The Other Traitor

by Sharon Potts

  She couldn’t believe she’d let him go.

  CHAPTER 34

  Annette had slept poorly, checking her text messages throughout the early morning. The last one pinged at a little after five. Got home ok. Let me know about Bill. Then a minute later. Miss you already. Nothing after, but Julian was very likely still asleep.

  She finished her second cup of coffee and rinsed out the cup, putting it in the dish drainer beside the mug Julian had used for hot chocolate. She ran her finger over the rim where his mouth had been. Perhaps their closeness a few hours before had been an illusion and what she’d taken for attraction was just his way of comforting her.

  But enough jumping to conclusions. She wasn’t thinking clearly, with images of Bill’s unconscious body mingling with the memory of Julian’s soft lips pressed against hers. The awful and the sweet. She hoped that wasn’t a foreshadowing of her future with Julian, but right now, she had other things to deal with.

  She phoned the hospital to see if there was a change in Bill’s condition. There wasn’t. Then, she headed over to Bill’s apartment to straighten up. One of Bill’s neighbors had taken Woodward in and promised to keep the cat until Bill returned.

  Annette righted the furniture, cleaned off the splattered potatoes and apples from the walls, picked up broken dishes, and arranged his books on the bookshelves, telling herself that Bill would be home soon. It took her a couple of hours to get things almost back to normal. She left his apartment with his eyeglasses in her satchel, and carrying his broken framed Pulitzer certificate, which she planned to have reframed.

  Once back in her own apartment, she called the hospital. A familiar voice answered and Annette said, “I’m calling for an update on William Turner.”

  “No change from the last time we spoke.” Then a sigh into the phone. “Look, I understand you’re concerned. Why don’t you leave me your name and number? I promise I’ll call you if there’s any change in Mr. Turner’s condition.”

  Annette left her information, frustrated. Mr. Turner’s condition. Anger began boiling up inside her. How could Bill have taken such a drastic step? Couldn’t he have at least called her to talk it through? If she hadn’t gone to the Black Sheep last night, she wouldn’t have learned about Bill’s meltdown and he very likely would be dead.

  “Stupide,” she muttered under her breath. A stupid, unnecessary tragedy. All because Bill’s wife was a cruel, heartless woman.

  Cruel, heartless.

  Cousin Linda had used those words the other day. Even your grandmother finally admitted that he was a cruel, heartless man.

  When would Grandma Betty have said that? The two sisters had communicated mostly by mail, but Betty hadn’t written anything about Isaac being cruel or heartless in any of the letters Annette had seen. So why would Linda have said that Betty had made such a comment? Unless Linda had read it in a letter she hadn’t given Annette.

  She thought back to walking past her great-aunt Irene’s room the day Jen had dropped the bomb about Isaac Goldstein. Irene had been sitting on her bed, surrounded by a pile of letters, Prettybird on a perch behind her.

  She tried to picture the details in her mind’s eye. Irene in a pink quilted robe, a piece of white paper in her trembling hands. White envelopes strewn over the green floral bedspread. Squat ones with hand-written addresses, that had made Annette conclude, even at that moment, that the letters had been personal.

  Prettybird squawking, ‘Mail’s here. Mail’s here,’ in Irene’s voice.

  Had Irene been eagerly waiting for her sister’s letters all those years before?

  Annette sat up straight. White letters in white envelopes. Not blue like the airmailed letters from France that Linda had given her. The letters Grandma Betty would have sent her sister before Isaac Goldstein was executed.

  So where were those letters now and, if Linda knew, why had she kept them from her?

  Annette arrived at the Dobbs Ferry train station at 11:02. She hurried off the platform with the handful of other passengers, relieved to see a taxi waiting. She gave the driver Linda’s address, sat back in the seat and played with a tear in the upholstery. She hadn’t called ahead, not wanting to give Linda an opportunity to come up with more excuses or worse, hide the letters.

  She had the driver let her out a few houses down from Linda’s, then briskly walked up the winding street. The snow had been shoveled on either side of the path that led to their brick house, and a layer of ice had formed over it. Kenny’s old red Corvair was parked in the driveway. No sign of Linda’s yellow Volkswagen.

  Was Linda not home? Annette quickly changed her strategy as she rang the doorbell. She could hear Prettybird calling, “Mail’s here.”

  Kenny opened the door, a screwdriver in his hand. Linda’s husband was a tall, lanky man with flyaway gray hair, thick glasses, and stains on his orange T-shirt and blue jeans.

  “Annette. Come on in. Linda’s not back from grocery shopping yet. ” He looked beyond her, into the street. “How’d you get here?”

  “A friend dropped me off,” she lied. She was getting pretty good at lying. “I figured I’d stop in and say hi.”

  “Great. Well, Linda should be back soon.” He rubbed his face, transferring grease from his fingers to his cheek. “I’m just fixing a leak under the sink, if you want to watch.”

  “Actually,” she said. “Linda found a few letters for me. I think they’re in Irene’s old room.”

  “Oh good.” He seemed relieved that he didn’t have to entertain her.

  “How’s the Corvair running?”

  He gave her a big smile. “Great. You’d never know she’s almost fifty years old. Want to take her for a spin?”

  “Thanks. Maybe next time. I’d better go get those letters.” She headed up the stairs, before Kenny reconsidered letting her loose in the house.

  Her heart pounded as she stepped into the room Irene had lived in when she could no longer stay by herself in her big house in Boston. The room looked smaller than Annette remembered it and smelled stale, but the same floral bedspread covered the bed. The bureau, dresser and nightstands were a dark, dull wood and looked very old, as though they may have been Irene’s original bedroom set.

  On top of the bureau were several black-and-white photos in antique frames. A wedding picture of Irene and her husband, Irene holding a tiny baby in a blanket—probably Linda—and a photo of a young woman and a teenage girl standing behind an old woman who was seated at a table. Betty and Irene and their mother. The two sisters, in flapper dresses and headbands, had their arms around each other’s shoulders. On the table were three sets of brass candleholders, all identical, just like the ones Annette had taken from Grandma Betty’s apartment. And the embroidered tablecloth looked like the one Betty had stowed away.

  The apparent closeness of the two sisters in the photo made her even more certain that Irene had been Betty’s confidante. But where would Betty’s letters be?

  She opened the sliding closet door. Irene’s pink quilted robe was hanging with blouses and dresses. Several pairs of flats and sneakers filled a shoe rack. Irene had been dead for two years, but it didn’t look like Linda had changed a thing. The letters were very likely still in this room.

  She looked up at the top shelf of the closet. Too high for an old woman. Irene would have kept the letters where she could get to them easily.

  A clanking noise from below startled her. Kenny working on the kitchen sink. How much time did she have before Linda returned?

  She went to the bureau and opened each drawer. A sweet-sour smell drifted toward her as she rooted beneath underwear, scarves, folded blouses and sweaters, looking for a stash of envelopes. Nothing. She started on the drawers of the mirrored dresser. The top drawer was filled with costume jewelry, old watches, hairpins, combs. The next drawer was harder to open. She gave it a tug. Envelopes! Stacks of them. Bank statements. Insurance letters. Long, commercial envelopes. Nothing personal. She closed the drawer. Checked the next one, then the
bottom drawer.

  Something hard clattered downstairs. “Shit,” Kenny cried out.

  She went to the doorway and called down. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” His voice was muffled. “Damn wrench slipped.”

  She returned to her search. Where do you keep the things that are most personal to you? Her eyes lighted on the bedside table. Of course.

  She opened the nightstand drawer, and there they were—a stack of white envelopes and loose letters. Written in Grandma Betty’s hand!

  She felt a moment’s elation, followed by fury. How dare Linda lie to her and claim she didn’t have these? But she wasn’t going to wait around and ask her. She shoved the letters into her satchel and ran down the stairs, eager to get out of the house before Linda returned and tried to intercept her.

  As she got to the foyer, Prettybird called out, “Mail’s here.”

  The door opened. Linda came in, pulling off her orange mittens. “Oh my goodness. Annette.” She smiled, then frowned. “Had you told me you were coming? Was I supposed to meet you at the station?”

  Annette shook her head. “It was a spur-of-the-moment visit.”

  “Oh good. Terrific,” Linda said. “I’ll make coffee.” She hung up her coat in the closet, then started toward the kitchen.

  “I came here to pick up my grandmother’s letters.”

  Linda stopped and faced her. “I gave them to you the other day.”

  “Not those letters. The ones my grandmother wrote while my grandfather was in prison.”

  Linda tugged on a strand of long curly hair.

  “I found them in your mother’s nightstand.”

  The muscles in Linda’s face tightened. “How dare you go through my mother’s things?”

  “How dare you lie to me?”

  Linda sagged against the wall. She rubbed her cheek. “He was a terrible man. Why do you want to prove to the world that he was a hero?”

  “Not a hero. Just not a monster.”

  “But he was a monster. How can you do this to your grandmother’s memory? After all she went through, it’s shameful for you to make it seem like he wasn’t at fault. He was.”

  “It’s my business, not yours. These were my grandparents. You had no right to keep these letters from me.”

  “Take them, then. Read them. Learn the truth about who your grandfather really was.” Linda straightened up, then went to the front door and held it open. “I was only trying to protect you. I thought you and your mother and grandmother had already suffered enough.”

  Annette stepped outside. She turned to tell Linda that her mother couldn’t stop suffering until Isaac’s name was cleared, but Linda had already closed the door with a hard slam.

  CHAPTER 35

  The phone rang in the bedroom while Mariasha was in the kitchen putting peanut butter on slices of apple. Probably a telemarketer selling life insurance. No one else ever called. Except for Julian.

  The phone rang again. She went as quickly as she could to answer it, cursing herself for not putting an extension phone in the kitchen like her grandson had suggested repeatedly. The shrill bringing sound was like an ambulance. “I’m coming,” she called. ”I’m coming.”

  She was breathing hard when she picked up the phone on the nightstand. “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” said the soft voice Mariasha hadn’t heard in far too long.

  She sat down on the bed, her insides contracting as though from a labor pain. “Hello, Essie.”

  “I was just calling to see how you are.” The voice was shy, hesitant.

  Mariasha wanted to jump through the phone and hold her daughter in her arms, but too much time had passed for displays of affection. Instead, she said, “I’m still alive.”

  “Yes,” Essie said, after a moment. “I can see that.” Her voice had turned icy.

  Mariasha looked at the pillows piled high on the bed. Remembered how Essie used to climb under the quilt between her and Aaron when she was a tyke. How sweet her cold little toes felt.

  “Julian’s been to see me,” Essie said.

  “He told me.” Tell her you love her, a voice whispered in Mariasha’s head. Aaron’s voice. But the words were frozen inside her.

  “Why do you hate me?” her daughter asked. “Would you please tell me that?”

  I don’t hate you. I love you.

  “Julian asked me why I never try talking to you,” Essie said. “Well, I tried.”

  She could hear the click as her daughter hung up the phone.

  “I don’t hate you, my darling girl,” she said to the hard piece of plastic in her hand. “It’s me I hate.”

  December 1944

  If it hadn’t been wartime, they probably would never have gotten a table at the Starlight Roof on a Saturday night. If it hadn’t been their one-year anniversaries, they would never have splurged. And if Yitzy hadn’t insisted they go and Aaron been such a good sport, they would more likely have dined at a coffee shop in Times Square.

  But Aaron had warmed to the idea. “We only have our first anniversary once, darling,” he’d said to Mari.

  And so, here they were, in this elegant art deco room, seated some distance from the Big Band orchestra. But even hidden from the main crowd in a dim corner, Mari was uneasy in the blue silk dress and rhinestone earrings Aaron had bought her for the occasion. She was a Brooklyn girl who grew up in a tenement. She had no business acting hoity-toity at the Waldorf Astoria. But the others at the small table didn’t seem to share her discomfort. Yitzy had ordered a bottle of champagne and the four of them, not accustomed to drinking, were growing more and more tipsy as the meal progressed through their Waldorf salads and beef Wellington. The waiter set the apple strudel that Yitzy had ordered on the table, but Mari didn’t think she could eat another bite.

  Betty gazed longingly at the couples swirling across the dance floor. She looked pretty tonight, her hair in an upsweep, a velvet choker with a white orchid around her neck.

  “My dear wife wants to dance,” Yitzy said, “and I’m of absolutely no use.” He patted his bad leg.

  “Oh, I’m perfectly happy watching,” Betty said.

  “No you aren’t. Sometimes I catch you dancing around the apartment with a broomstick.”

  Betty giggled. “He’s making that up.”

  “Aaron,” Yitzy said. “Would you do me the very great honor of escorting my wife around the dance floor?”

  Aaron’s eyes met Mari’s and they exchanged a split-second non-verbal message that a year of knowing each other’s moods and minds had perfected.

  Aaron stood and held out his hand for Betty. “The honor would be mine.”

  Betty glanced at Mari. “You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. Enjoy yourselves.”

  Mari watched her husband lead Yitzy’s wife to the dance floor. Most of the men were in their dress military uniforms or tuxedoes, but Aaron looked just as handsome in his dark suit. Throughout the night, Mari had noticed how even the waiters seemed to look through Aaron but smile at Yitzy with his medals gleaming in the glow of the chandeliers. It made Mari sad for Aaron. She knew her husband was as big a hero as they came.

  The band was playing ‘Moonlight Serenade’ and Aaron gracefully waltzed Betty around the floor.

  “I’ve been meaning to thank you for taking Betty under your wing,” Yitzy said. “You’ve been a good friend to her.”

  Mari started at his voice, his breath so close to her ear. The four of them had become regular companions, going out together almost every Saturday night, but she and Yitzy were rarely alone. She could feel the heat coming off him, smell his scent. She shifted away from his nearness. “It’s no chore. She’s been a good friend to me.”

  “You seem preoccupied tonight.”

  Yitzy could always read her, often better than Aaron did.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “Saul was home last week.”

  He nodded. Yitzy knew Saul was at Los Alamos and probably understood better
than Mari about the project Saul was involved with.

  “He told me he’d been approached by a communist handler to gather information for them.”

  “And you’re worried he’ll do it?”

  “He promised me he won’t,” she said. “But Saul’s always been a bit of a fanatic when it comes to the Party. You know that.”

  He smiled, as though to acknowledge his own commitment to communism.

  “I’m afraid the temptation for him to help them will be too great.”

  “And what concerns you, Mariasha? That your brother will be putting himself in danger, or that you don’t want him supporting the communist principles you no longer believe in?”

  It took her a moment to answer as the beautiful strains of the ‘Moonlight Serenade’ floated around her. “Both,” she said. “Maybe communism works in theory, but it isn’t the solution to society’s problems. The communist leaders have their own agenda—power and control. Equality for all and social justice are just the maxims they use to get the masses to buy in to their program.”

  “And you think that’s any different from democracy?” Yitzy said with a half smile.

  “Maybe not. I suppose every political system is ultimately corrupted by the powerful minority that controls it.”

  “You sound bitter,” he said. “But then, that’s the curse of your name.”

  “I’m not bitter. I’m worried that these superpowers fighting for their own brand of politics will destroy mankind.”

  “So if not political systems, what do you now believe in, Mariasha?” Yitzy sliced off a piece of strudel with his fork, taking her back almost ten years to the coffee shop where they had eaten apple pie after the anti-war rally.

  “Peace,” she said. “And I’m pretty sure that’s what you believe in, too.”

  “Sometimes I think you hold me in higher esteem than I deserve.”

  “I’m not mistaken about you.”

  He brushed her denial away with his hand. “But you may find this enlightening. It seems the Party is out in full force.”