His mouth settled into a firm line. “I cannot tell you that.”
I gave an idle wave of my hand—a tactic I’d often seen deployed to cover someone’s true emotions with a veneer of boredom. “Yes, yes, I’m sure it’s classified and all that.” I dropped my voice to a whisper, suddenly glad for the noisy chatter of the other diners around us. “But you look nothing like a Timmy.”
He frowned, cocked his head to one side. “My first Party organizer gave me that name. From Dickens.”
I skimmed through the character lists of A Tale of Two Cities and Oliver Twist. Then, “Do you mean Tiny Tim? From A Christmas Carol?”
“You do not approve?” he asked, and I waited for him to rail against me, but instead, a ghost of a smile quirked one corner of his lips, caused a one-sided dimple. (Catherine, there’s a reason the eyes are called the windows to a person’s soul, but most people also have a secondary window to their thoughts that is particular just to them. For Timmy—a man who had learned to temper the story his eyes told—it was his ever-expressive lips. After all, the human mouth is surrounded by ten intricately reflexive muscles, did you know that? They eat, drink, kiss, smile, laugh. Wonders, really.)
I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or feel sorry for the man across from me—he was on the shorter side, but he was so muscle dense, like some specially bred eastern European bull, that one could never mistake him for the crippled Cratchit boy of Dickens’s story. I didn’t care for altering people’s given names to nicknames, but either Timmy’s first Party organizer had made a poor attempt at irony or he was deliberately making fun of Timmy’s stature. And Timmy was a code name, not his real name.
“I just think a person should be able to choose their own code names.” I fiddled with the tines of my fork. “I mean, Juliet obviously mined Shakespeare for her cover. You could be Romeo or Oberon. Even Lear.”
“I fail to see how that improves my current name.”
I glanced around the restaurant, gestured toward the group of arguing students near the door. “See that girl there, with the blond hair? She could be Katherina. From Taming of the Shrew.”
Timmy turned in his seat, then glanced back my way. “Why?”
“Look at the way she argues. One person gives their two cents and then she jumps in. Someone else interjects and then it’s back to her again. She loves to argue, plus she never fails to interrupt the dark-haired boy at her right.”
“Let me guess—Petruchio?”
“Look at the way she leans toward him when he talks. And every time she argues with him, she touches that pretty blond hair of hers. She likes him, but he doesn’t know it. Heck, she might not even know it.”
“You are an excellent read on human behavior.” Timmy turned back around to face me. “What else should I know about you?”
“I’m fluent in Italian and French. And I have a box of worthless degrees under my bed.”
“That explains how well-read you are.” Timmy smiled. “While I have enjoyed our discussion of literary characters, my name has served me well for many years.”
I snorted. The noise was in the Socially Unacceptable section of my journal on human behavior, but the sound of derision often escaped before I could stop it. “Even Sir Toby Belch or William Butts would be better than Timmy.”
He studied his menu, but I’d have bet my first day’s wages from the Italian Library that he wasn’t reading it. “I care little for Shakespeare,” he said. “Too English.”
“You’re right. Not Shakespeare. We need something more apropos.” I snapped my fingers. “I hate Tolstoy, but you’d make a good Levin, from Anna Karenina.”
A noble hero made from the salt of the earth. It was an added bonus that his name was close to Lenin.
“Not my first choice.” There was that smile again. “But better than William Butts.”
I shrugged. “Then Levin you shall be.”
Somehow, I’d finally relaxed enough to smile. And to order when a frilly-aproned waitress came to take our requests. Sadly, there were no hot dogs on the menu, but my stomach rumbled in anticipation of my bowl of chicken soup with kreplach. I felt more at ease, understood for perhaps the first time why people lauded the wonders of small talk. Usually my attempts to make chitchat—especially with people I’d just met—felt terribly awkward and stilted. Not so with this new Party contact of mine.
“So,” I said after the waitress had trundled off with our orders. “Why did Juliet set up this meeting?”
Timmy—now Levin—steepled his fingers on the table. “She was impressed with your initiative at the Italian Library. What sort of work are you doing there? Juliet provided only the briefest summary over the phone before our meeting today.”
Over steaming spoonfuls of soup, I spoke of the propaganda that crossed my desk, preened a little at the details I could recall. (My memory has always been both a gift and a curse; once I’ve read something it’s difficult to shake it loose from my mind.) Then I told Levin how I saw an opportunity for the Party to counter the blatant lies being spread about them and convince America of the evils of Fascism.
“And you say all this was in pamphlets, articles, and political cartoons?” he asked once, followed shortly thereafter by, “What did the leaflets say about Mussolini’s plans for the Fascists here in America?”
I found myself leaning forward and talking faster, unfurling in the warmth of Levin’s rapt attention.
“You know, Elizabeth,” he said when I’d finished, “your work at the Italian Library is vitally important—you must remain there at any cost and bring us as many documents as you can, anything on the Fascists’ plans, their intentions, or their capabilities. Report on everything you see and hear, no matter how trivial it may seem.”
“Report to whom? Juliet?”
He set down his Rueben. “To me.”
“Then you’re to be what? My . . . handler?”
He wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. Shabbily dressed, but with pristine manners. “I prefer the term contact, but yes.”
“Why me? I’m just an ordinary woman.”
“Are you?” He didn’t smile. “You have shown the rare combination of intellectual curiosity and initiative, along with an intense desire to serve your country and the Party. In short, I think you would make an extraordinary spy. However”—he set his napkin on the table—“I must warn you that this partnership comes at a cost.”
“What sort of cost?”
“By joining my cadre, you will no longer be an ordinary, run-of-the-mill Communist. You will become a member of the underground apparat, also known as the Center. Surely, Juliet warned you of this possibility.”
“Not a word, actually.”
In fact, I had no idea what he’d even meant.
I hadn’t yet learned to regulate the emotions in my expressions, which must have made it easy for Levin to parse out my thoughts.
“If you join the underground, you must stop attending Party meetings.” He leaned forward, making it appear to anyone who happened to glance our way as if we were simply two friends—perhaps more than friends—having a riveting conversation. “No more socializing or parades or demonstrations, just a clean break. Juliet tells me that your life is orderly and you are able to compartmentalize, that you have no husband and are not sentimental or romantic, all of which is ideal. That is the first rule of the underground: no close friendships and no unnecessary emotional connections, certainly no falling in love. However, if your friends ask where you’ve been—even Lee—you must tell them you have dropped out of the Party.”
How does he know that I’m friends with Lee? It didn’t even matter that he had just solved the riddle of Juliet throwing multiple men my way—the thought of spending every night in my lonely, cabbage-smelling boardinghouse room, cut off from Lee and the Party, made my breath hitch in my throat. No close friendships? Not even Lee?
“I’m not sure I can do that.” I’d suddenly lost my appetite, pushed my soup away. “Or that it’s even fair to ask it.”
“Miss Bentley,” he said, then corrected himself, “Elizabeth, surely, you must see the danger in actively participating in Communist activities while also stealing from the Fascists at the Italian Library.”
To this day, I’m not sure if his slip with my name was to show me he knew everything there was to know about me—that my last name was not Sherman—or whether it was an honest mistake. “I didn’t steal from the library,” I said weakly. “I merely borrowed.”
Levin lifted those colossal shoulders into a shrug. “You must choose—one or the other. After our discussion tonight, I believe you are too important to be a mere Party drudge—you can play a vital role in the building of a new world. We have all made sacrifices for the greater good, Elizabeth. Are you willing to do the same?”
To be singled out like this was a heady experience. I recalled Lee’s exclamation about having my hand on the throttle of history. Perhaps this was my opportunity, one that would only come once.
I could build a better world. Have a life that means something.
For a brief moment, I wondered what sacrifices Levin had made. Or even Juliet.
“May I have some time before I give you my answer?”
“Of course,” he said as the waitress handed him the check. He didn’t even glance at it, just folded the receipt around a crisp five-dollar bill and passed it back to her. “Sleep on it if you would like. Of course, even if you choose to remain as you are, everything we discussed here must be kept entirely secret.”
The meaning was clear. Yes, I could think about it, but not for long. And I’d pay a steep price for stepping out of line.
“Let me be direct.” Levin’s tone was a warm caress as he helped me into my jacket. “If you decide against working with me, you can still continue your comfortable life exactly as it is now. If you choose to accept, it will be one of the most difficult things you ever do. You will be completely alone except for me. Your old comrades may even believe you a traitor. But I promise you two things: first, the Party would not ask this of you were it not vitally important. And second, you will make a difference, Elizabeth. I swear it.”
“It’s a difficult choice.” I hated the way my voice trembled.
“Indeed,” he said. “One that only you can make.”
Somehow, that failed to reassure me.
* * *
* * *
“I’d thought better of you, Elizabeth.” Patch’s voice over the pay phone’s crackling line was so fraught with anger and disappointment that I held the receiver away from my ear. I’d just finished a shift at the Italian Library and had a handbag stuffed with documents, yet my most difficult task today had been placing telephone calls. First the operator connected me to my Party organizer to resign as financial secretary in charge of collecting party dues, then to my professor at the Communist Workers School to withdraw from classes, and now to Patch, whom I hadn’t spoken with in weeks. “I thought you understood the importance of our work for the Party. Never did I think you’d abandon it, abandon us. Does Lee know about this?”
Us? That was rich, coming from Patch. I still hadn’t entirely forgiven him for making me think he was interested in me.
“I haven’t talked to her yet.” The next words tasted dirty coming out of my mouth, but I couldn’t let my grand plan be derailed by my former friends’ shock or their censure that would inevitably follow. “The Party just doesn’t mean to me what it used to. What have American Communists accomplished over all these years except meetings and rallies and newspaper special editions? Nothing. CPUSA membership is up, but I can’t spend my entire life tied to some quaint idea of a utopia that is never going to materialize.”
A long silence. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“I’m sorry too, Patch.”
As I hung up the receiver, I was sorry, more than I’d expected. I’d worked so hard to create a circle of belonging for myself that this culling of that life left me emotionally drained.
I’d joined the Party out of loneliness. I wanted to build a better world, yes, but if I played my cards right, I could have my cake and eat it too. No loneliness required.
I’d scarcely finished my dinner of creamed chipped beef on toast when an angry pounding on my door nearly made me jump out of my skin.
It was Lee. And she was in a horn-tossing mood.
“Open this door, Elizabeth,” she commanded. I opened the door to find my pocket Aphrodite purple in the face and locks of her hair straggling out from under her scarf like Medusa’s snakes, as if she’d run the blocks between her apartment and my boarding room. “I left Laurel with a neighbor who happens to have a bridge group over right now. You have fifteen minutes to convince me not to wring your neck.”
You don’t waste any time, do you, Patch?
Of course, I’d expected as much, which was why I’d called Patch before speaking to Lee. (I actually felt rather smug that my plan was working precisely as I’d expected. Sometimes human beings really are predictable.) In order to convince Levin that I’d broken with the Party, I needed to put on a convincing show that made it appear that I’d successfully quarantined myself. Because while I could stop attending rallies and going to classes, it would be a cold day in hell before I gave up my friendship with Lee.
I gave a cursory glance down the hallway just to ensure none of my neighbors had gotten curious, then tugged Lee inside and slammed the door. Vlad gave a piteous whine at her feet, as if he could sense her ire.
“Talk,” she ordered. “And do it fast.”
“What I’m about to say can’t leave this room.” I scooped up Vlad. “You have to swear it. On Laurel’s life.”
It was dramatic and I knew it. But I also knew that running afoul of highly placed Party members was not a wise idea. There would be terrible ramifications for airing Party business outside approved channels—I had no intention of ever doing that—and there could be disastrous consequences if Levin ever discovered my current subterfuge. Except I had no plan of getting caught. Regardless, I wouldn’t have chanced this verboten friendship for anyone less than Lee, who had single-handedly plucked me from the mire of my own loneliness.
She sighed. “I swear.”
I was relatively confident that I could trust her. I mean, if I couldn’t trust Lee, then who could I trust?
“I have a new handler.” I rubbed Vlad’s ears as a distraction. “He wants me to drop all my Party connections so I can work for the Communist underground.”
Lee didn’t move for a moment, then her eyes bulged and she burst out laughing, but not for the reason I thought. “That’s all? My god, Elizabeth, I thought you’d gone and betrayed us to the Fascists you’re working with.”
Now that was sobering, since turning traitor had never crossed my mind. I felt mildly offended that my sudden desertion could be construed as a Judas move. “My blood is as red as ever,” I assured her. “But you cannot tell anyone, not even Patch. You swore.”
She cocked her head to the side, frowned. “He reads me pretty well, Elizabeth.”
“It doesn’t matter. The next time you see him you need to rant and rave about what a wretched cow I am for abandoning the Party. Call me every name in the book—the kinds of names that would make even Stalin blush—and win an Oscar statuette for your performance.” I set down Vlad, clasped Lee’s hands in mine. “It’s important, Lee. I wasn’t supposed to tell you—I’m supposed to be all alone, save for this new handler.”
She bit her lip. “Who is this mysterious and all-powerful handler?”
Part of me wanted to tell her, but . . . “I’m not sure I should say.”
She shrugged. “The Party keeps their highest operatives secret anyway.” She slanted her eyes at me. “Be careful, Elizabeth. You’re playing
with fire—you probably shouldn’t have told me any of this.”
“I definitely shouldn’t have told you.” I fiddled with my sleeve, then stopped. “But I couldn’t let you think I’d abandoned you.”
My friendship with Lee was now forbidden, but then, so was stealing documents from the crates that passed my desk at the Italian Library. It seemed that Elizabeth Bentley, sad sack that she was, had suddenly become quite the rebel.
Lee wrapped her scarf around her hair again. “Watch your back, Elizabeth.”
I gave her a fierce hug. “Of course.”
After she left, I called the number Levin had given me—not his real number, of course, but a relay station—and left a message with the woman who answered. (Levin had instructed that I was to end the call if a man ever picked up.) My telephone rang a few minutes later, and when I responded, a man whose voice I didn’t recognize relayed an address and a time an hour from then.
Despite my nervous exhaustion, apparently my work wasn’t done for the day.
“You rang?” Levin said an hour later as he approached where I waited outside a Chinatown eatery, the very air fragrant with the soy-drenched aromas of chop suey and chow mein. My stomach rumbled, but this time we didn’t enter the restaurant. “Sometimes it is best that we remain on the move: walking, driving, that sort of thing,” he explained in a low voice. “The better to minimize other people seeing us side by side, save in passing.”
“I have something for you from the library. Several somethings, as a matter of fact.” I followed him a couple blocks to where he’d parked his boxy LaSalle. The tailoring on Levin’s suits might be threadbare, but his car always—and I mean always—looked like it had just driven off the factory floor. “I don’t care to sit on information for long—it’s best if I return the papers the day after I borrow them.”
“So you have decided to accept my offer?”
I forced myself to look askance, to let my gaze tangle with his. (Catherine, it’s not true that people always avoid eye contact when lying, but they do it enough that I’ve learned to always look someone in the eyes when I’m not telling the truth.) “I have.”
A Most Clever Girl Page 7
