The Summer Garden (33 page)

The seven men came back. Alexander stood at attention.

The vote on the questions put before the committee was four to three, with Rankin casting the deciding vote—that Alexander Barrington be cleared of all suspicion against him.

It had taken Alexander seven hours with two breaks to sing for his freedom.

When Sam came over, he looked nearly happier than Alexander. “John
Rankin
, chairman of HUAC, voted to clear you of communist conspiracy charges!” he exclaimed. “Is Tania going to think that’s fantastic, or what?”

“Ironic is more like it.” Alexander didn’t notice the deep tension in his shoulders until he breathed out when the gavel struck. He shook Sam’s hand.

“I swear, if Rankin asked one more question about your parents, I was going to become a communist myself just to spite him,” Levine said.

“Oh,
that
would spite him,” Sam said. “He lives for that. You know what he said, Alexander? It was the question about the cannibals that decided it for him.”

“
Really?
” That was surprising.

Sam shook his head. “That’s what I said. But Rankin said,
out of the abundance of
your
heart, the mouth spoke
.”

Sam introduced Tom Richter to Alexander. Richter saluted him. The lieutenant was tall, good-looking in that athletic, light-haired American sort of way, well-built, brash. He had a strong handshake, and in the hall, he laughed. “So what did you think? A nail-biter or what? Walked into a den of wolves, didn’t you?”

“No shit.”

“What you don’t know,” said Richter, “is that the graying graceful Southern gentleman John Rankin is second in popularity only to Satan among the members of State. Isn’t it true, Mr. Gulotta?” He was loud and unapologetic.

“Not true, Lieutenant Richter,” said Sam, only a little quieter. “Satan is much more popular.” You could tell Sam and Richter were friends.

The four men stood in the hall and had a nice long smoke. Richter was thirty, a year older than Alexander. He had been with MacArthur in Japan during the war, and was likely to be joining him again now that certain troubles were brewing at the 38th parallel between North and South Korea.

Richter said he only came to the hearing because he had heard so much about Alexander from Sam. “Defense is very interested in the mechanics and hierarchy of the Red Army, and your command of Russian and knowledge and understanding of Soviet activities.” He smiled. “Nice touch there, keeping quiet about your wife.”

“Yes,” said Alexander. “I do not speak about my wife to her enemies.”

“Well, that Sachsenhausen story was pretty remarkable even without her. I think if you mentioned that your unarmed Donut Dolly of a wife was in the trees with you and had helped you escape, those men would have had a fucking heart attack.”

Alexander laughed then, comfortable with Richter, and relieved.

“You might not know about us,” said Richter, “but we at Defense know quite a bit about you.” He asked if Alexander would be interested in getting a security clearance so he could do some limited military intelligence analysis for the U.S. Army. “Very rare to find a fluent bilingual speaker.” Richter said there was so much rapid-fire international activity going on—the Communist insurgencies in Greece, in Yugoslavia, the ongoing near-collapsed negotiations with Mao in China, and the acquisitions of classified documents from the USSR regarding their atomic program, that to get periodic analysis on raw data from someone like Alexander would be a tremendous boon to the Armed Services Committee, and the Military Intelligence arm of the U.S. Army. “Consider the last eight hours part of your security interview.” Richter grinned.

Alexander wasn’t sure how it was going to work. Carefully he said that plunging back into the military was not going to be in his best interest. Tatiana would go through the roof.

“Who’s plunging back into the military?” Richter said calmly. “You could be commissioned as a reserve officer. Just two days a month of your time. Earlier this year, the President passed legislation for drill pay for reservists. You’ll have to pass formal clearance,” he went on. “It’s not going to be easy—Red Army are incendiary words these days—as you’ve just witnessed. But I’ll help you. I
really
think you should do it. Where are you living?”

Alexander said nowhere at the moment, they were still trying—

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” said Richter. “Wherever you are in the States, you can get onto an army base, look over the raw data we send and prepare a finished intel report for us. It’ll be sporadic work, but it’ll more than satisfy your annual active duty requirement, and give you other options. You can train, or you can do combat support.”

Sam Gulotta thought it was a great opportunity for Alexander. Richter said the position could be expanded to serve Alexander’s interests. If he wanted to live in Washington, he could work for Army Intelligence right here and be permanently employed by the Department of Defense.

Alexander said, “I’ll let you know. Not likely about living in DC, though.”

“What, Missus Commando doesn’t like Washington?” asked Richter.

“She doesn’t like war,” said Alexander. “She’s not going to be happy with any of it.”

“Bring her to the Pentagon tomorrow.” Richter smiled broadly. “I’ll change her mind. I’ll convince her to move here. You’ll see—I’ll convince her to move to Korea with you.”

“Oh, much luck with that.”

“I picture your Russian wife,” Richter said, slapping Alexander on the back, “the woman who single-handedly took on the Red Army in Germany on your behalf as someone who, built like an ox, used to pull her own plow in the Russian collective fields, sowing and reaping for the proletariat.” He laughed.

“Well, that’s about right, isn’t it, Alexander?” said Sam.

“Just about.” Alexander smiled back, finishing up his smoke. He needed to get back to the Russian ox-built serf, who was no doubt now summoning a county militia to snatch him from the iron grip of the U.S. State Department.

As they were walking down the corridor, Dennis Burck came out of one of the offices and stopped them in the hall. He wondered if he could have “simply a minute” of Alexander’s time.

Richter said goodbye and left. Sam tried to pull Alexander aside, Matt Levine wanted to come inside the chamber, but Burck said, “No, no, you’ll have him back in thirty seconds, you can speak all night to him.” He cited the smallness of his office and the absence of extra chairs. “Just wait for him outside,” Burck said amiably. “I will leave the door open, and we won’t be but a moment.”

Burck was more senior than Sam Gulotta. Sam had to stay behind. Alexander went into an office that was even smaller than Matt Levine’s. Invited to sit, Alexander opted to stand. Burck began by saying that one of his many responsibilities at the State Department was being a deputy liaison between State and Interpol. Alexander half listened half politely. Burck continued in the same genial tone. “I know you didn’t want to mention it to the committee, but we know, of course, that your wife was also a Soviet subject, who escaped, leaving a dozen Soviet troops dead on the border with Finland.”

Alexander’s mouth was tight. “The dead border troops had nothing to do with her,” he said. “And my wife is now an American citizen. Now, will there be anything else?”

“Oh, that wasn’t what I wanted to talk to you about, Mr. Barrington.” On Burck’s desk lay a thick file that was the Barrington State Department documents since 1917. “Let me get right to my point. I have information about your mother.”

Alexander thought he had misheard. “What did you say?”

Burck buried his gaze and his hands in the file. “You were told your mother was executed in 1938. Who told you this?” He glanced up.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Burck.”

Burck got up. “Would you mind if I closed the door, Mr. Barrington, so we could have a little privacy?”

“Privacy for what?”

Burck went around Alexander and shut the door on Sam and Levine.

When he sat back down at his desk, in a voice so low Alexander had to strain to hear, Burck said, “Now listen carefully. Your father, it is true, was executed, but…
your mother is still alive
.”

Alexander stood stonelike, his face a concrete mask.

Burck pressed on. “It’s true. She is still alive! She is in Perm-35. Do you know where that is?”

Alexander spoke with difficulty, but he became more calm, not less, all his senses sharpened as if he were in battle. “I have credible information my mother was killed,” he said in a dull voice. “I heard it four different ways from four different people.”

“You’re hearing it another way from me.”

Alexander’s fists clenched as he tried to keep his composure. “I don’t believe you,” he said.

“It’s my business to know. And it is the truth. This is objectively verifiable information. She has been in the labor camp near the Urals for the last eleven years. She is old and not in the best of health, but she’s still alive. Her name is on the prison rolls.”

Alexander’s fists started to shake.

“Would you like to see?” Burck started to leaf through a long thick sheaf of serrated papers he’d taken from the folders.

Taking a step back, a small stagger back, Alexander stumbled against a chair.

His voice a sibilant excited whisper, Burck exclaimed, “
You
can help your mother. It’s up to you.
You
can bring her back home.”

Alexander needed to sit down. He stood. He said nothing. If he asked how he could do that, it would mean he believed Burck, that it was true, she was alive.

“Since the war, many people, especially women, have been released and rehabilitated. You’ll see, the Soviets will help us. And your mother has not been well.”

“Why would they listen to you?”

“My Foreign Office is in constant contact with the Soviet attaché and with Cominform. I am also close to the Commissar of People’s Affairs, who often commutes sentences for prisoners based on recommendations.”

“The Commissar of People’s Affairs? You mean Lavrenti Beria?”

Burck went on without replying. “We can leave for Turkey next week. From Istanbul we will fly across the Black Sea to Yalta, and then—with Soviet permission, of course—drive in a special convoy arranged by them north through the country up the River Volga to the camp. In the meantime, I will begin negotiating for her release.”

Alexander backed away.

“I have incentives to sway them. These are very troubled times. We often exchange influence—”

The chair crashed over and fell against the bookshelves.

“Mr. Barrington, wait!”

Alexander was already in the corridor through the flung-open door. “Let’s go,” he said to Sam and Levine. “Now.”

They walked quickly, almost running, down the corridor and into the stairwell. “What did he say?” Levine kept asking. “What did he say?”

Sam said nothing.

Alexander didn’t reply, but like a grim statue, said good-bye to Levine and then sat mutely in Sam’s car on the way back to Silver Spring, asking for a few moments to himself so he could still the cries of his heart.

They got back to the Nomad well after ten in the evening. Tatiana had been sitting outside on the little steps of the camper, holding a sleeping Anthony on her lap. Alexander couldn’t say a word to her for many minutes while she stood in his arms, sobbing, buried in his chest. In his pajamas, Anthony, having been suddenly awakened, was pulling on her dress.

“Mom, come on, stop it, let go; Mama, let go of him.”

Sam took the boy away to give them a minute. “So how was your mother today?” he said, picking him up.

“Terrible,” said Anthony. “She said herself she was a train wreck of a mother. I’m hoping she’ll be better tomorrow.”

“Indeed, Ant, I think she will be,” said Sam. “Everything is going to be all right. And tomorrow your dad is going to take you to a special place where soldiers work. It’s called the Pentagon.”

Anthony beamed.

Five yards away, near the door of the Nomad, Tatiana was whispering against Alexander’s chest. “Darling, I’m sorry, I can’t stop crying.”

He stood stiffly, his arms around her.

“So it’s okay? It went okay?”

“It went okay.”

She immediately heard it, caught it, looked up at him, through her wet eyes. “What?” she said, wiping her face. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I’ll tell you later.”

Finally he let her disengage from him and Anthony jumped to his dad. Sam said he had to be going. His own wife was going to kill him for coming home this late. Despite feeling completely wiped out, a grateful Alexander didn’t want to let Sam go, asking him to stay, perhaps have dinner together.

“Yes,” Tatiana said, more composed. “Please stay, Sam. I’ll make something quick.”

“Last thing you need is me around here,” said Sam. “You rest up. Tomorrow, I’ll take the three of you out to lunch. We have to go to the Pentagon anyway. Tania, tomorrow you’re going to meet your husband’s new boss and his new lawyer. I think I’ll call your friend Vikki, see if she wants to take the train and come down and join us.”

“No, no! Not Vikki,” said Anthony, reaching for his mother.

“My husband has a boss
and
a lawyer?” said Tatiana, reaching for Alexander, taking the boy.

They stood in the dusty bowl of a yard by the gas station, and Sam told her about the hearing. Alexander, his powers of speech draining away, said nothing.

“Thank you, Sam,” Tatiana said. “Once again—you have been very good to me.”

Patting her gently, Sam said with affectionate reproach, “Your husband did all the work. Thank him.
You
nearly lost me my job, missy. All because you wouldn’t trust me. You knew I’d help you if I could.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I was so afraid.” She didn’t look at Alexander as she spoke.

She fussed and murmured over him after Sam left. He was shattered and in no condition to drive at night searching for a campsite. They were right by the side of the road and there was nowhere to pitch a tent, to have a little privacy, but they reluctantly stayed. She warmed up some water on their little Primus stove for him to wash with, fed him canned Spam, some bread, cucumbers, a beer. Anthony fell asleep on the floor of the camper.