello,” the jovial fellow announced with supreme self-confidence. “My name is De Mohrenschildt. My wife Jeanne and I live in Dallas. I heard from the Fort Worth Russians you and your family had recently arrived so I swung on down to say 'hi.'”

For reasons he could not fully comprehend, Lee hated this dapper intruder on first sight.

“In my opinion he had two lives, spending most

of his time in his own separate life.”

—Marina Oswald, reflecting on Lee, 1977

 

Members of the Russian community in Dallas considered G. De Mohrenschildt their mystery man. The most obvious aspect of his identity concerned business dealings with Col. Lawrence Orlov, an oil speculator. But while people knew the precise nature of Orlov's company, De Mohrenschildt's role remained fuzzy. What exactly did he do to earn his salary? No one could say, not for certain.

However, wealth and its vestiges (expensive cars, imposing home, hand-tailored suits, rumors of affairs with lovely women) create a confederacy of silence around awesome individuals.

On that first visit to the Oswalds' home, De Mohrenschildt regaled Marina with glorious tales of his escape from the Russian revolution while still a child. According to this scenario, his father, a marshal of the old nobility, and mother were killed by crazed peasants. But not before passing their eight-year-old boy to a tribe of loyal gypsies. They smuggled the child out of the country and, in time, to France. Distant relatives there provided him with a first-class education.

What De Mohrenschildt did not confide to the Oswalds: In May 1938, he arrived in the United States aboard the
SS Manhattan.
A year later, authorities arrested him when ‘Jerzy' (as he now called himself, claiming to be Polish) was caught sketching naval installations at Port Aransas, TX. Accusations that he might be a German spy were dismissed by the articulate European. He was a filmmaker, he said; these merely story-boards for a movie he would
shortly produce. Yet no one in Hollywood, when contacted, had ever so much as heard of him.

During World War II, he initially appeared to prove his loyalty by offering to oversee all operations of the French underground in the United States. An FBI investigation rather suggested that he had infiltrated this organization to provide stateside Nazi agents with key information.

Ultimately, no one could decide if this man was an agent, a double agent, or triple agent; and, whichever he might be, if De Mohrenschildt ever owed any true loyalty to the Allies or the Axis, or if he were manipulating everyone for reasons known only to himself, probably for the sake of personal gain.

In the end, any evidence against De Mohrenschildt proved so self-contradictory that the authorities shook their heads with frustration and allowed him to walk free. Still, the FBI kept an open file on this man, as did, beginning in 1957, the CIA.

When the Cold War with Russia replaced the hot one against Germany, everything altered. Clearly, De Mohrenschildt had established contact with Soviet operatives who had entered our country. Yet he lived so lavishly as a capitalist that all his whispered asides—“I'm infiltrating, don't you see, to serve the U.S.?”—were, if not entirely believed, anxiously considered.

“And so I appear before you now, proud both of my Russian heritage of a type that is no longer recognized in my homeland and of my status as a U.S. citizen as well.”

Lee smelled a rat. The way in which De Mohrenschildt spoke struck him as so many details picked up while watching old movies: Adolph Menjou by way of Maurice Chevalier crossed with Erich von Stroheim. As someone who had drawn his own identity from films, sniffing out a similar approach on the part of this different person did not prove difficult for Lee Oswald.

*

“Which would you care to hear first: the good news or the bad?” De Mohrenschildt asked early in October, 1962. He, his eighteen-year-old daughter Alexandra, and her husband Gary had driven down from Dallas, ostensibly to catch the Van Cliburn competition, they claiming to be musical sophisticates.

“Why don't you choose?”

“I will, then! The bad isn't, in truth, so bad at all. You must move to Dallas at once.”

Just as Lee had suspected, the seemingly magnanimous man hoped to seize control of their lives. If De Mohrenschildt did turn out to be what Lee suspected——he had spoken to George, who confirmed this shady figure was on their dubious-persons-list—this move would be for political as well as personal reasons.

“We like it well enough here.”

De Mohrenschildt glanced around the small, shabby apartment while rolling his eyes in contempt for the sad surroundings.

Oh, this guy is good! Very good. But I'm better.

“A close friend of mine in the Russian community has found a more rewarding job. And you will earn twice as much.”

“Metalworking is an honest task for a working-man.”

“Oh,” Marina gasped, trippingly assuming center stage in the little scene. “Lee, that would be wonderful. At last we could have a place like your brother Robert's. You
did
promise.”

During the next several days, Marina wrote to the Soviet Embassy in Washington, informing Vitaliy A. Gerasimov as to her current whereabouts. He operated in the U.S. much as Richard Snyder did in the Soviet Union. An embassy job served as cover for his secretive role as intelligence-gatherer for the KGB.

When Gerasimov responded, stating that her new status had been placed on file, he communicated through sub-textual implications his role as her key contact. In truth, Marina, like Lee, had begun to waver. She would gladly consider deserting the Soviet Union if she came to believe a more happy life might exist here.

What's best for me and June? I must decide and soon.

Considering her unattractive apartment, Marina had determined they must make the move to Dallas. Once there, if she so chose, she could prove more useful to the KGB in such a prestigious area. On the other, should she choose to abandon ship and join Lee in marriage for real, how better to relocate there, in an upscale development, her husband transformed into a white collar worker.

Once in Dallas, I'll discover what I ought to do.

Though sexual relations between wife and husband had been nil since moving into “the dump,” that changed. As a result, Lee began to appear less dour and pallid, whistling on his way to work. At her insistence, he traveled to Dallas for the job interview.

After all, I did promise, as Marina said ...

Everything might have worked out precisely as Marina had planned were it not for something that occurred several nights later, even as they were preparing for the move. While Marina slept soundly, the phone rang. Lee answered.

“Lee!” George spoke in a hushed voice, calling from Miami, Langley, wherever he might happen to be at the moment. “You must listen, and listen carefully! Your wife is a KGB agent.”

“Marina-—”

“There
is
no Marina. The actual name of the woman living with you is believed to be Alexandrovna Medvedeva. Marina is her ‘legend.' She married you so as to come to America as a spy.”

Lee felt dizzy. “But ... we have a baby ...”

“All part of the KGB's master plan. I know this must hurt. Hurt terribly! That's not why I'm telling you. From now on, be ultra-careful what you say in front of her. Understand?”

“I understand,” Lee gasped, “that my marriage is a sham.”

I'm her ... patsy!

“Continue as if nothing has changed. She must not know that you know. Keep a close eye on her, watch for anything suspicious she may say or do. But act as if everything is just as it was.”

Lee hung up. He sat on a dilapidated wicker chair on the porch for several hours, staring into space. Then he heard the baby crying inside. Marina would give the child a bottle and that would shut June up. Moments later, the sobbing halted.

“Lee?” Marina called. “Where are you?”

“Here,” he said softly, re-entering. Marina, smiling, moved toward her husband, expecting an embrace. Instead, he fell into a rage and beat her. She screamed for mercy, but when Marina fell to the floor Lee came over on top of the terrified woman and kicked her twice. Hard.

I won't be your fall-guy. I won't! Or anyone's ...

Then he strolled to the refrigerator, took a can of beer, and sat down on a stuffed chair. Lee guzzled the brew, muttering to himself while she attempted to rise up from the floor.

*

Several days later, De Mohrenschildt and his wife Jeanne, having learned of the incident via a frantic phone call from Marina, drove to the Oswalds' in their chic convertible, doing so during the day, while Lee remained at work. De Mohrenschildt told Marina to pack her clothes, take hold of baby June, and come with them at once.

Twenty minutes later they arrived at a pleasant, spacious home in Farmers Branch, an upper-middle class Dallas suburb. Here lived Henry C. Bruton, with whom De Mohrenschildt had cultivated a friendship half a year earlier. He had managed this by charming the serious-minded, level-headed retired admiral's giddy wife, impressed as so many upper-middle-class Americans are with aristocratic Europeans. He now begged Mrs. Bruton (her husband was away on business) to allow this beaten woman and her child to remain there for the time being.

The well-intentioned lady took one look at this child-woman and the poor baby resting in Marina's arms and readily agreed.

Perfect! I'll be in their home, the home of former director of Naval Communications; the man who not long ago reorganized the global system which the U.S. Navy employs to choreograph the movements of submarines, battleships, aircraft carriers, jets, even nuclear missile bases. Information the KGB hungers for!

“When your husband returns,” Marina said, having picked up some everyday usage of English, “I hope he won't mind—”

So I will play the dear, abused ‘adopted-daughter' figure, with access to this home while the admiral is off in Richardson. I will discover Bruton's copy of the codes and relay them to the embassy in Washington, the information then going from there to Moscow. I will alter the course of history, thanks to my natural gifts: my beautiful face, this perfect body, and a brilliant brain.

“You let me take care of him. Make yourself at home.”

If all of this works out as I believe it will, Lee Harvey Oswald can crawl off and fuck himself for all I care. And if not then I can always take him back for the sake of our baby.

“I hardly knew my own mother. Oh, can I consider you my mother? That would be so wonderful.”

Either way ... I win!
Me
. ‘Marina' ...

“What the name of God do you think you're doing?”

The small group in the Brutons' living room had become so intense in their discussion they did not realize someone stood at the screen door. Lee: unshaven, his hair slicked back in a retro-1950s greaser style, wearing a dirty T-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. He slammed the door open and entered, like an angry beast. A skinny real-life incarnation of Stanley Kowalski, Tennessee Williams' brute likewise hailing from New Orleans.

A Streetcar Named Desire
one more film Lee had loved.

“We thought it best for Marina if we—”

De Mohrenschildt didn't have an opportunity to finish before Lee grabbed Marina's left arm and pulled the woman, her baby cradled in the right, out onto the street.

“I know what's best for my wife! You all stay out of it.”

Shit! My idiot of a husband had to show up and ruin all these carefully laid plans. In only a few days I'd have—

*

Back to the apartment on Mercedes Street in Fort Worth. But if De Mohrenschildt had failed to slip his new protégée into the home of a recently retired Naval officer, he had but begun his mission to bring the Oswalds to Dallas, What De Mohrenschildt didn't know was that the CIA understood what he was up to, planning to manipulate his manipulation for their own good.