"Patsy!": The Life and Times of Lee Harvey Oswald (43 page)

The brain beneath that anguished face had to be wondering if he were the genius his heart and soul insisted or the non-talent fool everyone in his world apparently believed him to be.

Such anguish! He paints the way I feel ... I am not alone ... others have walked this path ... and, in the end, many reigned supreme, if only after passing through hell on earth . .

T
he Oswalds took the Moscow-Berlin express to Rotterdam, boarding SS
Maasdam,
sailing for America
June 4. Lee delighted at what he considered an appealing
circumstance or one more bit of evidence his life did follow some preordained pattern, the ever-twisting trail inextricably linked to that of his favorite singer/star, Frank Sinatra: The boat would dock at Hoboken, New Jersey, the scene of Sinatra's humble birth and childhood.

Lee couldn't wait to see the town for himself, albeit briefly, hoping to track down the building where The Voice had been raised. Like the Italian kid from a northern Sicilian ghetto in the U.S., this Southern boy from an urban slum had crawled up and out. Sinatra was blessed with that remarkable tool, his talent. Lee's attributes? Considerably less obvious.

Still, he'd never forgotten something Sinatra once said in an interview when the TV host asked him to explain how he had defied the odds and hit the big-time: “I refused to fail!”

Lee had accepted that as his mantra. If it was good enough for Francis Albert Sinatra, then it would be good enough for Lee Harvey Oswald. At any rate, he was home.

However bad his experiences here may have been, Lee was an American, true blue to the core. Why his patriotism remained so strong and firm, Lee could not yet put into precise words.

What was the line from that movie ... ? Oh, of course: Just because you love something doesn't mean it has to love you back. Monty Clift,
From Here to Eternity,
1953 ...

There was another movie, a modern western called
Home From
the Hill
, made just two years ago, starring Robert Mitchum. It had been set in Texas, Lee even now on his way back there. The title derived from a poem Lee read while in that seventh grade English class, with that teacher who made all the difference.

A poem by Robert Louis Stevenson. How did it go?

Home is the sailor, home from the sea, The hunter, home from the hill ...

That's might be me the poet wrote of, long before I was born. I am the sailor, here on this ship's deck, gazing at the Statue of Liberty, my beautiful bride and wonderful child beside me. Sea-spray splashes up on us, circling gulls squawk, people cheer at the site New York harbor. I am the hunter, as I have stalked my prey, righteously killed my enemy.

No one can now doubt my manhood. His blood flowed through my fingers; I delighted in watching him suffer. I have killed and, if necessary, for my good or my country, will kill again.

I know now that this is what I, Lee Oswald, was born for.

I was blessed, or cursed, with a talent for killing.

“Darling? You look so intense. Is anything wrong?”

“No, Marina. Actually, things have never been so right.”

*

Marina's disillusionment with what was supposed to be her own American Dream-come-true began ten days before reaching the U.S. On George's suggestion, Lee had booked them into a Third Class cabin aboard the
Maasdam
, hopefully not attracting
any unwanted attention: i.e., where did these supposedly simple folk get the money for a luxurious passage? The FBI would ask such questions upon their disembarking, blowing his cover.

Though the guise worked, a toll was taken as to Marina: she despised the cramped quarters, the inedibly bad food, the sense of having been reduced from a Beautiful Person a short while earlier to a virtual pauper, when this great sea-change that she had agreed to brought her down, not up, socially.

“I do not mind the bareness of it all. But this is
dirty.
”

“Stay strong. In a week we will be home. This
will
end.”

Aboard the ship, a Russian-speaking waiter named Pieter Didenko delighted Marina with his conversations about the Old Country. Delicately, he let her know that he would be her KGB contact while sailing. Any messages which needed to be conveyed to the KGB could be passed through his resources.

Also, wherever in the U.S. the couple settled, she would be contacted. A network of Russian agents would quietly follow the Oswalds' every move. She hinted that Lee had said something to her about wanting to join his family in the Fort Worth area.

“Fabulous. Our most reliable people live near there.”

After disembarking, Lee was singled out from the other passengers and interrogated at length by Spas T. Raikin. He claimed to be a Russian speaking caseworker with Travelers Aid in New York City. From the barrage of pointed questions, Lee guessed Raikin to be an FBI plant or an operative for the Bureau assigned to learn as much as possible as to what was going on inside his mind. Lee stuck to the legend he had concocted and which George heartily approved of. This left Raikin confused as to how Lee Oswald ought to be summed up: More socialist than communist and, from what he said, more pro-American than ever following his discouraging experiences in the Soviet Union.

“Will being back in America make you happy?”

“Happiness,” Lee responded, “can exist only in taking part in a struggle to achieve a state in which there is no borderline between one's personal world and the world in general.”

What in the name of God is this guy even talking about? Is Lee Harvey Oswald an innocent, a Soviet agent, or a philosopher?

Following a one night stay at the Times Square Hotel, where Marina expressed some delight in the bright neon lights below and constant rush and flow of people, everyone in some great hurry to be somewhere other than where they currently were, Lee, Marina, and June flew from New York International Airport on Delta Flight 821 to Dallas' Love Field.

There they were greeted by Robert Oswald and his wife Vada. “Welcome home, little brother. Keep your nose clean?”

“Of course. I brought one of your handkerchiefs along.”

During the ninety minute car trip back to Fort Worth, where husband, wife and daughter would temporarily stay with the warm couple, Robert and Vada attempted to strike up a friendly conversation with their new family member. They were surprised to learn Marina spoke not a word of English. She would merely smile sweetly in response to everything they said, nodding her head in a manner that suggested she had not a clue what they were talking about but desperately hoped to be liked, accepted.

“She's very beautiful, Lee.”

“Thank you, Vada. Does she remind you of Brigitte Bardot?”

“A little, perhaps.”

“I think so. Very much. I always dreamed of being married to a movie star. Or someone who looks like one.”

“I only hope she can make you happy. As the old saying goes, looks aren't everything.”

“But of course they are!” Lee laughed.

Oh, my dear, pathetic brother in law. Are you ever in for it! As I guess you will soon learn ...

In actuality, the woman playing Marina, whose name may well have been Alexandrovana Medvedeva, spoke fluent English, this one of the many reasons the KGB picked her for this position. But by pretending to be ignorant, as well as a near-idiot, the lovely, apparently shy secret agent could create a situation in which people spoke openly in front of her, just as she wished.

*

At 7313 Davenport Street in Fort Worth, Marina marveled at the everyday objects of suburban American culture: toasters, a TV, an extra bedroom, two bathrooms and, most charming of all, a garden in their small back yard, rich with multi-colored flowers.

Her mood improved. She asked Lee in Russian if they would soon be able to afford something like this. He was obliged to tell her Bob had worked his way up to an executive with Acme Brick, and that since Lee must begin at the bottom, wherever he might find a position, such comparative luxury would be some time coming.

“Oh! But a short while, yes?”

“I'll work hard, Marina. I'll do what I can?”

“Soon, though. Something like this. For us?”

“Understand, Robert is paid higher than some common worker. Vada brings in additional money as a beautician.”

“But this is what I want, at least for a beginning.”

“I can't promise anything. Only that I'll try.”

Lee noted disappointment in her eyes. Marina at once fell into a depression. Lee did, too, if for an entirely oppositional reason Marina could not possibly guess.

When George had instructed Lee to recreate his Legend, the manner in which he did so had been left up to the agent in the field. As such, Lee arrived at a decision to attack Russia's cynical form of communism, no better than the supposed opposite pole of fascism. As an American, he believed this fully, had before he even arrived, his experiences offering excellent proof of such a belief.

On the other hand, his “legend” held that he remained a Marxist-idealist, believing a pure state of all-power-to-the-people could be achieved and that such a state would be the best place on earth.

So he rejected Russia as a failed experiment, accepting other situations in the world as potential success stories.

The problem, if there was one, had to do with a gradual but serious blending process between his assumed legend and his true self. Lee had attempted to put his current state into words in his debriefing by Raikin. That extremely ordinary man clearly had no idea what Lee attempted to express.

One aspect of his earlier “legend,” first in the service, then after arriving in Russia, was to decry the U.S. owing to his own past life: though a hardworking woman, his mother had not been able to bring herself and her children up from poverty. The American Dream of eventual success via hard work was but a myth. Perhaps the Marxist ideal, if ever fully augmented, would provide a better way of life for the common working man.

Over time, Lee had begun to believe that this might be the case. Life in the Soviet Union only assured him that such a pure communist state did not exist. At least not yet. And not there.

But could it? Will it? Could I help make that happen?

For the first time since their initial meeting, Lee had experienced a thought-process he did not share with George in any of their constant secretive correspondences. To do so would likely cause Lee to be drummed out of CIA service, and he did not want that. How powerful, as well as patriotic, all this made him feel!

Also, he did want to aid the U.S. in its conflict with the Soviet Union, which he had never admired, now strongly disliked.

Still, he had to reconcile the Company's abiding attitude—all Communism, in any form, anyplace in the world, constituted a threat—with a gnawing, growing belief that pure Marxism, if it ever instituted, might be better than capitalistic democracy.

*

Lee considered writing a book on the subject. But the need to find work so as to feed his family, rather than rely on the good will of Robert (Lee feared an ugly scene like the earlier one in New York), demanded that any literary career be put off indefinitely. Lee applied for a job with the Texas Employment Commission as a possible translator of Russian, should anyone be in need of such services. While this did not immediately provide work, it put Lee in contact with an executive at that office, Peter Paul Gregory. A friendly man, he suggested that Lee soon contact members of the local Russian community.

Meanwhile, Marguerite had arrived from Crowell, TX. Within a week Lee, Marina, and baby June shared an apartment with Lee's mother on Seventh Street, a baker's dozen blocks away from Robert's.

Though Marguerite made a fuss over the young woman and their darling baby, her personality was no different than before, other than perhaps more advanced in such directions.

“Oh, Lee. Such a wonderful family you have now! I'm so proud of you. And so delighted that you came back.”

“Yes, Momma. Please understand, though. As soon as I locate a decent job, Marina and I want a place of our own.”

“What?” Marguerite, suddenly appearing faint, collapsed on the couch. “After all I've done, all I've suffered ...”

“We're a young couple, Momma. A young
family
now.”

“And me?” she wept. “I'm not part of that family?”

“That's not what I meant. Momma, stop crying, please?”

Marguerite had not changed. If anything, Marguerite was more Marguerite than before. Her bouts of hysteria and overdone performances of gentility confused and irritated Marina, who missed the calm, easygoing company of Robert and his family, as well as their more appealing apartment.

“Hang on, darling. This will all change—”

“Yes, Lee? But that's what you said onboard the boat.”

Lee did find work with the Leslie Welding Company at its louver-door factory where he labored as a humble metalworker. At least this allowed him, toward the end of July, to move out of his mother's apartment, over to their first “own place” at 2703 Mercedes Street. Even as Robert drove them there, Marguerite sobbing about being deserted once again by her baby boy, Lee experienced a sense of déjà vu.

What he'd hated most about his childhood was the constant dislocation, those frenzied moves from one place to another. Now supposedly in charge, the same thing was happening once again.

“Here, Lee? Here is where we'll stay?”

“For the time being, Marina. We'll have to see ...”

Meanwhile, Lee sent to George the documents he'd smuggled out of Russia: photographs of the emergent technology at the factory where he'd worked, images too of the adjacent military compounds he had taken while off on hunting trips with his .22.