The Other Traitor (13 page)

The charging theme from
The Dark Knight
awakened Julian. He hit the ‘off’ button on his cell phone alarm interrupting the pounding of the drums. Sephora’s half of the bed was undisturbed, but he felt no remorse that she was gone. He was no longer that person who had lived a false life with a woman he didn’t even like. He was just an ordinary guy who wanted to understand where he came from.

He leaned back against his pillow, noticing it was damp with sweat. He vaguely remembered having disturbing dreams. Exploding bursts of red. Had someone been bleeding or was he thinking about the geyser in Saul’s painting?

He rubbed his neck and shoulders as he got out of bed. Several of his drawings were scattered over the floor where he’d left them last night. He gathered them up along with the wrappings from a sub sandwich and the four bottles of beer he’d drunk as he had examined his early attempts at art.

He dumped the beer bottles and garbage in the wastebasket and put the drawings back in his old portfolio.

When he’d gotten home after saying goodbye to Annette last night, he had been filled with nostalgia. The conversations with her about his father, his childhood, and how much he had loved painting had brought on an urge to look at his old art work, so he had searched every closet for the carton he had stashed away when Sephora wrinkled her nose at the contents. He had found it at the back of the hallway closet beneath a couple of tennis rackets and some canvas tote bags that Sephora had accumulated at conventions.

In the carton were old, worn favorite clothes of his, an outmoded phone and computer, assorted art supplies, and a pile of comic books. There was also his portfolio.

He had spread the drawings and paintings out on his bed and on the floor, arranged in the order he had made them, starting from when he was around five. The neon green figures bore a striking resemblance to Ninja Turtles. The later drawings were from his Star Wars period, and the last ones he made, when he was around ten, were of Batman and Superman. By then, Julian could see that he had developed a strong technique, but of greater interest to him was that the style—the shading, the three-dimensionality, even the blending of colors—was very similar to Saul’s in the painting that hung in Julian’s childhood living room.

Saul and Julian had a lot in common. Their fathers had died when they were young, their mothers worked all the time, and they had older sisters. They were both smart and they both painted. But as similar as their art styles were, there was something notably angry and black in Saul’s work that wasn’t present in Julian’s. Whatever had sent Saul over to the dark side seemed to have affected Julian’s mother and indirectly, Julian. He needed to find out what that was.

He gobbled down a couple of frozen waffles and a banana, showered, dressed and headed out to see Nana before Annette arrived for lunch. His grandmother had been reluctant to speak about Saul the other day and Julian figured she’d be more likely to tell him whatever she was holding back if Annette wasn’t there.

He walked crosstown through a steady drizzle and got to his grandmother’s apartment just after eleven. She seemed delighted by his early arrival.

“Would you like something to eat?” she asked, as he stepped into the foyer. She was wearing an old faded man’s shirt, which hung on her small frame, making her look like a child in her father’s clothes.

“I’m good, thanks.” He kissed her head, then hung up his wet jacket and took off his hiking shoes.

He noticed the living room was in a slight state of disarray. The record box beneath the old Victrola was open and there were records scattered over the carpet.

He crouched down to examine them. Big, heavy 78-rpm records. Bing Crosby. Irving Berlin. Ruth Etting.

“
What a mess I made,” his grandmother said. “It’s a sign I’m in my dotage, I suppose.” She held out her hand for the record he was holding, then squinted as she examined the label. “
Button up Your Overcoat.
This was one of my favorites.” She teetered over to the Victrola. There was a record lying on the turntable. It was much smaller than the shellac ones on the floor. Nana picked it up, handling it as though it was rare and precious.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing.”  She put the small record in a plain brown paper wrapper, set it aside on the credenza, then placed the record by Ruth Etting on the turntable.

A bouncy voice sang over the scratches about eating an apple a day and taking care of yourself.

Nana sang along, and went to sit down in her big, comfortable chair.

Julian was having a tough time reconciling his mother’s portrayal of Nana over fifty years ago with his spunky old woman. In fact, nothing his mother had said the other night made sense. “I want to hear more about your brother, Nana. You told me how much he loved stickball, but then he got sick. What happened to him? Why did he become so embittered?”

“Can’t we talk about something else?”

“I suppose we could.” He met her eyes.

She blinked and looked away. “But you won’t leave me alone until I tell you what you want to hear.”

“Something like that.”

She absently tugged on one of the buttons on her shirt. “I used to believe if I hadn’t gone away to camp that week, Saul would never have gotten rheumatic fever. He might have become a professional baseball player. Everything would have turned out differently.”

“You didn’t seriously blame yourself that he got sick.”

“He was my little brother. My responsibility.”

“But you were a child yourself.”

“I was, but even children experience guilt.”

Julian felt a twinge. Did he feel guilt over his father’s death?

The record was over and the needle made a jarring noise as it went around in the run-out groove. Julian parked the arm, then went to sit on the sofa near his grandmother.

“My poor brother,” Nana said. “Once he realized he’d never be Babe Ruth, he spent all of his time reading.”

“I thought you said he did some sketching.”

She frowned and pursed her lips as though she was trying to remember. “That’s right. I bought him special pencils. Sometimes, he would make sketches, but mostly he read and studied. He finished all the high school requirements by the time he was thirteen, but Brooklyn College wouldn’t let him start until he was fifteen.”

“I imagine he felt a bit like a freak,” Julian said, knowing from experience. He had started college at sixteen. “Being so much younger than everyone.”

“You think?” Nana seemed to be considering this for the first time. “I remember him being happy in those days. I always tried to include him when I went out with my friends, even though he was younger. He was as smart as the next one. Smarter.” She folded her hands and looked off in the distance. “I hadn’t really thought about his immaturity. But you’re right. Maybe he wasn’t ready for the adult world.”

“So he started college in 1937, right?” Julian said. “What were you doing then? Were you still at Brooklyn College? You told me about the anti-war rally where you met Yitzy. Did you stay friends with him?”

“Yitzy,” she said softly. “Yes. We were still friends. He’d come by the apartment all the time. Mama adored him.” She glanced over at the sculpture of the woman with the hat.

“And Saul?” he asked, trying to keep her on track.

“Oh, Saul loved him like a brother. Looked up to him like Yitzy could do no wrong. And of course, Yitzy was delighted to have such an ardent protégé. He brought Saul
The Communist Manifesto
and
Das Kapital
and encouraged him to read the
Daily Worker.
The two of them loved to argue, just like a couple of rabbinical students.”

“You were talking about the adult world. How Saul might not have been ready for it. What did you mean?”

“We would sometimes go to meetings.”

“Communist meetings?” It seemed likely based on the reading material Yitzy brought Saul.

“Some of them.” She moistened her lips. “I remember the first time Saul came with us to a Popular Front meeting uptown, not far from City College. That would have been, let’s see. 1938. Saul was sixteen. I can still picture him. Still a child, really, stunted by his illness. Smooth-cheeked and small-boned. No bigger than a twelve-year-old.”

His grandmother’s face became transformed at the memory. She looked sad, wistful, something else. Almost like she was in terrible pain.

“I can only imagine how elated Saul must have felt being in the midst of all the camaraderie,” she said. “We were young and naïve. We trusted everyone. How could we know they were already watching us? Sizing us up?”

Julian started. “Sizing you up for what?”

Mari clung to Yitzy’s arm as they walked carefully down the dark narrow staircase that led to the basement gathering place. Saul had raced ahead of them, eager to immerse himself in his first meeting of the Popular Front. The din grew louder and she was overcome by a smell that was sweet and sour, like apple cider gone bad.

“This place used to be a speakeasy,” Yitzy said. “They closed it in thirty-three, right after prohibition was repealed. Apparently they couldn’t compete with all the other neighborhood blind pigs that had gone legit.”

Mari’s eyes adjusted to the dimness. The large room was low-ceilinged with wood-paneled walls and a mosaic-tiled floor. Along one wall was the now-dull counter of the former bar covered with pamphlets, not cocktails. The mottled mirrored wall behind the bar reflected several dozen people talking in small groups. Only about fifty chairs were arranged in rows facing a speaker’s stand, not nearly enough for the attendees milling about.

“Big crowd tonight,” Mari said.

“Yeah,” Yitzy said. “The speaker is supposed to be a big shot with the Party. There were flyers all around City College promising a good show.”

Mari looked around to see if she recognized anyone. Mostly young men, a lot like Yitzy, in three-piece suits and fedoras. Her eyes lighted on a splash of red in the midst of the sea of navy, brown and black. She felt her heart rise, then abruptly drop at the sight of Flossie across the room. Her old friend was striking a Greta-Garbo pose in her flimsy red silk dress and a red slouch fedora hat, as she delicately puffed on the end of a cigarette holder.

Mari hadn’t seen much of her since Flossie had abandoned her for a group of uptown girls. And recently she’d heard Flossie had dropped out of Brooklyn College and gotten a good secretarial job in the garment district.

Flossie was staring back at her. It took Mari a moment to realize that Yitzy, not herself, was the object of her friend’s attention.

Mari took a step closer to Yitzy. Flossie’s eyes flitted to hers and held them. Then she smiled, crooked teeth shining between bright red lips, as she made her way through the crowd, followed by a plume of smoke from the cigarette she held above her head.

“My goodness, Mari,” Flossie said in her tinkling voice. “It’s been ages.”  She gave Mari a light hug, then quickly pulled away, leaving behind a scent of Chanel. Flossie looked as though she’d stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine and Mari forced herself not to look down at her own plain navy cotton dress.

“So nice to see you,” Mari said, hoping her voice didn’t sound hurt or angry, because the truth was, it was nice to see her. Mari missed the girlish intimacy they’d once shared.

“And aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Flossie smiled adorably at Yitzy, twirling one of her dark pin curls with the tip of her finger. “I hope Mari is taking good care of you.”

“Mariasha takes great care of me.” Yitzy put his arm around Mari and gave her a squeeze.

“Isn’t that sweet?” Flossie said, her lips still set in a smile.

“So what brings you here?” Mari asked. “You’ve never been interested in politics.”

“Oh you know me.” She giggled. “I’m always interested in expanding my horizons, so I asked my cousin Bertie to bring me along tonight.” She pointed with her cigarette holder at an overweight young man who was standing with several men near the bar counter, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. Smoke from their cigarettes hung in a haze around them.

“My cousin says he knows you, Yitzy,” Flossie said. “That you’re in a few classes together.”

“Sure,” Yitzy said. “I know Bertie. He’s a swell fellow.”

Mari was surprised to see Saul in the midst of the small group. He was staring, seemingly transfixed, at a tall, brooding young man with a Clark-Gable moustache, who was speaking passionately and making dramatic hand gestures.

“Who’s that with Saul?” Mari asked.

Flossie scrunched up her forehead. “Goodness, isn’t he a dreamboat? Do you know him, Yitzy?”

“Oh, that’s just Joey. A bit of a scrub when it comes to his classes, but he thinks he knows more about communist doctrine than Karl Marx.”

“I don’t care if he’s not a genius,” Flossie said. “He’s got himself a nice way about him. Introduce me, won’t you, Yitzy? My cousin’s useless. And that’s why I‘m here, after all.” She winked at Mari. A conspiratorial wink, just like when they’d been friends.

The three of them waded through the crowd to get to the bar. Flossie whispered something to Yitzy that made him laugh. A year ago, the exchange might have charmed Mari, but for some reason, tonight it irked her.

Saul saw them approaching, grinned and waved them over. His face was flushed and locks of his curly red hair stuck to his forehead. For an instant Mari felt panic. Was her brother getting sick again? But quickly she realized it was more likely caused by the excitement of being here at the forefront of an important movement, surrounded by like-minded people.

“Comrade Joey, this is my sister Mari and her boyfriend Yitzy.” Saul looked particularly childlike standing beside the tall young man.

“I know Yitzy,” Joey said.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Flossie said, raising a penciled-in eyebrow.

“Joey, Flossie,” Yitzy said. “Flossie, Joey.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Flossie blew out a stream of cigarette smoke.

“You’re Bertie’s cousin,” Joey said.

“That’s right.” Flossie glanced at the bar counter, taking in the piles of leaflets, and let out a deep sigh. “I wish they still served giggle juice here. Anyone know where a girl could get a drink?”

Joey rubbed his moustache. “If you’d like, I could take you for one after the meeting.”

Flossie smiled. “That would be swell, comrade.”

“So Yitzy.” Saul tugged on his arm to get his attention away from Flossie. “Joey was just telling me about the Steinmetz Society he started at CCNY for engineering students. It’s an affiliate of the Young Communist League. I’m going to start one at Brooklyn College.”

Mari noticed a man standing beside Joey turn and look at Saul curiously. He was older than most of the people in the room, probably early thirties, with thinning blond hair and a strong jaw. “So you’re a college student?” the man asked. He had a slight accent. Yiddish, or perhaps Russian.

“I am.” Saul straightened up, though he still looked no more than twelve. “My name is Saul Hirsch and I’m a sophomore at Brooklyn College studying applied math and physics with a minor in engineering.”

“I’m impressed.” The man extended his hand. “I’m Anton Dubrovski.”

“Wow. Tonight’s speaker,” Yitzy said, reaching across Saul to introduce himself and shake the man’s hand. “What a pleasure it is to meet you, sir.”

Another stiff-looking man came up to Dubrovski, and whispered something in his ear.

“Boris tells me it’s time for me to give my talk,” Dubrovski said. “Please excuse me.”

Yitzy shook his hand again. “I just want to say, comrade Dubrovski, how pleased I am that the Communist Party has embraced the Popular Front and its commitment to the tradition of Washington and Lincoln.” He pumped his fist in the air. “Communism is twentieth century Americanism!”

The man called Boris gave a tight smile. “He’s stealing your thunder, Anton. We’d better slip away before this young man recites your entire speech.”

Dubrovski winked at Saul; then the two men headed toward the podium.

People started taking their seats. Voices and the scraping of wooden chairs against tile echoed through the old speakeasy.

Yitzy patted Saul on the shoulder. “Isn’t that something? Your first meeting and you’ve made an impression on Anton Dubrovski.”

“Who is he?” Saul asked.

“I’ve met him and Boris at a couple of rallies,” Joey said. “They’re recruiters for the Party. Important people to know.”

“Sounds like you already know them, comrade Joey.” Flossie finished refreshing her lipstick and snapped her compact closed. “How about we scram before he makes his boring speech?”

“Well.” Joey glanced at his friends, who were heading off to find seats.

“Oh, nuts,” Flossie said. “Don’t you have any moxie?”

“Sure I do.” Joey touched his fedora and nodded at Yitzy, Saul and Mari. “Well, so long. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

Mari watched as the swish of red disappeared up the dark staircase, then she took a seat between Yitzy and Saul. Maybe it was childish for her to feel this way, but she was relieved that Flossie was gone.

A smoky haze settled over the room. Mari reached for Yitzy’s and Saul’s hands and squeezed them hard, sensing as she did so that there were eyes watching her.

She glanced up quickly, just in time to see the man standing at the podium look away.

* * *

“So what happened to them, Nana?”

“What?” Mariasha blinked her eyes, unable to get the vision of the man at the podium out of her head. And that terrible smell. Sweet and sour like cider gone bad.

Her grandson was looking at her, waiting for an answer. “What happened to Saul, Yitzy, Flossie, the communist recruiters, all of them?” he asked again. “You said at the beginning of your story that people were watching you. Sizing you up.”

Mariasha ran her fingers through her short silver hair.

“Did they recruit Saul?” Julian asked. “Did he work for the communists? Is that why he became so embittered?”

“I told you it’s not so simple.”

Julian drew back.

She softened her voice. “Mama died and everything changed.”

“Changed how?”

She closed her eyes, trying to block out the memory.

“Should I leave, Nana? Would you rather I come back tomorrow?”

She opened her eyes. “Yes, yes, tomorrow would be better.” Her brain felt muddled. That terrible smell, she couldn’t get it out of her lungs.

“I’ll bring Annette, if that’s okay.”

Annette. His pretty friend. She was supposed to come today with a special lunch.

“I’m sorry, Julian. Tell her I’m sorry, but I’m too tired to see her today.”

“I’m sure she’ll understand.” Julian kissed her forehead, then left the apartment.

Mariasha took a deep breath, but the awful smell was still with her. She tried to think about something else.

Lilacs and talcum powder. Mama’s scent.

If Mama hadn’t died when she did, would things have turned out differently?