“But it was in the protocol,” insisted Leon. “To mention the name of the company. We were told to show gratitude.”
“Apparently, we bowed too deeply.”
—
IN THE DARK BEHIND the floral curtain, Florence lay on the cot beside her son. Light from the moon illuminated his downy neck and the curve of his shoulder in its cotton pajama top. Curled up he looked like a little swan. For a long time she rubbed his back and hummed softly; finally, she could hear the deep, slow breathing that meant he was asleep. She tiptoed back to their daybed, then lay on her back for a long time and stared at the ceiling. Above her the plaster molding, slightly peeling, had a pattern of leaves and lilies. There were birds, too, whose wings had been cropped by the wooded partition that had divided the once-large room into several smaller ones. It was like looking up into a world of myth, as different from the world around them as the sky was from life on earth. She could feel the heavy turn of Leon’s body beside her. “Why does he always come around so late?” she said, trying to gather anger into her whisper. “He knows we have a child. Yulik needs to be put to bed at a normal hour.”
“It’s never bothered you before.”
“How does he get his information? Yes, I know….He makes his rounds…eats and drinks at a different apartment every night. Never refuses a free meal or drink. How do we know this Birobidzhan gossip isn’t just empty noise?”
“I imagine he heard it from Olivia Bern. She processes all the letters the Jewish Committee receives.”
“He hears a rumor, then runs over here to frighten us.”
“Perhaps he’s frightened himself, Florence. We’re the closest thing he has to family.” She felt him turn toward the wall. “Why must you be so hard on people?”
—
THE TELEPHONE CALL CAME when she was at work. Florence was summoned by one of the typists who sat at the other end of the large, partitioned room.
“Flora Solomonovna?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad to get hold of you at last.”
She recognized the voice. Its casual tone hit her like a whiff of something sour. A rotting smell from another life. Black and smooth, the telephone in her hand felt as heavy as a piece of obsidian about to pull her to the bottom of a lake.
“It’s been a long time, Flora Solomonovna. Don’t you recognize who this is?”
She could hear a smile behind the words.
“Yes, you remember me after all,” said Subotin. “Well, this is no time for chatting. You’re at work. A real move up from that silly institute. I could never picture you among all those gabbing, effete intellectuals. Now, propaganda work, serving the country—that’s more like it. Keep up the good work, and we’ll chat when you’re free. Four o’clock tomorrow, say, at our old spot.”
Florence glanced behind her. She could not stay on the phone for much longer without drawing stares. “I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible, not tomorrow at four or any other time.” No, she would not march into the trap so obediently this time. She had a child to think of.
Almost as if he’d read her mind, Subotin said: “I promise I won’t keep you long. If you can help me with what I’m looking for, you can be out in time to pick up your little boy from his kindergarten.”
That he would know the ordinary schedule of her day did not shock Florence. The Chekists knew everything. It was how he had said “your little boy” that sent gooseflesh down her arms. They never mentioned anything by accident. Subotin gave her the address, as though she could ever forget it.
—
NO ONE CAME TO THE DOOR when she knocked. Florence tried the knob and let herself in. How familiar the place looked. The same striped wallpaper, the same lace curtains. She approached the window, which looked bigger than she remembered. Below, the street cleaners were already out, pushing their brooms. Florence touched her fingers to the cool pane.
“It’s a shame, isn’t it?”
She turned around.
“That stained-glass panel, it was quite pretty. Brought a certain old charm. The whole window shattered in one of the bombing raids, is my guess—this building being so close to the water. That’s what their planes aimed for during blackouts. No matter how dark it gets, it’s impossible to make a river completely invisible. Sit down.”
He hadn’t changed much, either. The war had been merciful to him, Florence was sorry to say. No missing limbs or mutilated eyes. With his graying hair he looked as groomed and banally elegant as ever.
“Please state your full name.”
She couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Flora Solomonovna Brink.”
“Your husband’s full name.”
“Haven’t you got all this?”
Subotin looked up and repeated the question.
“Brink, Leon Naumovich.”
“Nationality.”
“American, both of us.”
“Amerikantsi,” Subotin said as he wrote it down. He was smiling to himself, a smile that suggested he knew just as well as Florence did that—American or not—they had the double blessing of being Jews.
“Talk about the work you and your husband carried out for the criminal organization known as the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee.”
So it was true, then, what Seldon had predicted: a case being stitched against the committee. At this moment she wondered if their lives were perhaps no longer under their control at all. She considered the paths available to her. To say that she did not think the committee’s work was criminal in nature would be to appear to be defending it, and therefore to admit involvement. Any knowledge or involvement of any kind had to be denied. “Neither my husband nor I was ever employed by the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee.”
This answer sounded confident enough and had the added advantage of being true, if only technically.
“I’d like you not to forget where you are. We know for a fact that you both served the Jewish Committee as translators.”
“The committee did not have its own translation bureau. We were assigned to translate materials produced by all five committees in the SovInformBuro—the Committee for Scientists, for Youth, for Slavs—”
“I am now asking you about your work for the Jewish Committee, not the others. Answer the question.”
“I was not a specialized translator. My husband did some translation of articles that had been written for Einkayt, the JAFC’s magazine.”
“Why was your husband given these assignments?”
“He could read Yiddish as well as English, obviously.”
“And what did you and he make of the materials you were translating?”
“We were told they were necessary to raise money for the Red Army.”
“And were they not about the special achievements of Jews, separate from the achievements of the Russian people?”
“Perhaps a few. I don’t remember. I did not write them.”
“And so, consequently, you were in agreement with the exaggerated and false claims being made.”
“I wouldn’t dare to think that an unimportant person like myself could differ with those higher up on anything, least of all on questions of wartime propaganda.”