The Other Traitor

by Sharon Potts

  The familiar watercolor painting confronted him from above the mantel. It was a large piece, about two feet by three, and framed behind non-reflective glass. Julian had always been fascinated by the dark red stain that seemed to explode like a blood-tinged geyser. On the bottom of the composition lay mysterious, three-dimensional black shapes that looked like rotten potatoes, and everywhere were neon green dots that practically glowed. The painting was unsigned, but Julian could tell, even as a child, that the artist was very skilled. He had once asked his mother why she kept such a disturbing painting in the living room, but she had ignored his question.

  “Here you go.” Essie seemed a bit wobbly as she came into the room and handed him one of the pewter steins she was carrying. She glanced at the fire in the hearth, then perched on the arm of the leather sofa and took a swig of her beer. Had she been drinking before he got here? But his mother never drank, did she? Julian knew very little about what his mother did or didn’t do.

  He sat on the club chair closest to her, feeling awkward. He saw her every few months or so, usually at a restaurant in Manhattan. She’d call him when she was coming into the City to see a play or visit a museum.

  Essie took another swallow, then rested the beer stein on her thigh. “Well, you must have something on your mind to make the long trek out here. What’s wrong?”

  Where to begin? “I quit my job.”

  She tilted her head, as he imagined she did when she examined an x-ray to determine how serious her patient’s condition was. “What triggered that?”

  “I hated what I was doing. I guess I finally reached the saturation point.”

  “Milestone birthdays can do that. Are you thinking of practicing medicine? Would you like me to make some calls?”

  “No,” he said, a little too harshly. He softened his voice. “But thank you. That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  He stared across the room at the table where he and his father once played chess. “I’ve decided it’s time to change my life. To try to make myself happy for once.”

  “I thought you were happy.”

  He shook his head. She obviously didn’t know him very well, either.

  “Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she said.

  “That’s it?”

  “What do you expect me to say?”

  Julian got up and went over to bookshelves. The upper shelves were filled with dozens of medical books, the bottom two with his dad’s favorites— Clancy, King, Turow, Michener, Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth.

  What had he been expecting from her? That she’d finally react? Finally notice him? “I wonder if you have any idea how badly I wanted your approval when I was growing up.”

  “You had my approval.”

  “It sure never felt that way,” he said. “After Dad died, I remember when you’d come home from the hospital, I’d show you my drawings. Dad always told me how much potential I had as an artist, but you hardly looked at them.”

  She took a sip of beer. “It was a difficult time for me, too.”

  “I know that, and all I wanted to do was make you happy. Rhonda was off at college, so it was just the two of us. And when I saw that my art meant nothing to you, I started working harder in school.”

  She gave him a funny look that he didn’t know how to interpret.

  “I thought if I went to medical school, that would make you proud, but you didn’t even come to my graduation. So I went for a PhD at one of the top biophysics programs in the country, but you didn’t make it to that ceremony either. Only Nana came. Only Nana cared about me.”

  “Pfff,” she said, pushing the air away with her hand. “Your grandmother only cares about herself.”

  “That’s not true. It’s Nana who’s been around for me since Dad died.” A collection of his father’s pipes were lying on a shelf. He picked one up, feeling the weight of the polished bowl in his hand. “I spent my whole life trying to get your attention, but you were too busy to notice.”

  “That’s just your perception, Julian.”

  “Really? So help me fix my perception. Tell me that whatever path I choose, you’ll still be proud of me. Even if I decide to take up painting again.”

  She looked away. “Is that what you’re planning to do?”

  “Yes,” he said, even though up until this moment he had been unsure of his next move. Still wasn’t sure of it.

  “You’re thirty years old. You don’t need my approval.”

  “I know that, but I would like it. And I’d finally like to understand why you never seemed to care about me when I was a kid.”

  “I did the best I could.” She stared into her beer stein. “I’m not a warm, hugging person. That was your father’s role. I was the breadwinner and I enabled him to be the nurturer. It was an arrangement we both wanted.”

  But was it the arrangement Julian had wanted? Sure, he understood it. His dad had been a fifth-grade teacher and was always home early. He made dinner, reviewed Julian’s homework, took care of Julian when he was hurt. Julian held the pipe to his nose, imagining he could still smell cherry tobacco smoke.

  “That’s why we worked as a family,” his mother said. “We each had our own areas of responsibility.” She took another gulp and set the stein on the end table. “Then your father died. And I didn’t know how to do the things he’d been so good at. So I just kept doing the part I knew. It wasn’t like I had much instruction on being a good mother from my own.”

  “I know you and Nana have issues, but…”

  “It wasn’t just your grandmother and me. She had problems with her brother, too.” Essie got up from the arm of the sofa and went over to the fireplace, where she gazed up at the watercolor above the mantel. “He painted this,” she said. “My Uncle Saul.”

  “Are you kidding?” he said. “This has been here my entire life. You never mentioned someone in the family made it.”

  “Didn’t I?” she said. “Uncle Saul gave it to me as a present. On my thirteenth birthday. My mother was very angry about that.”

  Saul had been his grandmother’s younger brother. Nana occasionally talked about him, but she never said he’d been an artist or that they’d had issues.

  “Why are you telling me this now?” he asked.

  “To give you some understanding of what your grandmother’s really like. You see, she took the painting away from me and hid it. I found it years later.”

  “Why would she hide it?”

  “She hides a lot of things.”

  It was hard to believe how different Essie’s perceptions of his grandmother were from his own. “What you’re saying about Nana makes no sense to me.”

  “Your grandmother shows you a different side of herself. She loves you.” She leaned against the mantel, as though she needed support to keep from falling. “But she hates me. Always has.”

  “Hates you?” he said. “No, she doesn’t.”

  She gave him a sad smile, looking like a hurt child.

  He got that knot in his stomach again, but this time it felt like he’d read something he shouldn’t have in his mother’s hidden diary. Some dirty little secret he’d have been better off not knowing.

  CHAPTER 5

  Annette had a problem. It was one thing to start an investigation, quite another to execute it effectively. Barging in on Mariasha Lowe and asking if she believed her old friend Isaac Goldstein was innocent, probably wasn’t the best way to get information. Mariasha would likely get defensive and kick Annette out on her butt. If she could even kick. Annette had spent the morning researching the once-famous sculptress, but had found no references to her in the last few years. Even if she was physically and mentally okay—a big ‘if’ for a ninety-five-year-old, Mariasha might not be willing to meet. So before she tried to set something up, Annette needed a good reason to persuade the old woman to grant her an interview.

  After exhausting all links to Mariasha Lowe on the internet, Annette dec
ided to head down to the Barnes & Noble in Union Square. She hoped they would have art books that contained examples of Mariasha’s sculptures, or better still, personal info about the sculptress or a hook for an article that Annette could claim she was writing. Once she had a plausible approach nailed down, she could then figure out how to get Mariasha to agree to see her.

  The bookstore was crowded, not surprising for a Saturday morning. Annette pushed past the shoppers rummaging through discount tables laden with books to the Art and Architecture section in the rear of the store. She found several coffee table books featuring one or two pieces of Mariasha Lowe’s work, but none contained much insight into the artist. Then, she came across a small book called Evoking the Great Depression. It featured art projects primarily by New Deal artists, but included Mariasha Lowe because of her themes. The book was broken into chapters on Social Realism, The American Worker, and America at Play and Rest. Mariasha’s work was discussed in the last section complete with photos of several of her pieces. Very promising.

  She went to the ‘Non-Fiction New Releases’ section to look for the book by the Soviet agent that had referenced Isaac Goldstein. She took the clipping from Le Figaro out of her wallet—A Soviet Spy in America by Boris Yaklisov. She found it, paid for both books, then went to the upstairs café where she bought a cappuccino. Someone was getting up from a window table with a view of Union Square Park and Annette quickly nabbed the table.

  Outside, beyond the skeletal trees, she could see the tops of white tents set up for the Saturday greenmarket and hundreds of people milling about the fresh produce stalls. The snow from last night had been shoveled into mounds near the street, though there were still patches of white at the bases of the trees and near the colonnaded arcade. In the distance, she could make out the equestrian statue of George Washington. This wasn’t far from where her grandparents had lived, and she wondered if her grandfather had come by the park seventy or eighty years ago. Would he have admired the statue of America’s first president or had Isaac Goldstein been too enamored of communist ideals?

  She flipped through the index of the Soviet agent’s book, looking for the name Isaac Goldstein. There were far fewer references to her grandfather than Annette had been hoping for. But then she read that Yaklisov hadn’t been Goldstein’s primary point of contact. The Soviet agent had only met Goldstein on two occasions, but those had been enough to form Yaklisov’s impression of him. She found the passage that had been quoted in the Le Figaro review.

  Goldstein was never a major player in communist spy circles. He was charming and enthusiastic, but frankly, he did not seem altogether serious about the communist mission. He was more interested in acting the part of a spy than actually doing any serious work. It was obvious to me and other handlers that Goldstein didn’t have access to atomic-bomb secrets that he allegedly stole and passed on to the communists. That all came from another source.

  Allegedly stole. Annette reread the words. So he’d probably been set up. But by whom? The government? Trusted friends?

  She skimmed the next few paragraphs, but the author hadn’t said anything further about who this other “source” could be.

  She closed the book. Would Mariasha Lowe have known Isaac Goldstein’s circle of friends well enough to be able to hypothesize on a possible traitor?

  Annette pulled the photo album out of her satchel and flipped to the page of her grandparents with the Lowes in December 1943 at the Laurels Hotel. The two smiling couples were posed in front of a toboggan. Had they met for the first time at this resort in the Catskill Mountains, or had they already been friends before this photo was taken?

  She turned to the page of the four of them at the Starlight Roof restaurant. December 1944, one year later. But the photo of the two little girls—her mother Sally and Essie Lowe—was taken in 1950. In front of our apartment on 120 Columbia Street, the caption read.

  The Lowes and the Goldsteins would have been friends from at least 1943 through 1950, so there was a very good chance that Mariasha was acquainted with others who associated with Isaac Goldstein. Would she know the person who had committed atomic espionage and let Isaac Goldstein take the fall in his place?

  She put aside the photo album, picked up Evoking the Great Depression, and turned to the section on Mariasha Lowe. There was a general description of her work, her major pieces, where they were on display, and then a biographical sketch, which was consistent with much of what Annette had already learned in her previous internet research.

  She tapped her notes into her laptop as she sipped her cappuccino, hoping to find an inspiration for an article.

  Born in Brooklyn, 1918 as Mariasha Hirsch, the older of two children. Brother Saul, born 1922. Father died in 1925, mother in 1939.

  Annette did the math. Mariasha would have been seven when her father died, twenty-one when her mother died. That would have been tough. Her brother would have been seventeen. Had Mariasha been close to her brother? But even if she was, it was unlikely that he had a connection to Isaac Goldstein.

  She continued reading and taking notes.

  Attended Brooklyn College 1935-39. Married Aaron Lowe, economics professor at NYU, in December 1943.

  Same as her grandparents. So the two couples were most likely both on their honeymoons in the photo at the Laurels Hotel.

  She read on.

  Mariasha’s daughter Esther was born in 1945, but Annette already knew that. Essie had been her mother’s friend and classmate.

  Then nothing for the next eight years. What was Mariasha doing? Raising Essie? Sculpting?

  Mariasha’s first show was in 1954, which just happened to be the year after Isaac Goldstein’s execution.

  Then the article moved into a discussion of Mariasha’s work.

  Mariasha Lowe’s sculptures are evocative of Depression-era America. However her pieces of men, women, and children at work and play differ from the thick, brooding artwork one typically associates with the WPA Depression-era artists. Lowe’s work has a lightness and an energy, as though her creations are about to step off their marble bases and finish what they’ve begun.

  Annette studied a picture of one of Mariasha’s sculptures called Girl Playing Hopscotch and quickly understood the comment about lightness and energy. The sculpture was composed of only metal pipes and spheres, but in it Annette could see a child poised on one leg, about to jump through the air to the next square.

  As a journalist, Annette could appreciate how difficult it was to convey so much so sparingly. Bill always said, “Make everything count in your writing,” and that was exactly what Mariasha had accomplished with her art.

  She browsed through a few more pages, her admiration growing for this woman who had once known her grandfather.

  But who was Mariasha Lowe and what had motivated her to create such powerful sculptures? Was this the hook she should use to approach Mariasha for a story? How people from her past influenced her? Or maybe Annette could use the angle of how growing up during the Depression inspired her work, then use that as a lead into communism. From there, she could ask Mariasha if she knew the Goldsteins, since they were from the same neighborhood, then move on to friends and common interests. That could work. She felt a tingle of excitement as often happened when an idea for an article began to jell. Now she was ready to meet the woman.

  She had found Mariasha Lowe’s street address and phone number in her earlier research. Should she call and tell her about the article she was planning to write, then ask if she could come by? But what if Mariasha refused to see her?

  She finished the cappuccino. Maybe it would be better to just show up. Bill always joked about how hard it was to say no to Annette in person. And if Mariasha still refused, well, how hard could it be to wrestle down a ninety-five-year old?

  CHAPTER 6

  Julian’s head felt like it was being squashed under the arm of an angry linebacker as he buried it beneath his pillow. Too much to drink. What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. At least
that’s what Nietzsche said, but Julian wasn’t so sure.

  After leaving his mother’s house last night, he had decided to celebrate his birthday by heading over to a seedy bar in the East Village. Sephora kept texting him, Where the hell r u? but he didn’t answer. Finally she wrote, U r a giant asshole, at which point he turned his phone off.

  The bar was frequented mostly by NYU students and a few derelicts and he ended up downing shots with a bunch of communications majors until he was feeling no pain. He vaguely remembered giving his wool hat to a blonde with a Lauren-Bacall sneer, then somehow getting home, saying hi to his doorman and collapsing on his bed.

  A hell of a way to celebrate his thirtieth birthday.

  But now he was thirty and a day. He opened his eyes, blinking against the late morning light that came in through the balcony sliding doors, cursing himself for not closing the blinds the night before. At least the door was shut, so it wasn’t freezing inside. He checked the other side of the bed. No Sephora. Was she sleeping out in the living room? That wasn’t exactly her style.

  He brought his legs over to the side of the bed trying not to set off an explosive chain reaction in his head. Slowly, he stood up, then went to the kitchen to grab some Advil, bracing himself for a mega-confrontation with his girlfriend. But Sephora wasn’t stretched out on the sofa, sipping coffee and thumbing through one of her fashion magazines. Thank you, God. Of course, this was simply a postponement of the inevitable. Sephora wasn’t one to pass up an opportunity to fight.

  He took three Advils, ate a couple of bananas, then went to shower. The steam and pounding water cleared his head. Last night, his mother had said she wasn’t feeling well shortly after her emotional remarks about Nana, and had asked him to leave. He had been peeved by her abrupt dismissal, but now he processed what she had told him. He had a great-uncle who had painted. That made two family members who had been artists—Nana and Saul—so maybe his plan to pursue painting wasn’t all that far-fetched. If that’s what he really wanted, because on some level he wondered if he had latched onto painting in order to spite his mother. And then, what was really going on between his mother and Nana? He hadn’t realized how hurt she’d been by Nana and how much it resembled his own pain. Were he and his mother more alike than he wanted to admit? No way. He and Essie were about as different as two people could be.