The Other Traitor (23 page)

No one spoke. A dog barked outside, a car swished by in the wet snow. Had this been why his mother had gone into pediatric oncology and opened the clinic?

“There were other scientists who felt the same as Saul,” Rhonda said. “Deceived by the government. Tricked into creating something they’d believed would only be used in the defense of America. Not as an aggressive weapon.”

“But the U.S. government claimed that by dropping those bombs, it ended the war more quickly and saved many more lives,” Julian said.

“Saul didn’t buy that,” Rhonda said. “He felt betrayed, and he was determined to do whatever he could to keep mass destruction from happening again.”

“Ironic, isn’t it?” his mother said. “In trying to prevent more radiation poisoning, Saul knowingly exposed himself to radiation and it killed him.”

Annette was twisting a strand of hair around her finger as she stared at the cold hearth. “So he effectively committed suicide to do what he believed was right.”

“Yes,” his mother said.

Julian walked back and forth in front of the fireplace, deeply disturbed by these new revelations. Could his great-uncle’s actions somehow be interpreted as heroic? “Wait.” He stopped pacing. “How could you possibly know all this about Saul?”

“Because he chronicled it.” Rhonda lifted the painting from the wall, grasping it with both arms extended, then set it on the rug glass-side down. Carefully, she removed the backing. It was obvious she’d done this before.

The inside of the large rectangular insert was completely covered with tiny writing in black ink.

Julian crouched and examined it. He could make out dates and other numbers. Hundreds of entries. Probably the serial numbers of the bombs Saul had sabotaged.
Jesus
, he said under his breath. He looked up at his mother. “Did Nana know about this?”

“Most likely,” his mother said.

“Why wouldn’t she have destroyed it?” he asked. “It documented that her brother was a traitor.”

Annette had gotten on her knees to study the canvas. “That depends on your perspective,” she said. “Was the government justified in developing and stockpiling thousands of bombs with such terrible potential?” She sat back on her heels and twisted a strand of blonde hair around her finger. “If yes, then the person who intervened to keep the bombs from working could be considered a traitor to his country.”

She paused. “But others might regard him as a hero to the world.”

Her cell phone buzzed, pulling Annette out of her absorption in the implications of Saul’s final message. She recognized the number of St. Luke’s Hospital. She answered, her heart pounding. As she listened to the nurse’s update on Bill, Annette felt an enormous weight lift. “
Dieu merci
!” Annette said.

“Is Bill okay?” Julian asked when she got off the call.

“He’s awake and out of danger. He wants to see me.”

Essie and Rhonda looked at her with curiosity.

“My friend had a serious accident,” she said, choosing not to share that Bill had attempted suicide. “He has no family. I’m sorry, but I must leave to see him now.”

“Of course,” Essie said. “Anything I can do?”

She was touched by the concern in her face. So there was a caring person behind the façade. “That’s very kind of you, but he seems to be getting good care.”

“Don’t hesitate to call me if you think I can help.”

“Thank you. And thank you for sharing your family’s secrets with me. I won’t abuse what you’ve told me.”

“Saul’s long gone. It won’t matter to him.” Essie turned to Julian. “But I suppose it’s good you know the whole story.”  She patted her throat, in that instant reminding Annette of her own mother.

This hard, unhappy woman, with her core of kindness, had been her mother’s childhood friend. It occurred to her how similar Sally Goldstein Revoir and Essie Lowe Sandman were, even though they’d been separated by over sixty years and almost four thousand miles. But Annette understood why her mother was so injured. What had caused Julian’s mother to develop her shell?

“Thank you both.” Julian kissed his mother and sister on their cheeks, which seemed to surprise them.

“The answers are never simple,” Essie said.

“No, they aren’t,” he said.

That was an understatement, Annette thought. The more she learned, the further she seemed to be from understanding the truth about her grandfather.

The taxi that Julian had called for arrived a few minutes later. It smelled like gasoline and vanilla air freshener and made Annette sick to her stomach. Snow had turned to sleet, which hit the windshield hard. Julian put his arm around her as the taxi bounced over a pothole. “Bill will be fine.”

She snuggled against him in the backseat, taking in his scent and blocking out the unwelcome smells and sensations from the rest of the world. “Bill doesn’t have much of a support structure.”

“He has you.”

“I once thought so, but it’s weighing on me that he didn’t call me when he was falling apart.”

“He probably didn’t want to be talked out of what he’d decided to do.”

The windshield wipers squeaked as they pushed the icy rain back and forth.

“I don’t understand being so depressed or guilty that suicide seems like the best option,” she said.

“Because you’re not built that way,” he said. “You’re a fighter. Even when you’re knocked down, you don’t stay down.” She could feel his chest expand and contract beneath her shoulder as he took a deep breath. “Apparently Saul wasn’t a fighter.”

“I think he was,” she said. “Even though he felt guilty about developing the bomb, after the war he tried to keep America from committing even more acts of destruction.”

“Fighters don’t kill themselves.”

“Saul didn’t kill himself—he died fighting,” she said.

The taxi sped along the Grand Central Parkway, splashing through puddles. Muted lights from the traffic leaving Manhattan inched toward them from the opposite direction like a Chinese-lantern parade.

“Do you think Saul sabotaged the information he gave to the Soviets during the war?” she asked. “Your mother was adamant that he hadn’t.”

“But why would Nana say that he gave the Soviets bad info if he didn’t?”

“
Je ne sais pas.
Maybe she was trying to protect Saul’s reputation.” The driver hit the brakes, pitching her forward, but Julian held her tight. She settled back against him. “I wonder if we’ve been thinking about this the wrong way,” she said. “Could the real issue be what Saul did after the war? Perhaps Isaac didn’t turn Saul in because he didn’t want to expose what he was doing to the post-war bombs.”

“Are you saying your grandfather supported Saul sabotaging those bombs?”

She thought about her grandfather’s words to Grandma Betty.
This is a sacrifice I must make.

“If he knew about it, yes. I see that as a possibility. As a final act of bravery.”

“Whoa.” Julian let go of her. “You think it was a noble act for Isaac Goldstein to hide the possibility that hundreds, maybe even thousands, of U.S. bombs wouldn’t work?”

She turned to face him. “I’m just saying my grandfather may have viewed it as heroic and tried to keep this secret. Especially if he shared Saul’s opinion that detonating those bombs would be more destructive to the world than the U.S. not having them as weapons.”

“Then he was playing God,” Julian said. “They both were—Saul and Isaac.”

“You sound like you don’t agree with what they did.”

“Saul’s actions potentially put the United States in a terrible position with respect to our national defense.”

“But what about as an aggressor?” she said, feeling a surge of anger. “Do you really believe the U.S. needed to bomb Japan to end the war promptly? I’ve read that Japan tried to surrender before the bombing. Dropping the atomic bombs was more an act of the U.S. flexing its muscles than one of defense.”

“That’s not what the history books say.”

“Whose history books? The ones you read in the United States? Did it ever occur to you that not everyone in the world sees America as the center of the universe?”

“Spoken like a French patriot.”

“I’m also American, Julian. That’s not what I’m talking about. I just happen to believe in looking at all sides and perspectives, not wearing blinders.”

“So I’m wearing blinders?”

The taxi hit another pothole and jolted her. She was breathing hard, but she wasn’t finished. She was angry at this country, which played by its own rulebook, and had executed her grandfather because it needed a scapegoat. “I’m just saying, what if the U.S. government took it upon itself to bomb countries they considered threats, killing and poisoning another few hundred thousand people?” She looked Julian in the eye “You don’t like the idea of Isaac and Saul playing God, but isn’t that exactly what the government did?”

His eyes widened. The lights from oncoming traffic made patterns on his face, creating a kaleidoscope of emotion.

“Someone has to play God.” She leaned back against the seat. “I guess the question is who should be making those decisions?”

“Maybe God should,” he said softly.

She stared forward, through the slush-splattered windshield, at the approaching Manhattan skyline, trying to picture where the World Trade Center had once been. “If there is a God,” she said. “Let’s just pray that he really has humanity’s interest at heart.”

Annette jumped out of the taxi in front of the hospital, her hood shielding her from the deluge, until she reached the main entranceway.

Julian followed close behind. “You go on up,” he said. “I’ll wait down here.”

She hesitated. They hadn’t spoken for the remainder of the drive into Manhattan. She couldn’t tell if he was angry with her or trying to make sense of her rant about playing God. She touched his arm. His unshaven face was wet with icy rain. “I didn’t mean to come across like I was attacking you. I—”

“Go.” His voice was gentle. “Go to Bill. I’ll be waiting right here for you.”

Bill had been moved out of acute care to a regular wing. Annette found his room at the end of an antiseptic-smelling corridor. He was propped up against the elevated bed, his face ashen. She was taken aback. Her once larger-than-life professor looked small and wasted.

“Wow.” She tried to sound upbeat. “I didn’t think I’d ever call you pale.”

He forced a smile. Tubes and wires connected him to various machines. One behind him beeped every few seconds. “It’s good to see you, Annie,” he said in a raspy voice.

She sat on the edge of the bed, rather than on the ugly orange chair. There was a moveable tray with a water pitcher and a plastic glass with a straw. No flowers anywhere. She should have brought him flowers. No one else would.

“Do you want your water?” she asked.

“Wouldn’t mind.”

She handed him the glass and he sipped through the straw. He still had a bandage on his pinkie where he’d cut himself the day before. It seemed so long ago. If only she had picked up on the signs.

He met her eye. His eyes looked naked.

She reached into her satchel and pulled out his tortoise-framed glasses. “Thought you might like these.”

“Wonderful.” He adjusted them on his nose. “Much better. Where did you find them?”

“On the floor of your apartment. With your smashed dishes and overturned furniture. I stopped by earlier to straighten up. And by the way, Woodward’s staying with one of your neighbors.”

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“You’re welcome.”

He stared at the bandage on his finger. “You’re angry with me.”

“I’m angrier with myself. I should have known something could go wrong last night. That Kylie would pull something.”

“So now you’re clairvoyant, my Annie?” He gave her a weak smile. “You can blame me.”

“Oh don’t worry. I’m furious with you, too. How would you feel if I hadn’t called you when I had a problem and then overdosed on pills and alcohol?”

“I’d give you an F.”

“Glad you find it funny.”

“I’m sorry.” He closed his eyes. “It just hurt so bad. What she’d done. I couldn’t bear it. Losing Billy.”

“But you haven’t lost him. It’s a temporary setback. You’ll track them down, take her to court.”

“Stop.” He held up his hand. One of the machines made a beep of protest.

“Okay.” She softened her voice. “We shouldn’t talk about this now.”

“I know you want to fix things,” he said. “You can’t help yourself. That’s why you’re my Annie-get-your-gun.” Another smile, this one stronger.

Her eyes watered. “Damn you, Bill.” She leaned over to hug him. “You’re my best friend. You know how much I love you.”

“I do.”

“Promise me,” she said, her voice too choked to continue.

“I promise,” he said. “I’ll call you if I ever feel low.”

She nodded and wiped her cheek. “And I promise I’ll try to be a better friend.”

“You’re a great friend, Annie. Most of the time.” He winked. “But it took you long enough to get here. Where the hell have you been?”

She was relieved that he was able to joke. “Are you up to talking about my stuff?”

“I sure as shit don’t want to think about my situation. Please, tell me what’s been going on.”

“Julian and I went to see Mariasha Lowe this afternoon.”

“Julian? Yesterday you said that was over.”

At least Bill’s mind was crystal clear. “Over and back on,” she said.

“I hope my situation had something to do with that happy resolution.”

“It did. But please don’t feel obligated to attempt suicide every time I have relationship issues.”

He let out a full-bodied laugh.

Tres bon. He’s back to himself.

“And did Mariasha shed any new light on Isaac Goldstein?”

“Quite a bit, though I don’t think she realized it.”

“She still doesn’t know your relation to Isaac Goldstein?”

“No,” Annette said. “But I told Julian everything.”

“Did you now?” He pursed his lips and gave a quick nod, reminding her of when she’d give an answer in class that he approved of.

“Anyway,” she said. “Mariasha had a brother named Saul who was a physicist working on the bomb at Los Alamos.”

“My, my.”

“Saul was recruited by the Soviets to pass technical information on to them.”

“And?”

“Apparently he did.”

“There’s a promising development. Saul may have been the spy the government was looking for.”

“I think he was, but it gets better. Mariasha claims that Saul deceived the Soviets. He modified the formulas he gave them, so any bombs they built wouldn’t work.”

“Ballsy,” Bill said.

“If, in fact, he was the saboteur. There’s some question about that. I’m wondering if Mariasha made that part up because she wanted to believe her brother was actually a hero.”

“Hmm.” Bill rubbed his chin, causing the machine to give beep of protest. “Do you think Isaac knew Saul? They may have met through Mariasha.”

“Yes. And I’m pretty sure my grandfather knew Saul was spying.”

“Interesting,” he said. “But if Isaac knew about Saul’s involvement, either he would have been Saul’s handler or someone else in the spy ring was. How is it possible Saul’s name never came up? Was there any mention of him in anything you read?”

“Just the Slugger reference,” she said. “And I’m sure Saul was Slugger.”

“So why do you think Isaac didn’t give Saul up to the government to save himself?”

“It gets complicated,” she said. “Apparently, Saul was so mortified about the devastation caused by the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki that he continued working for the government after the Manhattan Project was disbanded. But this time, Saul sabotaged the American bombs. He modified the sensors so the bombs wouldn’t detonate.”

“Whoa,” Bill said. “That’s huge. So America had a stockpile of dud bombs?”

“That’s right. I believe that’s the reason my grandfather didn’t turn Saul in. He must have agreed with Saul’s scheme. It was the sacrifice Isaac made to keep the world safe.”

“Sacrifice?” Bill sucked on the straw, draining the rest of the water. He handed her the empty glass. “Maybe I’m a little slow tonight, but either you’re leaving something out, or you’re jumping to conclusions.”

“Sorry. I left something out.” She reached into her satchel for the pile of her grandmother’s letters, found the last one Betty had written, and handed it to Bill. “It was written on June 11, 1953.”

“The day before the execution.” Bill squinted at the letter, and read aloud. “
This is a sacrifice I must make
.”

“Where did you get these letters?”

“I found them at Linda’s house. She’d lied about having them.”

“Why would she have done that?”

“She said she wanted to protect me from learning how terrible my grandfather really was. But now that I know why he made the sacrifice, I realize he had an impossible choice. His family or saving humanity.”

He rubbed his chin. “This letter isn’t dated. How do you know it’s from June 11?”

“The postmark on the envelope.” She handed him the empty envelope at the back of the pile of letters.

He studied it, then put the envelope down on the bed. “Why are you so certain Isaac knew what Saul was doing and that he agreed with him?”

“Because it all fits.”

“Really? Just like that?” He frowned. “Think of Nassim Taleb’s Black Swan theory, Annette. We talked about this in class. For every event or set of circumstances, there are an infinite number of explanations for how it happened, all of them fitting the known data. Are you sure you’re not making the pieces fit because you want to believe this? Because it makes your grandfather into a hero?”

Wasn’t that what she had just accused Mariasha of doing with her brother?

“I’m not making up the stuff about Saul. It comes from Mariasha and a painting Saul made that documents what he was doing.”

Bill scratched his arm where an intravenous tube was held in place by tape. “I’m not saying Saul didn’t do those things. I just don’t see the connection to the letter.”

“My grandfather admitted his guilt to Grandma Betty the day before he was executed, so it’s effectively a confession.”

“
This is a sacrifice I must make,
” Bill read, again, then handed her back the letter. “That’s too general to be a confession.”

It was a bit general, but everything fit so nicely. And yes, she couldn’t deny she wanted to believe the scenario she’d painted of her grandfather’s
beau geste.

She looked at the letter her Grandma Betty had written the day before her husband was executed. She studied the shaky blue penmanship. A letter, understandably written in fury. She wished she could tell her grandmother that Isaac Goldstein’s death hadn’t been in vain. Maybe Grandma Betty would have even agreed with his sacrifice.

She picked up the envelope lying on the bed. June 11, 1953 postmark. The same shaky handwriting.

In black ink.

Not blue.

Her heart hiccupped. This wasn’t necessarily the letter that had been mailed in this envelope. She had made the wrong assumption.

Again.