When the Past Came Calling

by Larry S. Kaplan

  But the tape they hoped would point to an Oswald–Soviet connection could only prove the opposite—that someone knew seven weeks before the assassination that Oswald was going to kill Kennedy; and that it wasn’t the Russians he was in bed with, but some group who wanted it to appear that way. So they needed to destroy the tape under the pretense that if they didn’t, it could cause serious diplomatic problems with the Soviets.

  End of Part 1

  I had to put Benny’s manifesto down for a few moments before proceeding to part two. At times what he said had a certain ring of truth, but at other times it sounded like the ramblings of a madman. I needed to more fully digest the import of what he was saying, since there were many more pages to go. I also had the law textbook to think about. So I decided to take a break…I dozed off and woke up when the flight attendant announced that the plane was making the final approach into JFK.

  Chapter 28

  May 9, 1989

  I thought it somewhat ironic that I’d landed at JFK airport in the midst of reading Benny’s theory about the JFK assassination. That led me to thinking about everything named after him that might have totally different names if he hadn’t been assassinated. In Chicago, for example, we had the Kennedy Expressway. Probably every US city had something major named after him. In that way and so many others, our world would have been very different but for the events of November 22, 1963.

  It didn’t take me long to find the gate for the Aeroflot flight to Moscow. I observed the passengers waiting at the gate—some looked like American businessmen, but most appeared to be Russian. I say that because to me they wear a certain characteristic expression, a look I noticed in Russian competitors when I had watched the previous year’s Summer Olympics on television. All of them had it. It was a look of resolve but also of hopelessness—as if their will didn’t count for much. As if there was a requirement that they go through the motions of living, but in the end someone else would be doing their living for them.

  But maybe I was the one who was brainwashed. Maybe I’d become so convinced about the evils of communism that I projected those expectations onto the faces of these people. Still, there weren’t many smiles to be found. Not nearly as many as you might see if you were waiting at the gate for a flight to, say, Kingston, Jamaica.

  After boarding the plane, I waited awhile before I resumed reading Benny’s manifesto. The guy sitting next to me looked Russian and seemed suspicious somehow. I know I sound as crazy as Benny, but I felt he emitted a strange vibe. On the one hand, I was sure it was nothing—just an overreaction to being on a Soviet plane to the Soviet Union along with a bunch of Russians. On the other hand, I was probably at least a little bit spooked by all the events leading up to my being there at all. So I decided to wait until my seatmate fell asleep before I started reading the journal again.

  In the meantime, we were served a modest meal by one of the flight attendants that included a plastic container of borscht, which I could barely get down; but I managed to because I was starving.

  Finally, the passenger next to me nodded off, snoring like someone with sleep apnea. He was so loud that I was sure that people in the rows ahead of us and behind us could hear him. Now assured of my privacy, I opened the journal and turned to part 2.

  Part 2

  Chapter 5

  I was able to keep from obsessing about what Vlad’s dad told me, but I did think about it from time to time. There was a group of people somewhere out there who were enjoying their lives, yet they had conspired to kill Kennedy. In the process, they attempted to create a false connection between Oswald and the Soviet Embassy in Mexico City that never existed. And no one was onto them because the tape that would have proved they used a fake Oswald had been destroyed.

  I finally got my associate’s degree at North Lake College, after which I enrolled at the University of New Mexico. I wanted to get a legitimate four-year bachelor of arts degree, and they had a liberal policy about accepting community college graduates and giving them full credit for their courses. I liked history so much that I majored in it; and after receiving my degree in 1981, I decided to go on for my master’s in history.

  But as before, money was tight, and I didn’t want to ask my mom for support. So because I had to keep working part-time, getting my master’s took a while. When I finally received it in 1985, I decided to be a total lunatic and go for my PhD. But I had a tough time finding a US school that would accept me because frankly, I didn’t set the world on fire with my grades. I had to search outside the country for a university that would admit me into their doctorate program in world history, and I found one in Mexico: the University of Guadalajara.

  As you know, David, I was more religious than you—not like your uncle Bert but at least more so than you. Since Judaism fascinated me, I decided to combine that interest with something related to Mexico for my dissertation topic. That’s when I discovered that the Jews have a long history in Mexico, dating back to the Spanish Inquisition.

  Jews who had been forced to convert to Catholicism and were known as conversos—or Cryto-Jews—left Spain in large numbers to escape the Inquisition, some fleeing to Mexico. The majority of them settled in a very limited area of Mexico City, which is now divided into sixteen boroughs. The descendants of the conversos clustered in the borough of Miguel Hidalgo and within it, the more exclusive Polanco district. I found a cheap apartment there so I could be closer to the source for my research.

  I had taken Spanish in high school, as well as several Spanish language courses at the University of New Mexico once I decided to attend a Mexican university for my PhD work. Plus I had a lot of practice speaking Spanish in New Mexico, what with its large population of Mexicans. All this added up to my being fairly fluent in Spanish by this time.

  Once settled in the Polanco district, I needed to seek out religious leaders who would help me understand how these Crypto-Jews managed the conflicting elements of Catholicism and Judaism. I became rather good friends with a young rabbi—Rabbi Alberto Salinas—during my dissertation work. He was pretty hip for a rabbi, and he spoke English fluently. I tried to converse with him in Spanish as often as possible, but English was still my default mode when it came to the more complex issues we discussed.

  I learned from Alberto that although the phenomenon of the Crypto-Jews in Mexico City was the legacy of the Spanish Inquisition, most of the present-day Jews living in the Polanco district were actually of Russian descent. Most of them had settled in Mexico in the wake of Stalin’s dogged pursuit of his Bolshevik rivals, naturally gravitating to an area already inhabited by earlier Jewish refugees.

  At a certain point in our friendship, I felt comfortable enough with Alberto to share the story I’d heard from Vlad’s father. So I repeated all the details of the tape of the bogus phone call, including the point that the person they recruited apparently spoke Russian pretty poorly, as if he hadn’t spoken it in some time. I suggested that it might have been one of the Russian Jews who’d fled Stalin’s purges, since someone like that would seem to fit the part.

  Alberto suggested I get in touch with the “godfather rabbi” of the Polanco district, Rabbi Victor Weissberg, who had the complete trust and confidence of all of the Polanco Jews. “If one of our people made that call,” Alberto told me, “and ever felt any guilt about it after Oswald assassinated Kennedy, he may have shared his distress with Rabbi Weissberg. He’s everyone’s go-to guy when it comes to confessions.”

  So Alberto put me in touch with Rabbi Weissberg, and I met with him at his synagogue. He must have been about eighty-five but seemed at least as sharp and alert as someone half his age. He didn’t speak any English; but my modest Spanish served me well, and we were able to communicate nicely.

  Rabbi Weissberg invited me into his narrow study that was cluttered with piles of books everywhere. He sat down behind his small desk and indicated that I should sit in the chair facing him. Most of the books had Hebrew titles on their spines, but I noticed several that were
in Spanish. Not for the first time I found myself a little amazed by the idea of Judaism in Mexico—even if the brand of Judaism being practiced by the Crypto Jews was a bit of a hybrid.

  Rabbi Weissberg asked me numerous questions about my background and upbringing. He seemed very interested in everything I had to say. When I finally brought the conversation around to the Kennedy assassination and Vlad’s father—and my desire to find the person who impersonated Oswald in the call to the Soviet Embassy—an odd look crossed the rabbi’s features.

  “You know, David,” he admonished, “all my conversations with those who confide in me are sacrosanct.”

  “I understand that,” I said, “but still, I thought that if someone had confessed to something like that—well, it’s not like he necessarily knew at the time how he was being used. And since the tape was destroyed immediately after the assassination, his part in the ruse was rendered meaningless. His phone call had no effect on the investigation, and it’s not what got Kennedy killed.

  “Just maybe,” I tried to convince the rabbi, “if this person has been harboring any guilt over this all these years, it would help him to know that.”

  The rabbi gazed steadily into my face with eyes that seemed to comprehend the most profound secrets of life and death. He studied me for at least a full minute before he spoke. Was he trying to gauge my honesty?

  “As I told you, David, I am bound as a rabbi to consider anything that’s told to me as sacred. But if I’d heard from someone anything like what you spoke of, I could in all good conscience ask that person if he’d like to meet with you. Mind you, I’m not saying that I have heard that from such a person; but if I had, and if that person is willing to talk to you, I’ll let Rabbi Salinas know. Does that seem like a fair plan?”

  “Of course, it does, Rabbi,” I responded, encouraged beyond my wildest dreams to believe that the Oswald impersonator was still alive and living in the Polanco district of Mexico City.

  Chapter 6

  I was hoping to hear something soon after my meeting with Rabbi Weissberg, but I didn’t. I continued to meet with Alberto socially from time to time, and also for help with my dissertation, when I would ask him if Rabbi Weissberg had given him a message for me yet. But the answer was always no. After several months of silence from Rabbi Weissberg, I gave up hope and decided the matter was kaput.

  Soon I finished the research for my dissertation and returned to Guadalajara in order to put the finishing touches on it and submit it for my PhD. It took me quite some time. In fact, I didn’t present my dissertation until the fall of 1988. You’ll be pleased to know, David, that I was successful—and technically, I am now Dr. Benny Friedman (although I didn’t think it was necessary to tell you that when we met backstage at Lincoln Hall).

  I was in the midst of preparing to move back to the States and seek a professorship when I received an unexpected phone call from Alberto.

  “Benny,” he told me, “I just heard from Rabbi Weissberg. He said he knows someone who would like to meet you. Any chance you could come down here to Mexico City on short notice?”

  I have to tell you, David, that I thought my heart was going to explode inside my chest. “Of course, I can come,” I told him eagerly.

  “Good. The rabbi would like to be present when you meet this individual, so he suggested the meeting take place in his study at the synagogue—next Tuesday at two p.m. That’s December 2. Can you make it?”

  “Yes, I can make it—and thank you. And please thank Rabbi Weissberg for me.”

  David, I felt like I was on the verge of solving the biggest mystery of the twentieth century!

  End of Part 2

  Chapter 29

  May 9, 1989

  I felt a sudden urge to sleep as I finished part 2 of Benny’s manifesto. It hit me like a wave, this impulse to close my eyes and let my mind drift. I kept the journal on my lap, my hands resting on it before I dozed off. When I woke up and looked at my watch, I was shocked—I’d slept for more than four hours, but it seemed to me I was only out for the blink of an eye. As I came fully awake, I noticed that the passenger sitting next to me was still snoring loudly and found it remarkable that I could sleep through that. Reassured once again that I was unobserved, I was ready to continue reading.

  Part 3

  Chapter 7

  The Tuesday appointment in Mexico City couldn’t come fast enough. When I arrived at the synagogue, I was asked to wait in the lobby by a young woman who met me at the main entrance—perhaps she was the rabbi’s assistant. I waited for approximately ten minutes, and then Rabbi Weissberg emerged from his study and greeted me warmly.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Benny. I’m sorry it took me so long to get back to you. But the person in question—well, he had a lot of misgivings about meeting with you. But now that he’s had a chance to give the matter ample thought, he decided he would like to talk to you. I have assured him that you are a trustworthy person. I have also assured him that anything he tells you in my presence will remain as confidential as if he told it only to me. Do I have your word on that, Benny?”

  “Absolutely,” I assured him.

  “Good. Then follow me into my study. I’d like you to meet one of my most-beloved congregants, Ivan Brodsky.”

  When I entered the room, a man about sixty years old was sitting in one of the two chairs opposite the rabbi’s desk. He appeared nervous. He had a pleasant face and was impeccably dressed. Even as he sat there with his legs crossed, I could see that his pants were expensive, custom-made. On his left wrist he wore a watch that might have been a Rolex. Brodsky was apparently a prosperous individual.

  “Please, David, sit,” the rabbi told me as he sat behind his desk.

  As I started to sit down, Mr. Brodsky stood up to shake my hand. It trembled for a second before it gripped mine in a firm handshake. Then we both sat.

  “Benny, I took the liberty of sharing the conversation you and I had some time ago with Ivan. I think he would like to tell you his story. It’s going to be hard for him. This matter has weighed on him for some time. I trust your Spanish is still as good as it was when we last met.”

  “Better,” I assured him. “I had to do my dissertation in Spanish, and living these last few years in Guadalajara…well, I’m not quite like a native, but my Spanish is pretty good.”

  “Good, because Ivan speaks only Spanish and Russian. But he will tell you his story in Spanish. Ivan? Are you ready?”

  “Yes, Rabbi,” Brodsky replied, looking directly at me. “May I call you Benny?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said. “That’s what everyone calls me.”

  “OK then, Benny. Here is what I would like to tell you. I came to Mexico from the Soviet Union when I was still a child, in 1939. My parents needed to get out of there. Stalin and the Germans were starting to talk tough with one another. It looked like a war was brewing, which it was, and my father did not want to fight for Stalin. My family had some influence, so we were able to get the necessary papers to come here to Mexico.

  “When I was in my twenties—from around the mid-1950s through the early ’60s—I hung around with a bad crowd of Russians here in the Polanco District. A lot of gambling. Some other illegal activities, like prostitution. Rabbi Weissberg knows all about it.”

  I glanced over at the rabbi, and he nodded his head knowingly.

  “I met a guy when I was doing this criminal stuff—his name was Alexander Kostay. I was a bit suspicious of him when we first met. I thought he might have had connections with the KGB. Anyway, after I got to know him a little better, he confirmed that he actually had been with the KGB at one time. He said he did a few assassinations for them in Armenia. But here in Mexico he was semiretired—more a rogue agent than anything in an official capacity.

  “I didn’t know what to make of his claims about being a one-time assassin. I thought it was just puffery, maybe to intimidate me if we ever quarreled about how to split some of our ill-gotten gains.

  “Anyw
ay, by 1963, I hadn’t heard from him for a while. We had gone our separate ways. Then one day in late September of that year, he suddenly shows up at my apartment. He says he has a favor he wants to ask of me.

  “I ask him what the favor is. He says it’s real simple. He says he wants me to make a phone call to the Soviet Embassy in Mexico City asking to pay a visit, and he tells me to use a false name—which he will specify. I ask him why he wants me to do that. He says some friends of his in Houston, Texas, want a record of the fact that the guy whose name I would use made the call.

  “‘It’s no big deal,’ he assured me. ‘I think these guys are in the oil business, and maybe the guy they’re trying to frame is a competitor. If they can make people think he’s a communist—I don’t know, maybe they eliminate the competition. But they’re offering some serious money if I can find a guy to make this call, Ivan. I will split the fee with you—five thousand American dollars for each of us.’

  “‘Five thousand dollars, just to make a phone call?’ I asked him. ‘They must really want this guy out as a competitor. But why me, Kostay? Why ask me to make the call?’

  “‘Because, Ivan, your Russian isn’t so good. No offense, but you haven’t spoken it since you were a child. The guy they want you to impersonate, his Russian isn’t so good either. So it’s a good match.’

  “‘I just ask for a meeting, and that’s it. What if they say OK? Then what?’

  “‘They won’t say OK. Believe me. I know the embassy’s practices. In fact, when they refuse you—which they will—you will then use my name; tell them you understand that I’m with the embassy and that you are a friend of mine. But it will make no difference; they still won’t let you in. In fact, once you mention my name, it’s certain they won’t let you visit!’