The Other Traitor (8 page)

“Yeah. I guess they don’t have that in Paris. It’s a kind of meat that…”

“I know what pastrami is. I didn’t understand your question.”

“I’m bringing lunch.”

“Oh. Pastrami’s fine.”

“Good. I’ll meet you outside her building at one.” He clicked off.

Annette pressed ‘End.’ She looked up. Bill was grinning at her with the biggest smile.

“Okay, fine,” she said. “He’s cute. But don’t start annoying me about him.”

He just kept smiling.

And Annette couldn’t help it. She smiled, too.

It really was a glorious day.

The A train had been stuck in the tunnel for twenty minutes just before the Washington Square station. Something about debris on the track, the conductor had announced. Annette thrummed her fingers against her cell phone. She was going to be late and there was nothing she could do about it. Even though she now had Julian’s number, thanks to his earlier call to her, there was no service in the bowels of New York’s subway system. Technology only got you so far.

She tried to focus on her interview with Mariasha Lowe, not the delay or the people pushing in around her in the crowded subway car. She ran a series of questions through her head about how the Depression had inspired Mariasha’s sculptures, then about the backdrop of communism, and finally about Mariasha’s friendship with Isaac Goldstein. What had seemed like a simple segue when Annette had come up with the plan at Barnes & Noble, now felt more like a giant leap. How could she introduce Isaac Goldstein into the conversation without revealing who she really was and her goal of clearing her grandfather? And what if Mariasha wanted to distance herself from her friendship with a despised traitor? Annette couldn’t afford to blow this important link to the past. She needed to stay sharp when she spoke to Mariasha to be sure she guided the conversation to the information she needed. Of course, if she didn’t get out of this damn subway soon, there would be no interview.

By the time the A train pulled into the station and Annette transferred to the F, she was sweating profusely beneath her ski jacket from the heat in the packed train. It was bad enough she hadn’t had time to go home, shower, and change after her jog. Now she’d also probably smell like a construction worker.

She emerged at Delancey Street at 1:13 and redialed Julian’s number, but the call went straight to voicemail. He’d either turned off his phone or the battery was dead. She sprinted to Mariasha Lowe’s apartment, concerned that Julian would give up on her and go inside without her. Her sneakers pounded on the sidewalk as she turned into Ridge Street. She pulled up short at the courtyard of Mariasha’s building.

Julian, his army jacket hanging open, was leaning against one of the brick walls holding a brown paper bag in each hand. She caught the sides of his mouth lift up as though he was about to smile, but that turned quickly into a grimace.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, breathless. “The train was stuck.”

“I thought you decided not to come.”

“Why wouldn’t I come? I want to interview your grandmother.”

Julian turned to the buzzer panel and pushed a button.

“What do you think I’m doing here?” she asked.

He gave her a quick glance, then looked away.

Was he onto her agenda? But how could he possibly be?

“Is that you, Julian?” asked a scratchy voice through the intercom.

“My grandmother doesn’t always follow the best security procedures,” Julian mumbled, then he spoke into the intercom. “Yes, it’s me Nana. And I brought a friend.”

There seemed to be a moment’s hesitation, then there was a buzz and Julian pushed open the door. Annette followed him into a dark, overheated lobby.

“Didn’t you tell her I was coming?” she asked.

“I didn’t want to disappoint her if you decided not to show.”

Annette wondered if he was actually talking about himself being disappointed.

The elevator was small and quickly filled with the spicy aroma of pastrami as they rode up to the fourth floor. At least it was better than smelling like her sweat.

The elevator door opened, and she followed Julian down a narrow hallway covered with swirls of thick paint. A head with short silvery hair popped out from a doorway, then a small, stooped woman emerged. She wore a tie-dyed sweatshirt that was much too big for her, baggy red stretch pants and black ballet flats. An assortment of gold and silver necklaces covered her chest and sparkly hoop earrings hung from her long earlobes.

“Hi Nana.” Julian swooped and gave his grandmother a kiss on the top of her head. “Meet Annette Revoir.” He glanced back at Annette. “This is my grandma Mariasha Lowe.”

Annette felt a jolt of excitement and brushed aside the misgivings of her conscience. She would do whatever was necessary to learn the truth about her grandfather.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lowe.” Annette was surprised how much she resembled the photos from when she’d been a young woman. Large recessed dark eyes, high cheekbones, patrician nose. Mariasha Lowe was beautiful, even at ninety-five.

The old woman extended her hand. The joints of her fingers were swollen with arthritis, but her hand was cool and dry. “You may call me Mariasha,” she said, then winked. “If I may call you Annette.”

Annette laughed. “Of course.”

“Annette was born in Paris, Nana, in case you can’t understand her through her thick accent.”

“It’s a charming accent,” Mariasha said. “And I understand her perfectly, Mr. Wiseguy.”

Annette couldn’t tell if Julian was insulting her or flirting. Not that it mattered. She was here to interview the grandmother, not get involved with the grandson.

“I brought pastrami, Nana,” Julian said. “No
blinchiki
and caviar this time.”

Mariasha chuckled and took the bags of food from Julian into another room.

“Inside joke?” Annette asked, as they hung up their jackets on a mahogany coat rack.

“I told her I might bring that for lunch, but pastrami was easier.” He wore jeans and a long-sleeved, light-blue T-shirt that made his eyes appear even bluer. He was built like someone who rowed crew, stretched-out with broad shoulders. She realized he was taking her in, as well, and felt a twinge of self-consciousness. She didn’t look much like a professional journalist in her braids, tight turtleneck, and purple leggings with a hole in the knee.

“I was out jogging when you called,” she said. “I didn’t have a chance to go home and change.”

“Works for me.” He kicked off his shoes, and must have noticed Annette’s expression. “Old habit,” he said. “I always used to track dirt into the apartment as a kid. You can leave yours on.” He started out of the foyer. “I’ll show you around.”

The living room was bright with art deco chairs and a sofa in crimson and turquoise jewel tones, the walls painted mint green. But of course, Mariasha was an artist. She would have had a flair for decorating.

An old-fashioned wind-up record player stood on a table in the corner of the living room. At the far end was an alcove with three double windows. In front of each was an almost-life-size sculpture. The outside light spotlighted one of them with a halo effect that caused her to gasp. It appeared to be a young boy swinging a bat.

“
Ah, c’est incroyable
!” she said softly.

“That piece is my grandmother’s younger brother Saul,” Julian said. “He played stickball as a kid.”

“And worshipped Babe Ruth,” Mariasha said. She took halting steps into the living room, carrying a tray with napkins and a jar of mustard. Before Annette could go to help her, Julian was there. He took the tray from his grandmother and set it on the boomerang-shaped coffee table.

“Poor Saul,” Mariasha said. “He dreamed of playing for the Yankees. I’ll bet he would have made the team.”

“So what happened, Nana?” Julian asked. “You didn’t finish the story you were telling me yesterday. Did he quit sports?”

“He got rheumatic fever when he was ten.” Mariasha toddled over to the sculpture of
Boy Playing Stickball
. “He almost died.”

Julian pursed his lips. “Is that when he took up painting?”

“He did a little sketching, but mostly he studied.” She smiled at Annette. “My brother was brilliant. A lot like Julian.”

Julian shook his head, looking embarrassed. “I’ll get the food,” he said, and headed toward the kitchen.

“I’ve seen your work in photos.” Annette stepped closer to the sculptures. “But in person, they take my breath away.”

“They help me remember where I came from.”

The perfect lead-in. Annette’s heart sped up. “Julian hasn’t had a chance to tell you, but I’m a journalist. I’d like to do an article on your work and what inspired you. Would that be okay?” It wasn’t exactly a lie. She hoped to write such a piece.

“Why not?” Mariasha said. “It’s been a long time since anyone showed an interest in my sculptures.”

Julian returned from the kitchen and put a platter of pastrami sandwiches on the table with three cans of Dr. Brown’s soda with straws in them. “Annette’s done some really good articles on being a bi-national,” he said. “Also on the comparative merits of living in upper Manhattan versus the Paris Marais district.”

So he had read her stuff.

“She also wrote an exposé on political corruption in local government, and a rant against small-minded prejudice. Nothing on art, though.” He glanced at Annette and raised one eyebrow.

“It’s nice that my grandson prequalifies anyone who wants to talk to me,” Mariasha said, settling herself in one of the big turquoise chairs. “I’m not so fussy. Shall we eat those delicious-smelling sandwiches?”

Annette sank into the down sofa cushion, self-conscious about the hole in the knee of her leggings. She covered it with her hand.

Julian squirted mustard on a half sandwich, then handed the plate to his grandmother. He sat down next to Annette, even though he could have spread out at the other end of the sofa. “Help yourself,” he said. “Unless you’d like me to serve you.”

“I can manage. Thanks.”  Annette reached for half a sandwich. There was a photo in a simple silver frame on the coffee table. A man and woman and two children, a plain-looking, frizzy-haired teenage girl and an adorable little boy of about nine or ten with blue eyes and black hair. “This is you,” she said to Julian.

“Why are you surprised? This is my grandmother’s apartment.”

“But you’re so cute here.”

Mariasha chortled and Julian scowled.

Annette studied his parents. The attractive blonde woman was Essie Lowe. She bore a resemblance to the little girl in the photo with Annette’s mother, but she seemed stiff and unsmiling. The man beside her, on the other hand, had his mouth wide open and seemed to be horsing around. He had bushy black hair and eyebrows like Groucho Marx.

“I think that’s the last picture anyone ever took of my father,” Julian said.

Annette heard the hitch in his voice.

“He taught Julian how to play chess,” Mariasha said. “Julian won all the championships.”

“It’s okay Nana. Annette’s not here to learn about me.”

That’s right, she reminded herself. Not here for Julian. She picked up on his cue, feeling a flurry in her stomach, and tossed out her first question. “I’ve read a bit about how your work was inspired by the Depression. What was it like growing up then?”

Mariasha nibbled on her sandwich, as though she was thinking. “Things were simpler in many ways. At least when I was a child. You needed money to eat. To pay the rent. So you did what you had to do. My mother sold eggs to neighbors. She took in ironing. We didn’t starve. We always had a chicken on Friday night.”

“Your sculptures seem very optimistic,” Annette said. “I love the one of
Girl Playing Hopscotch.
”

Mariasha smiled. “We were optimistic, even without much money.” Her eyes looked dreamy, but it could have been her cataracts. “We young people had so much energy. We believed we could change the world.”

“Change it in what way?” Annette asked.

Mariasha took another small bite and chewed it slowly. “Oh, we were going to right all the injustices. Better wages. Equal opportunity for all. A fair and just system.”

Communist principles, Annette thought.

“It was how I was raised,” Mariasha said. “When I was a girl, I went to a Workmen’s Circle school in the afternoons to study Yiddish.
Der Arbeter Ring Schule
, it was called. What a wonderful organization
Der Arbeter Ring
was! They even had a summer camp in the Catskill Mountains for children from poor families. I went one summer for a week.” She had that faraway look again. “One of the sweetest weeks of my life.”

“Did your brother Saul go, too?” Julian asked.

She shook her head. “Not to camp. Only to the
schule
. Our father had wanted us to read and write in Yiddish, as well as English, but it was just as important to Papa that we study the ideas of social democracy at
Der Arbeter Ring
.”

“Is that where you learned about communism?” Julian asked.

Annette was surprised that Julian brought up communism after appearing defensive about it the day before.

“We learned about Marx and Lenin,” Mariasha said. “They were heroes to many in the 1920s, especially the Jews who’d run away from Russia. But worthy ideals change over time, distorted by those who try to exploit them for their own agenda.”

What an interesting perspective, Annette thought. Would Mariasha have been sympathetic to Isaac Goldstein or have seen him as someone with an exploitative agenda?

“In those days there were many wrongs to right,” Mariasha said. “Like the injustice of the Sacco and Vanzetti trial. They were foreigners, like most of our parents, and they were executed because of their political beliefs, not for any crime they committed. Because they were said to be anarchists. That made us young people very angry because we were developing our own opinions about how our country should be run.”