I recalled Marcel’s offhand comment, that leaving the Church meant only losing your soul. Had I gotten myself into something far bigger than I’d anticipated? And just how much did Lee know that she wasn’t telling me? I’d joined the Party—and I stayed with it—because it built me a bridge to Lee and the sense of belonging and usefulness that I craved. I hadn’t anticipated things becoming complicated like this.
I promised to tough it out, but my heart leaped a few days later when the Columbia University Placement Center informed me about a full-time job that had just opened up, this time at the Italian Library of Information on Madison Avenue.
I’d be surrounded by books and silence, my only job translating Italian texts into English. It was as if someone had asked my idea of heaven and then manufactured it, just for me.
(In fact, it was so perfect that you really can’t fault me for inventing an enthusiastic reference from Juliet and fudging a few details on my application regarding the extent of my research during my year in Italy. I needed this job like a drowning woman needs air.)
I wasn’t sure what I was going to do about my position with Juliet—it wasn’t as if I was doing actual work there. I didn’t have the wherewithal to hand in my resignation and face her wrath, wanted to wait until the time was right. Preferably when there were no sharp objects or blunt projectiles nearby.
“You’ll work from here,” explained the head researcher of the Italian Library on my first day, after she’d led me to one of the many desks huddled between the stacks. A few were occupied by women roughly my age whom I assumed to be fellow researchers, although none did more than scarcely glance my way. One even turned her nose up, so I worried I was covered in Vlad’s fur. Again. (I simply couldn’t resist those big brown eyes when I left every morning, made it a point to pick him up and let him cover me in a slobbery kisses to say good-bye.) “And here’s your first assignment. It’s imperative that these documents not leave the library premises, do you understand?”
My assignment was a crate of freshly printed newspapers from Italy, none of them more than a day old. Mixed in, I quickly realized, were also pamphlets, some of which were aimed at Italian Americans.
Each and every one was violently pro-Fascist, of course. A quick scan of their messages revealed that Mussolini might actually have turned water to wine and parted the Red Sea himself.
“Do people here read this stuff?” I asked the young woman at the next desk.
She glanced up from her work, peering at me through horn-rimmed spectacles. “Quite a few, actually.” Her accent was a stew of Italian and the Bronx. “Including all of the employees here at the library. We’re all impressed with Il Duce and the way he’s improved Italy.”
Oh, dear Lord . . .
Meaning I’d just stumbled onto a writhing snake pit of Fascism, right here in New York City.
Worse still, as I kept my head down and soldiered on, reading and translating, I realized that the rest of the literature I was meant to translate and file for readers was both virulently anti-Semitic and anti-Communist, going so far as to mention the CPUSA by name. And here I was: a registered member of the Communist Party of the United States. Meaning that every one of these people wouldn’t hesitate to slip my head into a noose and cheer to see me dangle.
(Now, Catherine, I realize that no one was being hanged for Communist membership during this time. However, that doesn’t mean that the sentiment wasn’t there.)
My only consolation was that Elizabeth Sherman was a card-carrying member of the CPUSA, but Elizabeth Bentley had spent a year in Italy and possessed an advanced degree in fourteenth-century Florentine poetry. I’d taken this job under my real name, which meant that, according to my résumé, I was a perfect candidate for gobbling up Mussolini’s propaganda like a freshly made tray of tiramisu.
Except that I wasn’t interested in leading a double life. By lunch, I was gathering my coat, preparing to hand in my resignation.
Except . . .
I set down my jacket, licked my thumb, and sorted through the Fascist propaganda that glared back at me one more time. In one vitriolic article, Mussolini declared democracy—a solid American ideal that I held dear—was dead, and went on to claim that North America wished they had a leader like Mussolini in charge.
That will be the day . . .
My snort turned into a coughing fit when my new coworkers glared at me. Somehow, I doubted whether America wished for castor oil torture, weekend executions, or the OVRA secret police in their backyards, all of which I’d witnessed during my time in Italy.
Still, was it possible that my work here might somehow benefit the Party? Or America? Did anyone truly realize the extent of the Fascist propaganda that was infiltrating our very country? Or the extent of the harm it might be doing here, leading Americans to support the likes of Mussolini? Or even Hitler?
I wasn’t sure, but I intended to find out.
How some of those newspapers and pamphlets made their way into my handbag just then remains a mystery, but once they were there, wasn’t I duty bound as a patriotic American to show them to higher powers?
That’s exactly what I did.
“I think this is something the Party should see,” I said to Juliet that evening, feigning far more confidence than I felt. I’d considered taking the pilfered papers to Lee or maybe even Patch, but neither possessed the renown within the Party I was looking for. According to Lee, Juliet might well be high placed—not even I knew how high or what this woman really did—which meant she was my best bet for a straight answer.
Juliet took a deep drag on her foul-smelling cigarette, its extra-long tortoiseshell holder bestowing upon her a distinct veneer of class as she beckoned me inside. I followed her trail of fragrant smoke as if it were a trail of bread crumbs. I was possibly onto something, something big, and I wanted to hear her agree with me.
“Are these funny little papers connected to why you didn’t show up this morning?” she asked after I’d upended the contents of my handbag onto her couch.
“They’re from the Italian Library,” I answered, avoiding eye contact. “They offered me a position as a researcher.”
I pushed the story about Mussolini toward her, complete with my full translation. “Won’t the Party want to know what’s being said about them? This could damage their image here in America.”
Wordlessly, Juliet perused the article. Finally, she tapped her cigarette holder against her teeth—which I noticed for the first time were stained from years of smoking—and nodded. “You know, my little Puritan, all this time I thought you were just a shrinking hothouse flower who would never make a good revolutionary. Perhaps I was wrong.”
Being a revolutionary was near the bottom of my to-do list, but Juliet didn’t give me an opportunity to argue. “Your position at the Italian Library is far more beneficial to the Party than the translation work I needed,” she said. “Keep at it, scour everything that passes your desk for anything that might detract from our cause. Anything anti-Communist, or even anti-Semitic, you smuggle out to me in that handbag of yours, understand?”
Our cause.
I swear my already ample chest swelled even further with the importance Juliet had just bestowed upon me. I’d always felt like the most inconsequential of bit players in the drama that was the CPUSA, but this was a task that only I could do, something only I could contribute to the Party and to America. The logical bit of my brain knew that this was still only one bean in a very large jar, but it was my bean and no one else’s.
I would become the Party’s eyes and ears within the Italian Fascist propaganda machine, and I alone would expose them for the liars they were.
If I get enough data, I thought jubilantly, perhaps I’ll blow the whole works up.
Of course, there could be steep consequences if I were caught. I’d definitely lose my well-paying job at the Italian Library, and the Italia
n government certainly wouldn’t take kindly to their leaflets being stolen and distributed to their enemy. It was a chance I never would have taken when I lived in Italy, but this was America—I didn’t have to fear Mussolini’s Blackshirts dragging me out of bed into the dead of night.
I understood my meeting with Juliet to be over and started packing away the paraphernalia I’d borrowed. (Let it be clear, Catherine, that I never stole anything from the Italian Library. Each document simply went on a short tour of New York City in my handbag before making its way back to a librarian’s desk.) Juliet cleared her throat. “There’s someone I want you to meet. Tonight.”
“Right now?”
“I already had the meeting planned—you’re going to tag along.” She waved impatient fingers until I ascertained that she needed the pen and notepad from the table behind me. Once she had them in hand, she scrawled down an unfamiliar address. “We can’t arrive together—meet me in an hour and a half.”
What the hell have I just gotten myself into?
* * *
* * *
The restaurant was Italian—its lights casting a golden glow on the changing autumn leaves on University Place in Greenwich Village. My stomach growled as I tugged my wool jacket tighter and peered inside at the patrons eating crispy breadsticks and spaghetti. Normally, I hated eating in front of other people, but I was hungry enough tonight to forgo my rule, even if it was for a messy plate of spaghetti. I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see Juliet striding toward me.
She approached but then strode past me, only paused and looked back when I failed to follow. A sharp jerk of her head had me falling into step next to her, walking toward Eighth Street. I struggled to match her pace. “Aren’t we going in?”
“Basic Party training: never make your meeting location the same place you do business. And never, ever meet at any nightclubs—the FBI watches most of them,” she said under her breath. I wasn’t sure what sort of training Juliet had received from the Party, but taking courses on Marxist theory and hoisting banners overhead at rallies hadn’t prepared me for whatever we were doing right now. “This contact is high up in the movement. Follow my lead.”
The words made sense, but her meaning might have been in Swahili. I’d considered that Juliet orbited near the stratosphere of the Party’s hierarchy, but here she was acting downright nervous to meet this contact. Of course, Juliet walked the knife’s edge between sanity and lunacy on a good day, so I wouldn’t have been surprised if this contact of hers turned out to be entirely imaginary. I might have excused myself, but the obedience drilled into me since childhood—and a strong dash of curiosity—meant that instead I followed her down the deserted street. I had to keep myself from balking when she grabbed my wrist in a vise. “That’s him.”
If anyone in those days was asked to imagine a high-ranking Communist, they’d surely have described a tall, imposing figure with a thick mustache and piercing eyes, probably stepping from the shadows in a military uniform or at least a crisp suit. Instead, the man who appeared out of nowhere and shuffled toward us was none of that: shorter than me and built like a cannonball, wearing an inadequate trench coat and scuffed brown shoes. With each step, one of the soles flapped loose, slapped against the pavement. His most distinct feature was the russet-red shock of hair poking out from under a battered tan felt hat.
And the icy blue eyes that lifted toward us and pierced me in place, like a moth to a specimen board.
Juliet’s gaze dropped, and her entire body seemed to cave in, her manner suddenly subservient in a way I’d never seen. “Elizabeth, you can trust Timmy here with your life,” she said by way of introduction. “Timmy, our usual tête-à-tête can wait; my dear little Puritan has information that might be of use to you.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Elizabeth.” His voice was rough and gravelly, sharp around the edges. He was terribly broad across, thick muscles straining the seams of his jacket shoulders, so unlike the professors and academics I was accustomed to.
More like a thug. Or a hit man.
Regardless of Juliet’s instruction, I doubted very much that I could trust this man with my life, but I did know that if this man was named Timmy, then I was the Queen of Camelot. Honestly, Juliet had borrowed from Shakespeare, and I was fairly certain Marcel had pilfered his name from Proust. Surely, this bullish man whose glacial eyes brimmed with intelligence could have claimed a character from Twain or Thomas Hardy. Or even Tolstoy, whose grandiose and wordy novels I loathed with the fire of a thousand suns.
I didn’t have time to make a quip—or respond at all—as Timmy-whatever-his-real-name-was and Juliet strode toward the corner, leaving me to follow like an obedient dog. It didn’t escape my notice when they exchanged a white envelope between them, gone in a flash from Juliet’s purse to Timmy’s pocket. (I’d later learn this was called a brush-past.) I hustled to catch up as Timmy swung into the driver’s seat of a gleaming beetle-black LaSalle sedan with white tires and polished running boards. Juliet held open the passenger door in a clear command to me. I clambered into the rear seat, wishing I knew what on God’s green earth was going on.
She shut the door, leaned in its open window. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Then she was gone.
“There is a restaurant on Second Avenue where we can get a bite and actually talk.” Timmy’s eyes were firmly over the steering wheel as he eased the meticulously detailed car away from the curb. I couldn’t quite place the residue of his accent, but it was certainly European, likely eastern from the way his w’s rolled into v’s. “Better than lingering on the street, I think.”
“I didn’t realize Juliet was planning to leave,” I mumbled, my foot tapping nervously on the floorboard. We didn’t have far to go—only a couple blocks—which meant I could still beg off. Or make a run for it.
“Why?” he asked. “Are you nervous?”
“Should I be?”
He didn’t respond right away, which was the opposite of reassuring. “You know that Juliet is highly placed within the Party, yes? You can trust her.”
Everyone kept saying that about these mysterious, high-ranking Communists, but I still kept my gaze on the door handle, just in case.
Timmy’s eyes flicked my way, but I saw through the camouflage of his glance for its true intent: gathering data about me. I knew what he was seeing—a woman of an age where she could no longer rightly be called a girl, slightly plump with uncontrollable dark curls, wearing nondescript shoes and a belted navy jacket that was just on this side of fashionable. I didn’t bother to hide my study of him—the powerful shoulders that strained his trench coat beneath a short, thick neck; the Slavic cheekbones and inquisitive eyes. I wondered if the loose sole on his shoe made it difficult to drive.
Our gazes met in the rearview mirror, but only for a moment.
Should I run? I asked myself. I should definitely run.
Yet, my new acquaintance pulled up precisely where he’d said, outside a Jewish deli with a jaunty green awning. “They have excellent Reubens here,” he said. “If you like Reubens, that is.”
The inside was bright and cheery with only a few tables open. Not exactly the sort of establishment where you expect someone to commit a violent crime, which meant I relaxed somewhat as we slid into a booth with cracked vinyl seats.
“Let us begin with any questions you might have.” He handed me a laminated menu that was slightly sticky. “I will answer them as best I can.”
I declined the menu. “I’m not hungry.”
Which was now true, given the state of my nerves.
Timmy gave a gentle smile. “You must order.” He gestured with his chin toward the restaurant. “To blend in.”
The pieces clicked together in my mind—I realized it was precisely for the cover of the restaurant’s hurry-scurry that we had met here. Still, my stomach was a writhing bundle of nerves, and not jus
t because it seemed having to eat in front of other people was a hazard of the job. It struck me as a strange juxtaposition to be discussing potentially secret Party business smack-dab in the middle of an old Jewish couple arguing over what to order, a group of students debating their required reading over shared baskets of greasy onion rings, and the hustle and bustle of waitresses wearing ruffled white aprons as they hollered orders to the kitchen. Also, I wasn’t sure why Juliet had asked me to meet this man, nor was I ready to talk to a stranger about my spying at the Italian Library. Still, I wanted to know what I was dealing with here. “Why do you do . . . this?” I dropped my voice. “Work for the Party, I mean.”
“That is a question I will gladly answer,” Timmy responded. “If you will as well.”
That seemed only fair, although I recognized his tactic of getting me to reveal my motivations. “Honestly?” I asked. “I joined because it was the first place I ever felt like I belonged, like I had substance. Then I realized that maybe I could do something, contribute something worthwhile to help people, to help my country. One thing led to another until . . .” I waved my hand. “Here I am.”
Timmy leaned back, one arm resting easily on the back of the booth. “Your story is not so unusual, you know. We are indeed a party of misfits and dreamers.”
I loved that sentiment. In fact, I loved it a lot.
Timmy continued. “I contribute what I can to the Party because I have seen plenty of suffering and misery in my day, the greed and selfishness of a few who made life hell for everyone else. Yet, I like to believe that someday there will be a new society in which men—and women—will live like human beings and not animals.” His might have been a canned answer, but he seemed so sincere, as if he’d just bared the innermost gears of his soul to me. “Next question.”
Flustered at his naked honesty, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “What’s your real name?”
A Most Clever Girl Page 6
