The Other Traitor (4 page)

Annette had a problem. It was one thing to start an investigation, quite another to execute it effectively. Barging in on Mariasha Lowe and asking if she believed her old friend Isaac Goldstein was innocent, probably wasn’t the best way to get information. Mariasha would likely get defensive and kick Annette out on her butt. If she could even kick. Annette had spent the morning researching the once-famous sculptress, but had found no references to her in the last few years. Even if she was physically and mentally okay—a big ‘if’ for a ninety-five-year-old, Mariasha might not be willing to meet. So before she tried to set something up, Annette needed a good reason to persuade the old woman to grant her an interview.

After exhausting all links to Mariasha Lowe on the internet, Annette decided to head down to the Barnes & Noble in Union Square. She hoped they would have art books that contained examples of Mariasha’s sculptures, or better still, personal info about the sculptress or a hook for an article that Annette could claim she was writing. Once she had a plausible approach nailed down, she could then figure out how to get Mariasha to agree to see her.

The bookstore was crowded, not surprising for a Saturday morning. Annette pushed past the shoppers rummaging through discount tables laden with books to the Art and Architecture section in the rear of the store. She found several coffee table books featuring one or two pieces of Mariasha Lowe’s work, but none contained much insight into the artist. Then, she came across a small book called
Evoking the Great Depression
. It featured art projects primarily by New Deal artists, but included Mariasha Lowe because of her themes. The book was broken into chapters on Social Realism, The American Worker, and America at Play and Rest. Mariasha’s work was discussed in the last section complete with photos of several of her pieces. Very promising.

She went to the ‘Non-Fiction New Releases’ section to look for the book by the Soviet agent that had referenced Isaac Goldstein. She took the clipping from
Le Figaro
out of her wallet—
A Soviet Spy in America
by Boris Yaklisov. She found it, paid for both books, then went to the upstairs café where she bought a cappuccino. Someone was getting up from a window table with a view of Union Square Park and Annette quickly nabbed the table.

Outside, beyond the skeletal trees, she could see the tops of white tents set up for the Saturday greenmarket and hundreds of people milling about the fresh produce stalls. The snow from last night had been shoveled into mounds near the street, though there were still patches of white at the bases of the trees and near the colonnaded arcade. In the distance, she could make out the equestrian statue of George Washington. This wasn’t far from where her grandparents had lived, and she wondered if her grandfather had come by the park seventy or eighty years ago. Would he have admired the statue of America’s first president or had Isaac Goldstein been too enamored of communist ideals?

She flipped through the index of the Soviet agent’s book, looking for the name Isaac Goldstein. There were far fewer references to her grandfather than Annette had been hoping for. But then she read that Yaklisov hadn’t been Goldstein’s primary point of contact. The Soviet agent had only met Goldstein on two occasions, but those had been enough to form Yaklisov’s impression of him. She found the passage that had been quoted in the
Le Figaro
review
.

Goldstein was never a major player in communist spy circles. He was charming and enthusiastic, but frankly, he did not seem altogether serious about the communist mission. He was more interested in acting the part of a spy than actually doing any serious work. It was obvious to me and other handlers that Goldstein didn’t have access to atomic-bomb secrets that he allegedly stole and passed on to the communists. That all came from another source.

Allegedly stole.
Annette reread the words. So he’d probably been set up. But by whom? The government? Trusted friends?

She skimmed the next few paragraphs, but the author hadn’t said anything further about who this other “source” could be.

She closed the book. Would Mariasha Lowe have known Isaac Goldstein’s circle of friends well enough to be able to hypothesize on a possible traitor?

Annette pulled the photo album out of her satchel and flipped to the page of her grandparents with the Lowes in December 1943 at the Laurels Hotel. The two smiling couples were posed in front of a toboggan. Had they met for the first time at this resort in the Catskill Mountains, or had they already been friends before this photo was taken?

She turned to the page of the four of them at the Starlight Roof restaurant. December 1944, one year later. But the photo of the two little girls—her mother Sally and Essie Lowe—was taken in 1950.
In front of our apartment on 120 Columbia Street,
the caption read.

The Lowes and the Goldsteins would have been friends from at least 1943 through 1950, so there was a very good chance that Mariasha was acquainted with others who associated with Isaac Goldstein. Would she know the person who had committed atomic espionage and let Isaac Goldstein take the fall in his place?

She put aside the photo album, picked up
Evoking the Great Depression
, and turned to the section on Mariasha Lowe
.
There was a general description of her work, her major pieces, where they were on display, and then a biographical sketch, which was consistent with much of what Annette had already learned in her previous internet research.

She tapped her notes into her laptop as she sipped her cappuccino, hoping to find an inspiration for an article.

Born in Brooklyn, 1918 as Mariasha Hirsch, the older of two children. Brother Saul, born 1922. Father died in 1925, mother in 1939.

Annette did the math. Mariasha would have been seven when her father died, twenty-one when her mother died. That would have been tough. Her brother would have been seventeen. Had Mariasha been close to her brother? But even if she was, it was unlikely that he had a connection to Isaac Goldstein.

She continued reading and taking notes.

Attended Brooklyn College 1935-39. Married Aaron Lowe, economics professor at NYU, in December 1943.

Same as her grandparents. So the two couples were most likely both on their honeymoons in the photo at the Laurels Hotel.

She read on.

Mariasha’s daughter Esther was born in 1945, but Annette already knew that. Essie had been her mother’s friend and classmate.

Then nothing for the next eight years. What was Mariasha doing? Raising Essie? Sculpting?

Mariasha’s first show was in 1954, which just happened to be the year after Isaac Goldstein’s execution.

Then the article moved into a discussion of Mariasha’s work.

Mariasha Lowe’s sculptures are evocative of Depression-era America. However her pieces of men, women, and children at work and play differ from the thick, brooding artwork one typically associates with the WPA Depression-era artists. Lowe’s work has a lightness and an energy, as though her creations are about to step off their marble bases and finish what they’ve begun.

Annette studied a picture of one of Mariasha’s sculptures called
Girl Playing Hopscotch
and quickly understood the comment about lightness and energy. The sculpture was composed of only metal pipes and spheres, but in it Annette could see a child poised on one leg, about to jump through the air to the next square.

As a journalist, Annette could appreciate how difficult it was to convey so much so sparingly. Bill always said, “Make everything count in your writing,” and that was exactly what Mariasha had accomplished with her art.

She browsed through a few more pages, her admiration growing for this woman who had once known her grandfather.

But who was Mariasha Lowe and what had motivated her to create such powerful sculptures? Was this the hook she should use to approach Mariasha for a story? How people from her past influenced her? Or maybe Annette could use the angle of how growing up during the Depression inspired her work, then use that as a lead into communism. From there, she could ask Mariasha if she knew the Goldsteins, since they were from the same neighborhood, then move on to friends and common interests. That could work. She felt a tingle of excitement as often happened when an idea for an article began to jell. Now she was ready to meet the woman.

She had found Mariasha Lowe’s street address and phone number in her earlier research. Should she call and tell her about the article she was planning to write, then ask if she could come by? But what if Mariasha refused to see her?

She finished the cappuccino. Maybe it would be better to just show up. Bill always joked about how hard it was to say no to Annette in person. And if Mariasha still refused, well, how hard could it be to wrestle down a ninety-five-year old?

Julian’s head felt like it was being squashed under the arm of an angry linebacker as he buried it beneath his pillow. Too much to drink.
What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.
At least that’s what Nietzsche said, but Julian wasn’t so sure.

After leaving his mother’s house last night, he had decided to celebrate his birthday by heading over to a seedy bar in the East Village. Sephora kept texting him,
Where the hell r u?
but he didn’t answer. Finally she wrote,
U r a giant asshole
, at which point he turned his phone off.

The bar was frequented mostly by NYU students and a few derelicts and he ended up downing shots with a bunch of communications majors until he was feeling no pain. He vaguely remembered giving his wool hat to a blonde with a Lauren-Bacall sneer, then somehow getting home, saying hi to his doorman and collapsing on his bed.

A hell of a way to celebrate his thirtieth birthday.

But now he was thirty and a day. He opened his eyes, blinking against the late morning light that came in through the balcony sliding doors, cursing himself for not closing the blinds the night before. At least the door was shut, so it wasn’t freezing inside. He checked the other side of the bed. No Sephora. Was she sleeping out in the living room? That wasn’t exactly her style.

He brought his legs over to the side of the bed trying not to set off an explosive chain reaction in his head. Slowly, he stood up, then went to the kitchen to grab some Advil, bracing himself for a mega-confrontation with his girlfriend. But Sephora wasn’t stretched out on the sofa, sipping coffee and thumbing through one of her fashion magazines. Thank you, God. Of course, this was simply a postponement of the inevitable. Sephora wasn’t one to pass up an opportunity to fight.

He took three Advils, ate a couple of bananas, then went to shower. The steam and pounding water cleared his head. Last night, his mother had said she wasn’t feeling well shortly after her emotional remarks about Nana, and had asked him to leave. He had been peeved by her abrupt dismissal, but now he processed what she had told him. He had a great-uncle who had painted. That made two family members who had been artists—Nana and Saul—so maybe his plan to pursue painting wasn’t all that far-fetched. If that’s what he really wanted, because on some level he wondered if he had latched onto painting in order to spite his mother. And then, what was really going on between his mother and Nana? He hadn’t realized how hurt she’d been by Nana and how much it resembled his own pain. Were he and his mother more alike than he wanted to admit? No way. He and Essie were about as different as two people could be.

He turned off the water and dried himself with a towel as he returned to his bedroom. He opened the closet door. What the hell? There was a pile of clothes on the floor. His clothes. Sephora’s shoes, bags, dresses, pants and shirts were all gone, but she’d scrawled a note on the closet wall. GO TO HELL. He stepped closer. She had used red nail polish.

He sat down on the bed. Sephora had left him. Shouldn’t he be sad or angry or disappointed? Some reaction to show that his relationship with this woman over the last two years had meant something to him? But whatever love or attraction he once felt for her had faded a long time ago. And then he started to laugh. Nail polish. Sephora had said goodbye to him with red nail polish. Probably last season’s shade. He fell back against the bed and laughed until his stomach hurt. His head started pounding again. He caught his breath, wiped away the tears of laughter, and sat back up.

She was gone. But that was okay. He no longer had to put on an act for anyone. He was free to start over.

He reached into the heap of clothes in his closet and pulled out a pair of worn jeans and a stretched-out crew neck sweater that Sephora hated. He dressed quickly, grabbed his army-surplus jacket, and took the stairs down the nine flights to the lobby.

Sephora was gone.

What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

Stronger. He was already feeling stronger. Just a little, but it was a start. Goodbye job. Goodbye Sephora. But Essie was a tougher nut to crack. He had taken one step forward with her, but it felt like he had fallen back two. Maybe his grandmother could get him on track.

Most of the slush had been cleared off the sidewalks from yesterday’s storm and Julian walked through the West Village passing hip new restaurants and yuppie bars, double-parked BMWs, doormen flagging down taxis in front of renovated luxury apartment buildings like his. It was like he was seeing his neighborhood for the first time. Damn. Why had it taken him so long to realize he didn’t belong here?

He walked farther and farther from this phony place, stepping over a ‘Happy New Year’ tiara, a crushed gold horn, and silver streamers, crossing Houston Street into the Lower East Side and the rich, spicy smells of his childhood. Rusted fire escapes clung to old tenement buildings like vines. Some of the restaurants had been here for a hundred years—Yonah Shimmel’s Knishes, Russ & Daughters Appetizers, Katz’s Deli. His grandmother’s world.

He turned south and went down the familiar streets. Her apartment building was just as it had always been. Brick and solid, with bay windows overlooking the front courtyard where Julian used to throw a rubber ball against the wall when he was a kid.

The outer door was oak, abraded and darkened with age. Julian ran his finger over the buzzers on the adjacent wall. The name beside Apt. 4B was barely legible. The paper it was written on had probably been there for the last sixty or seventy years. Aaron Lowe, it still said, even though he’d been dead thirty years, since shortly before Julian was born.

He pressed the buzzer and waited, knowing it sometimes took her awhile to get to the intercom.

“Yes?” her sweet scratchy voice said. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Nana.” And for the first time in a long while, he was where he belonged.

A comforting staleness, reminding him of the
Musée de la Vie Romantique
in Paris, hit Julian when his grandmother opened the door to her apartment. She had to hold her head back to look up at him. Her dark eyes were clouded by cataracts and her short chaotic hair looked like silver tinsel.

“Hi, Nana.” He took in her quirky outfit, typical for her—leopard-print pants, a red sweater that was way too big, and earrings with clusters of magenta stones. She was so tiny that he had to stoop all the way over to kiss her soft crepe-skinned cheek. She smelled citrusy, like she always did. How could his mother speak about this woman as though she was the devil?

“I think you’re growing and I’m shrinking,” Nana said. “At this rate, in another ten years you’ll be a giant and I’ll be no bigger than a mouse.”

Julian laughed. His grandmother was in her nineties, but she liked to joke about the future as though she was going to be around forever. And he wished she could be. The thought of a world without Mariasha Lowe left him with a hollow feeling inside.

“How does that song go?” she said. “If I knew you were coming I’d have baked you a birthday cake.”

“Sorry. I should have called. But you never have to do anything special for me.”

“I can still make you something to eat. It’s almost lunchtime.”

“I’m good. I had a couple of bananas.” He took of his army jacket and hooked it on the coat rack.

“How about some nice French toast or macaroni and cheese?”

His childhood favorites. “Thank you, Nana, but I’m not really hungry. Can we talk?”

“Of course.”

Julian left his shoes in the foyer, not wanting to get scolded for messing up his grandmother’s rugs. It was kind of funny that here, with his grandmother, he felt like a child again—safe and loved.

He followed her into the living room. She moved cautiously, her eyes on her feet as she tottered across the wood floor and pale pink area rug. The soft leather of her flats bulged from her bunions. She hoisted herself up into one of the two turquoise leather chairs closest to the windowed alcove where three of her sculptures stood.

The apartment hadn’t changed since Julian’s earliest memories. It was like stepping into a circa 1945 time capsule, where every object seemed important because of the absence of clutter. Nana still had a wind-up Victor Victrola in one corner and, against the long wall, a large wood console with its original black-and-white television. The TV hadn’t worked even when he was a kid and he wondered why she kept it. Julian had gotten her a flat-screen TV for her bedroom that he knew she watched because she was always up-to-date on the latest episodes of
Downton Abbey.

The walls were the same mint green they had always been, and in front of the console was a crimson art deco sofa with bulbous arms and the two turquoise chairs. He remembered Sephora’s reaction the first time she came here. She’d pinched Julian’s arm and whispered, not realizing Nana’s hearing was excellent. “This stuff is so retro. I’d love it in our place.”

His grandmother had called out in her sweetest voice. “I’m not dead yet, darling.”

“How’s your girlfriend?” Nana asked now, as though reading Julian’s mind. “Cremora? Remora? I never remember her name.”

“Sephora.”

“That’s right. Sephora. What kind of people name their child after a make-up store?”

“We broke up.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “Sorry if it makes you sad. Not sorry about the girl.”

“I know you didn’t like her much.”

“She was pretty,” Nana said. “There are plenty of pretty girls out there.”

“She was a symptom of the wrong choices I’ve been making.”

His grandmother nodded, as though she knew what he was referring to.

“Somehow I got myself into the wrong life,” he said. “Wrong girlfriend. Wrong apartment. Wrong career.”

He went over to the sculptures that Nana had created with her own hands. Most of her work had been sold or given to museums, but she had kept these three for herself. Each one was a four-foot-high representation of a person made of steel rods and bronze golf-ball joints, a bit like the Tinkertoy set he’d played with as a kid. The brass plaques on their bases read: 
Woman Wearing New Hat. Man Reading. Boy Playing Stickball
.

They’d been there his entire life, but Julian had never paid much attention to them. Of course, Julian was realizing there was quite a bit he hadn’t noticed growing up.

“Anyway,” he said. “I’m trying to fix all that. I quit my job and now that Sephora’s gone, I can start looking for a new apartment.”

“And will that make everything better?” she asked.

He turned back to her. “Not everything.”  He sat down in the chair next to hers. “I went to see Essie last night.”

“Good,” she said. “You should spend more time with your mother.”

“That’s never been easy for me.”

“Your mother loves you.”

“So you’ve been telling me my whole life, but I’m trying to understand why she never seemed to want to be around me.”

His grandmother closed her eyes. Her wrinkled cheeks and mouth sagged and she looked terribly sad.

Julian rested his elbows on his knees. “Nana, I need your help.”

She opened her eyes. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

“Then please explain to me why she’s so cold and angry. Did she not want me? Rhonda’s ten years older. Was I a mistake she can’t get over?”

“Oh, Julian. It’s nothing like that. I’m telling you, your mother loves you.”

“Then what’s going on?”

“Sometimes that happens between parents and children. An inability to communicate.”

A dull light came in through the windows making the three sculptures seem forlorn. “Was that what happened between you and Essie?” he asked.

His grandmother rubbed her pointer finger with her thumb.

“Nana, I’m not completely blind. My mother never visits you. Why is that? And I remember the two of you fighting all the time when I was a child.”

“What can I say, Julian? My daughter and I never got along.”

“But why not?”

She sighed. “I wasn’t a good mother. I wish I could have been, but the world I grew up in molded me. I made promises to my parents. I had responsibilities to my brother. Maybe I just didn’t have enough left over to be a good mother, too.”

“I don’t buy that,” he said.

She turned her gold wedding band around. Her fingers were knobby from arthritis. These were the hands that had once created intricate sculptures; now they resembled her work.

“My mother told me about your brother Saul.”

His grandmother started, as though she’d heard a sudden noise. “What did she tell you about him?”

“That he was an artist.”

“He liked to paint, but he was never an artist.”

He looked at the walls, unadorned except for a purple neon clock and fan-shaped sconces. “Do you have any of his paintings?”

“No.”

“Did you know Essie has one?”

Her face grew pale.

“Saul gave her the painting that’s hanging in our living room.”

“She has that?” Her voice was practically a whisper.

“Yes,” he said. “And she told me you hid it from her. Why did you do that?”

“It was a terrible painting.”

“It was her birthday present.”

She shook her head, angry about something.

“Essie told me that you and she fought about it,” he said. “Is that why you’re still upset with each other? Because of the painting?”

“I wanted to protect her. That’s all I ever hoped to do.”

“She said you and Saul didn’t get along.”

Her face hardened, her lips forming a straight line. “Your mother knows nothing about my relationship with Saul. He was my baby brother. I sacrificed everything for him.”

“Then tell me, Nana.” He sat forward on the chair. “Tell me about your parents and your brother. Tell me so I can understand my mother. So I can understand myself.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

“Why not? Is there something you don’t want me to know?”

Her eyelids opened. She licked her lips. “It’s all in the past. Nothing in the past can help you.”

“But I think it can.”

She seemed to shrink into the big turquoise chair. Her eyes clouded over as she stared at the three sculptures.

“Please, Nana.”

Finally, she let out a heavy sigh. “Okay, Julian. I’ll tell you our story. I only hope it will help, not hurt you.”

He almost reminded his grandmother about Nietzsche’s words—
What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger—
but he had a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate them.