by Avi
“The informer, Dad. You know. The one who told . . . them you were a”—I lowered my voice even more—“a Communist.”
“Good Lord.”
The waitress came. She brought our Cokes, put them down, and went off. The Cokes’ bouncing bubbles looked like jitterbuggers. I couldn’t move to take a sip.
“Go on,” said Dad. “The informer . . .”
“See, I figured out who he is.”
“Who?”
I was about to throw my Sam Spade explosion. I couldn’t.
“Pete, you need to tell me,” Dad pushed. “Who is the informer?”
“Bobby.”
A blockbuster bomb all right. He turned pale. His bad arm jerked as if he’d been shot again, and he looked at me as if he had never seen me before.
I shrank down in my chair.
“Bobby? ” he gasped.
I gave a nod that was mostly a shiver. The silence that followed smothered us.
Dad rubbed his mustache. “I think,” he said after a few moments, “you’d better explain.”
Struggling, I said, “Remember when you and I talked, and you told me you were a . . . you know . . .”
“Okay.”
“Bobby was in the hallway, listening.”
“That’s not the end of the world. Besides, you told me that the agent who talked to you . . . about me . . . spoke before you and I had our conversation. So what could Bobby tell them that they didn’t already know?”
I wanted to say, “About your father,” but it was too hard to say. All I said was, “Something else. Your secret.”
Dad just sat there for a moment, eyes hard on me. Then he said, “Pete, tell me again what Mr. Ewing said to you that day he came to the apartment.”
“He asked me about your father. What happened to him. Wanted to know about your family. Then, when I went to see him, he told me your father went to the Soviet Union—just like you told me. I’m pretty sure Bobby was listening and told him.”
The waitress delivered the pizza. It was a wheel of flat bread on a big tin platter. The bread had this tomato sauce on it along with cheese and meat bits. It looked like someone’s throw-up. I lost my appetite.
“Pete,” said Dad in a low, urgent voice, “I never told you my father went to the Soviet Union because I’ve never told anyone. What I said—to you —was that he was thinking about going.”
“The FBI guy told me he . . . went,” I said, feebly. “So, somebody must have known and . . . told him.”
“If they had that information it could have come from a thousand different sources. Our government. The Soviet government. I have no idea. And I don’t care,” he added fiercely.
I felt the way I did when Dad beat me in checkers after three moves: dumb.
Dad wasn’t done. “Pete, why would you even think Bobby would do such a thing?”
I said, “He wanted to get into that space camp.”
“How are they connected?”
“Ewing told me they were.” I repeated what he told me.
Dad said, “I refuse to believe it. Get a kid to spy on his father? Not even they would stoop that low. Did you tell your brother this?”
I shook my head.
“Good.” Dad’s tension eased. “Don’t! Pete, you’ve acted like some junior G-man. A simpleminded Sam Spade.”
I slumped in my seat. I couldn’t even look at Dad.
“Pal, the thing about detectives is that like historians, they need to be suspicious. Of people. Of what people say. What they don’t say. Of clues. Both try to get the truth, not what they want the truth to be, but what is true. And guess what? Sometimes it’s hard to know the difference. I think that’s the mistake you made here, Pete.”
I kept my head down.
“Know why detectives are called gumshoes?”
I shook my head.
“The name comes from gum-rubber soles on shoes. They’re quiet. In other words, a detective is someone who walks softly. You might give it a try.”
I stared at the table.
“You don’t like Bobby, do you?”
“He’s always telling me how dumb I am.”
“You’re not dumb. Like most everybody—me included—you can do dumb things. And brothers—teenage brothers—that’s a whole different story. That’s no reason to accuse Bobby, is it?”
I shook my head.
“So we agree? No more about him. Not to me. Not to him. Promise?”
“Promise,” I said.
We were quiet for a moment while he studied me with worried eyes. “Is that it, Pete? If there’s more I suppose I’d better hear.”
If there had been a hole nearby, I’d have crawled in.
“Come on, Pal. It can’t be worse than what you’ve already said.”
But I knew it was.
34
Dad sat there, waiting. I had to force myself to look at him. “The other reason I went to the FBI was . . . I wanted them to stop following me.”
“Were they?”
“Told you: They think you have some secret and that you told me. So they keep coming after me. That day I was suspended from school, Mr. Ewing tried to talk to me.”
“Where?”
“Home.”
“Pete! That’s serious. How come you never told us?”
“I didn’t talk to him. He came to the door but I didn’t let him in.”
Dad thought for a moment, and then said, “How did he know you were there and not in school?”
“I thought . . . Bobby told him.”
“Pete—”
“I know. But there’s something else.”
“Let’s hear it.” Dad looked exhausted, but I made myself go on. “I went to visit your old friend, Al Depaco.”
Dad had been sipping his Coke, but hearing the name, he put it down so quickly it sloshed over. “Al Depaco? How do you even know about him? Did you actually speak to him?”
I nodded. “And the thing is, afterwards, the FBI visited him and warned him to keep away from me. And I think I caught the FBI bugging Mr. Ordson’s phone. See, they keep hoping to get your secret. From me.”
Dad said nothing but he kept his eyes—now full of puzzlement—fixed on me. “What secret?” he said.
I said, “I didn’t know it before. But I . . . do now.”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
I couldn’t speak.
“Keep talking,” said Dad.
“The other day I wanted to see where you were going on Wednesdays. So . . . I followed you.”
“You did what?”
“Followed you. To that . . . Duffy Nursing Home. And . . . the FBI followed me there.”
“Good Lord. Did they see me go in?”
“Maybe.”
Beads of sweat stood out on his head. His eyes became sad, his mustache more ragged, his mouth tight, and there were lines on his face. It was as if what I’d said made him older. It was awful to see. Scary.
“Pete, what else did you do?”
“I went in and saw your . . . secret. Your dad. My grandfather. That’s your secret.”
Dad rubbed his face and closed his eyes. He swallowed. Shook his head. “Pete,” he said in a hoarse whisper, leaning toward me. “I told you again and again: My father died a long time ago.”
“Dad,” I pleaded in the same low voice, “when I went to Ewing, he told me your father went to the Soviet Union. But they don’t know your father is alive and back in America. Just think he might be. And they think he might be a spy. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
Dad sat there looking baffled. When he didn’t speak, I said, “Is he . . . a spy?”
“Pete,” Dad said, “my father is not alive.”
“Then who is—”
“Didn’t I tell you not to get involved in this?”
The man and woman at the nearest table looked over to us.
“How do you know all this stuff?” Dad asked in an angry whisper. “Depaco. My father. Good God! You’re no different tha
n the FBI!”
Guilt flooded me. That was what Ewing had said. If you can hate yourself, I did then. All the same, I admit, I still wanted to know who Dad had been visiting and why it was a secret.
Dad sat there looking like a tire that had lost its air. Finally, he said, “You going to eat anything?”
“No.”
He stood up. “Let’s get out of here.”
He paid the bill and we started walking. I had to work at keeping up with him. We didn’t talk.
Abruptly Dad stopped and said, “Just so you know: The day after you followed me to the nursing home they called me and said someone was asking about me, wondering who I was visiting. The Home won’t give out that kind of information without first checking.”
“Who called?” I said.
“I don’t know. Probably your friend, Ewing.”
“He’s not my friend,” I protested. When he continued to stand there I said, “Did he find your father?”
“Pete, my father is not there. He’s dead!”
“Then . . . who was that man?”
Dad just stood there for a moment, as if unable to find himself. When he finally spoke, he spoke more to the air than to me. “My brother,” he said.
“Frank?”
“How do you . . . No, not here.” Looking wretched, Dad rubbed his bad arm. “We need to get home,” he said. We headed toward the subway in silence, me too stunned to ask more questions.
When we came to a drugstore, he said, “Stay here.” He went inside and came back with a pack of cigarettes. We walked on, me checking his face for clues. There were none.
We reached the subway steps. Instead of going down, Dad stopped. He leaned back against the stair rail for support, took out a cigarette, and lit it in his awkward way. The lit match gave his face a ruddy glow before the flame faded to black. Like a movie.
Something Kat had said came into my mind. “What’ll happen when you find out those things?” I didn’t know the answer, but I had the feeling I was about to find out.
35
Okay,” Dad began, his voice low, full of pain. “I was nineteen,” he said. “My father had gone, I didn’t know where. As it turned out, only Frank knew—he was really close to my dad—but Frank wasn’t saying.
“The family was broke. Not much food. Not much of anything. My mother was angry. Bitter. She told me I had to drop out of school and earn money. Uncle Chris, who sort of took over my father’s role, was being rough on me.
“I left home for two reasons: I had to get away from Uncle Chris and I wanted to stay in school. Those days, lots of kids were leaving their homes. Al Depaco and I decided to go together.
“Then I learned—from Frank—that my father was still in the city and was about to go to Soviet Russia. Frank, who was sixteen at the time, wanted to go with him.
“I was Frank’s big brother. He always listened to me. Like Bobby, I was a cocky know-it-all. Hey, maybe Frank would have a better life there. Life was rough here. I urged Frank to go. He went.
“Frank was my mother’s favorite. Her baby. If she could have grabbed the moon, she would have given it to him. And maybe my father encouraged Frank to go with him to get at her.
“I didn’t know that my father hadn’t told my mother what he was doing. Nor did Frank. Turns out, I was the only one who knew where they were going.
“Loyal to my brother, I said nothing to my mother. Having secrets makes kids feel independent. It can also make things worse.
“I assumed they’d be back. But by the time I realized Frank wasn’t coming back, I was afraid to say anything. Anyway, I had left home, too. Then, when Al told me Uncle Chris had tracked me down, I took off on my own. As far as I was concerned, I had no family to go back to. Besides, not telling my mother what I knew about Frank and my father made me feel guilty. Feeling guilty is like quicksand. The more you wiggle to get out, the deeper you sink.
“I sank.
“After the war, America was full of optimism. By then I’d married, had you kids, and wanted to start fresh. I got back together with my family. Your grandma never mentioned Frank. Nor did I. I felt too guilty. Truth is, I’m ashamed of how I acted.”
“Sorry,” I whispered, only to have what Kat said, “Sorry is a sorry word,” come into my head. “How come nobody talks about Frank?” I asked.
“Nobody—except me—knew where he went. When years went by without hearing from him, we all assumed he died.” Dad took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Being silent is a kind of death.”
I said, “What happened to him?”
“In Soviet Russia? At the start, things worked. My father had a decent job. Frank went to school. Then the Soviets took away the Americans’ passports. Said they were now Soviet citizens. Frank wanted to come home. The Communists wouldn’t let him. Frank went to our embassy. The U.S. asked for proof he was an American. He had none.
“It wasn’t long before he and my father were sent to ghastly prison labor camps. My father died there.
“When the war came, Frank was given a choice: stay in that prison camp, or join the Red Army.
“He joined. Fought against the Nazis. He and I were fighting the same war, same enemy, from different sides.
“At the end of the war, when the Russian and American armies linked up in Germany, there was lots of mingling between the armies. Frank came upon the body of a dead American soldier. His tags read Nelson Kasper. Frank got out of his Soviet uniform, into Kasper’s, crossed to the American lines. Just like that. He was an American. He came home as Nelson Kasper.
“He started life again in the state of Washington. Little town called Blaine right on the Canadian border. In case he had to run away.
“Frank was free, but he lived in fear that he’d be discovered and sent back to the Soviet Union. If he was, he’d be killed. At the same time, he couldn’t tell our government what he’d done. He had left America. Been made—albeit against his will—a Russian citizen. Worst of all, he had impersonated a dead U.S. soldier.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked.
“A few months ago Frank called me. Talk about shock. I didn’t believe it was him at first. He asked me to call him. BLaine 2573. A rural phone number. When I called, Frank told me his story. And . . .” Dad trailed off.
“And what?”
“He was worn out. Like an old man. Sick. Dying. That’s why he wanted to get in touch with me. To tell me what happened while he had the chance. I brought him to New York. Got him into that nursing home.”
“He looks a lot older than you.”
“He’s had a ghastly life. He won’t live long.”
“He a Commie?”
“Pete,” Dad said, “how can you even ask?”
“You going to tell Grandma about Frank? Your family?”
Dad shook his head.
“Why not?”
“Frank doesn’t want me to. It’s been too many years. He just wants to die in peace on clean sheets. I respect that.”
Dad became quiet, just stood there, smoking his cigarette. His eyes had a faraway look. I was sure his mind was with his brother.
“Dad,” I said, “is Frank’s life your fault?”
“I urged him to go, didn’t I? Pete, I want you to promise, promise you’ll stay out of this from now on.”
“Can I ask one question?”
“Do you have to?”
“What would the FBI do if they got to your brother?”
“Probably arrest him. Put him in jail. Deport him to Soviet Russia, where I suppose he’d go into another jail. Dying in jail is no way to end your life.”
“Ewing never said anything about your having a brother.”
“Good. Whoever called the Duffy Home asked if I was visiting Thomas Collison, my father. I registered my brother under his new name, Nelson Kasper, so I think he’s safe. Your ma knows the name. Now you. It’s just the three of us. No one else.”
But Bobby must have seen the name in Dad’s file folder. Ewing knew i
t, too. As far as I was concerned, it had to be Bobby who had given him the name.
“Let’s go home,” said Dad. He led the way down to the subway platform.
We got on the train. I sat there thinking about Dad’s brother. Being in Soviet Russia. Escaping. Hiding in America by pretending to be someone else.
As the train roared along, Dad bent over and said, “Since we’re sharing secrets, you might as well know: I’ve been told more about my summer date with that committee. They’ve told me what they are going to ask.”
“Do they know about your father and brother?”
“Not sure. I do know they’ll ask me if I am a Communist. If I ever was a Communist. I don’t believe they have the right to ask those questions, but I’m willing to talk about myself. The trouble is, they’ve told me they want me to name other people I knew who were Communists. Or maybe it’s really about my father or Frank.”
“What are you going to say?”
Dad gave me a serious look. “My father is gone. I won’t talk about my brother. Other people can speak for themselves. It’s not my place to tell the government what people think. I believe in the First Amendment. Freedom of speech. Like Sam Spade, you’ve got to be loyal to what you believe.”
“That why you wanted me to see the movie?”
“Maybe.”
“You going to jail?”
“I might.”
“Would it be awful?”
“Probably.” Then he added, “Frank survived much worse.”
I sat there, plain old scared.
The subway roared on, swaying, stopping, starting, people getting off and on. They didn’t look at one another.
Dad leaned over. “Pete, do you still remember the key part of the Declaration of Independence?”
I nodded. “ ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.’ ”
Dad said: “That’s the best, simplest, most beautiful sentence about liberty. But . . .”
“What?”
“Thomas Jefferson, the man who wrote that—about liberty—owned slaves. Owned people. Pete, nothing is simple. Know that and you know half the world’s wisdom.”
Soon as we got home, I went to my room and lay on my bed, face in a pillow. I felt awful. Working to make things better for my father, I’d actually made things worse by leading the FBI to that nursing place. Same time, I still thought I was right about Bobby. He’d been in Dad’s files. I was sure he’d seen Dad’s brother’s new name. It had to be him who had given that name “Nelson Kasper” to the FBI.
