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This is a fiction about a time when truly fateful events took place. The fiction is open ended as the consequences of those events are...
A fateful trip
Sitting in the black limo with this cold, android like but undeniably handsome stranger, Chris started to question the wisdom of her trip. The traffic was slow and she had plenty of time to rerun the events of the last few days. It all started with a trip she decided on in a whim.
Yes, the trip she expected so much from! The trip that was supposed to clear her father’s name and put an end to her decades-long emotional torment. Was his father really a spy? Was he a man who would have betrayed his country for a fee? Although her father died long ago in a suspicious car accident, these questions weighted on her so heavily, for so long! All her life…
When, as a child they played hide and seek, nobody wanted to hide with her. The children called her the daughter of a traitor. Much later, when she applied for one of the Ivy League universities, they congratulated her for the exceptional personal statement. She got high praise for her colorful language, the elegant simplicity of style and the obvious commitment to her chosen field, corporate law. Then, one of the interviewers asked what she thought about her father's dealings with the Russians at the height of the cold war. When her boyfriend Tod first introduced her to his mother, she quickly managed to bring up her father’s case. "Do you think your father's unfortunate death was really an accident? I know that you were very young then, but the trial made so many headlines those days! They said the Russians would not have made the H-bomb without his help... He must have been such a smart man! But to give all that information to the Russians!?"
Her father's involvement was never really proven nonetheless he was called a traitor in every newspaper, the radio and TV shows of the days.
Sitting in the black limo with this cold, android like but undeniably handsome stranger, Chris started to question the wisdom of her trip. The traffic was slow and she had plenty of time to rerun the events of the last few days. It all started with a trip she decided on in a whim.
Yes, the trip she expected so much from! The trip that was supposed to clear her father’s name and put an end to her decades-long emotional torment. Was his father really a spy? Was he a man who would have betrayed his country for a fee? Although her father died long ago in a suspicious car accident, these questions weighted on her so heavily, for so long! All her life…
When, as a child they played hide and seek, nobody wanted to hide with her. The children called her the daughter of a traitor. Much later, when she applied for one of the Ivy League universities, they congratulated her for the exceptional personal statement. She got high praise for her colorful language, the elegant simplicity of style and the obvious commitment to her chosen field, corporate law. Then, one of the interviewers asked what she thought about her father's dealings with the Russians at the height of the cold war. When her boyfriend Tod first introduced her to his mother, she quickly managed to bring up her father’s case. "Do you think your father's unfortunate death was really an accident? I know that you were very young then, but the trial made so many headlines those days! They said the Russians would not have made the H-bomb without his help... He must have been such a smart man! But to give all that information to the Russians!?"
Her father's involvement was never really proven nonetheless he was called a traitor in every newspaper, the radio and TV shows of the days.
Only if she knew the truth! All her life, she has been in limbo about the man she barely remembered yet she wanted to look up to so badly. She believed, …no deep inside she was convinced, that her father would not have betrayed his country. She knew that he was the victim of the McCarthy witch-hunt because of his peace activism, …but even if he was guilty! She just wanted know it so that this troubled detail of her life would come to a closure.
And then one day came that phone call. It was placed from Kirkutzk, a small town somewhere in Russia, in a mountain whose name she never heard of, in the Altai. The man who called introduced himself as Vasiljevich and only said this much: "I know about your father and could tell you things that might interest you. If it is important to you, get on a plane and visit me! What we would be discussing can not be done on the phone."
Two days later she arrived to this typical Soviet era town with rows of 4 story concrete apartment buildings and a wide main street where the May 1 marches used to take place. It did have its charm though, thanks to the surrounding gently sloping hills with their thick green forests and a lake that the locals called the "Eye of the sea". Vasiljevich was waiting for her with his capri-yellow Lada, the pride of the Russian automobile industry. They drove right away to Vasiljevich’s small house at the perimeter of the town. The neighborhood was clearly home to the elite of the town with well-maintained houses, clean streets and neatly trimmed gardens.
Vasiljevich showed her into the kitchen, apparently the social hub of the house. There was a basketful of piroshkies on the table freshly baked for the visitor and two empty glasses. “I know Americans don’t like vodka. This is a good wine from my own grapes,” boasted the host as he filled up the glasses. “You’ll see that you like it!” His English was good, with that unmistakable musical, slavish intonation.
“I knew your father” he started, “I followed his trial. I know that he would have received very harsh sentencing had he not died in that accident. … That accident really came as a blessing in disguise for him. I don’t even know if it was really an accident” he mused for a moment.
“I am a father too. My son loves me and respects me as all sons should respect their fathers. I know how heart broken he would be if one day I were condemned for some despicable action. I feel your pain…, that’s why I decided to set the record straight.” He kept a short break again, “…He was not a spy!"
He lifted the glass to his mouth and had a slow sip of wine. He continued in a dreamy way, as he was reliving those old memories. "I was assigned to his case from the KGB and met him several times in the US. True, we tried to recruit him because of his invaluable knowledge of the American nuclear program and his well-publicized disappointment with the strong hawkish influence within the core group. You remember Edward Teller, don’t you?”
He took a deep breath, “I befriended your father and at one point offered him large amount of money for certain information. He became very agitated with me and threatened to give me up to the CIA.” For a moment, he seemed to be gathering his thoughts. “Of course, we had means to prevent him from going to the CIA and I was not afraid that he would do that. We had documents in our hand, some real, some falsified, that could have put him in a very bad position with the CIA. You understand that in this business one needs to be mean and has to take chances, as I did."
His eyes narrowed and was barely blinking as he dipped deeper and deeper into the past. " Later, I tried to appeal to his peace loving inclination. I told him that one superpower having a devastating weapon without any counterbalance is a danger for World peace, no matter how democratic that superpower is. I tried to convince him that, despite the heavy propaganda otherwise, the Soviet Union needed peace and we wanted to win the Cold War without military confrontation. For this however, we had to be able to show strength to get the Americans’ attention. As I remember, this argument almost worked on him. But, at the end he refused any cooperation with us and I never saw him again.”
And then one day came that phone call. It was placed from Kirkutzk, a small town somewhere in Russia, in a mountain whose name she never heard of, in the Altai. The man who called introduced himself as Vasiljevich and only said this much: "I know about your father and could tell you things that might interest you. If it is important to you, get on a plane and visit me! What we would be discussing can not be done on the phone."
Two days later she arrived to this typical Soviet era town with rows of 4 story concrete apartment buildings and a wide main street where the May 1 marches used to take place. It did have its charm though, thanks to the surrounding gently sloping hills with their thick green forests and a lake that the locals called the "Eye of the sea". Vasiljevich was waiting for her with his capri-yellow Lada, the pride of the Russian automobile industry. They drove right away to Vasiljevich’s small house at the perimeter of the town. The neighborhood was clearly home to the elite of the town with well-maintained houses, clean streets and neatly trimmed gardens.
Vasiljevich showed her into the kitchen, apparently the social hub of the house. There was a basketful of piroshkies on the table freshly baked for the visitor and two empty glasses. “I know Americans don’t like vodka. This is a good wine from my own grapes,” boasted the host as he filled up the glasses. “You’ll see that you like it!” His English was good, with that unmistakable musical, slavish intonation.
“I knew your father” he started, “I followed his trial. I know that he would have received very harsh sentencing had he not died in that accident. … That accident really came as a blessing in disguise for him. I don’t even know if it was really an accident” he mused for a moment.
“I am a father too. My son loves me and respects me as all sons should respect their fathers. I know how heart broken he would be if one day I were condemned for some despicable action. I feel your pain…, that’s why I decided to set the record straight.” He kept a short break again, “…He was not a spy!"
He lifted the glass to his mouth and had a slow sip of wine. He continued in a dreamy way, as he was reliving those old memories. "I was assigned to his case from the KGB and met him several times in the US. True, we tried to recruit him because of his invaluable knowledge of the American nuclear program and his well-publicized disappointment with the strong hawkish influence within the core group. You remember Edward Teller, don’t you?”
He took a deep breath, “I befriended your father and at one point offered him large amount of money for certain information. He became very agitated with me and threatened to give me up to the CIA.” For a moment, he seemed to be gathering his thoughts. “Of course, we had means to prevent him from going to the CIA and I was not afraid that he would do that. We had documents in our hand, some real, some falsified, that could have put him in a very bad position with the CIA. You understand that in this business one needs to be mean and has to take chances, as I did."
His eyes narrowed and was barely blinking as he dipped deeper and deeper into the past. " Later, I tried to appeal to his peace loving inclination. I told him that one superpower having a devastating weapon without any counterbalance is a danger for World peace, no matter how democratic that superpower is. I tried to convince him that, despite the heavy propaganda otherwise, the Soviet Union needed peace and we wanted to win the Cold War without military confrontation. For this however, we had to be able to show strength to get the Americans’ attention. As I remember, this argument almost worked on him. But, at the end he refused any cooperation with us and I never saw him again.”
He kept a short silence again. “We split up really almost like friends… I had tremendous respect for your father because of his superb mind and his honest desire for peace. But the times were not right for such sentiments in those days.” He looked at Chris, “Of course you must know about Oppenheimer.”
Vasiljevich became silent. He finished all he had to tell to this nervously squinting, petit, middle age woman who came here all the way from America to find out the truth about her father.
“Do you have any documentation of what you just said”, Chris asked him.
Vasiljevich became silent. He finished all he had to tell to this nervously squinting, petit, middle age woman who came here all the way from America to find out the truth about her father.
“Do you have any documentation of what you just said”, Chris asked him.
“These operations were so secret that when the system change came around, they destroyed everything ever written about them. Don’t waste your time to search the archives in the Kremlin. Nobody knows about it. My bosses of those days are long dead”.
“Would you be willing to disclose what you just told me to American officials?”
“Chris, I love it here. I am old and traveled enough to last for a life-time. I am not going anywhere from Kirkutzk”
“There are ways to contact you without having to leave town. I probably could arrange for that. Would you do it that way”
“Yes” Vasiljevich said. “I would”.
“Thanks! I will be heading back tomorrow and will contact you about the arrangement”. A moment of silence fell between them, as if both tried to take in the significance of what has been just said.
“Vasiljevich” she broke suddenly the silence, leaning close to the old man and giving him a tight hug that a woman can only give to her child. “You know how grateful I am for you!”
She left town with the early morning bus to the local airport, and a few hours later she was waiting to board the New York flight from the Moscow international airport. Suddenly her cell phone rang and an unfamiliar man, with broken English asked for her. “I am Vasiljevich’s son” he introduced himself. “My father had a heart attack this morning Miss, and now he is in the hospital on a respirator. The doctor’s don’t know if he will make it. You are the one who saw him last..., I thought you may want know.” Chris could barely catch her breath and utter, “I am so sorry for your father."
At the exit gate in JFK a tall, solidly built, handsome man approached her in immaculate three-piece black suite. Although he had no dark sunglasses, she was barely surprised when he pulled out a badge from his pocket and flashed it in front of her face. The three letters on the badge were almost screaming at her: CIA.
"Ms. X, we need to talk to you in an urgent matter, please come with me to the office in downtown." There was no point to protest. They sat into a black limo and the driver started his skillful maneuvering in the afternoon rush hour. As if the man was reading her mind, he said: "Vasiljevich is a person of special interest and we know that you met him. We would appreciate if you could answer a few questions about this visit."
Christine's had was spinning. For a while she could not rein in her swirling thoughts but finally it all cleared up. "Two days ago I was a normal, everyday citizen... then, I decided to visit the only man who could clear my father's name, but he gets a heart attack and may not survive…, the KGB documents supporting his recount are shred and now the CIA is going to interrogate me!" Suddenly, she found the whole situation so bizarrely comical that she broke out in a loud laugh. The man looked at her puzzled. Wiping her tears, she explained: "You know, I am starting to question the wisdom of this trip."
She left town with the early morning bus to the local airport, and a few hours later she was waiting to board the New York flight from the Moscow international airport. Suddenly her cell phone rang and an unfamiliar man, with broken English asked for her. “I am Vasiljevich’s son” he introduced himself. “My father had a heart attack this morning Miss, and now he is in the hospital on a respirator. The doctor’s don’t know if he will make it. You are the one who saw him last..., I thought you may want know.” Chris could barely catch her breath and utter, “I am so sorry for your father."
At the exit gate in JFK a tall, solidly built, handsome man approached her in immaculate three-piece black suite. Although he had no dark sunglasses, she was barely surprised when he pulled out a badge from his pocket and flashed it in front of her face. The three letters on the badge were almost screaming at her: CIA.
"Ms. X, we need to talk to you in an urgent matter, please come with me to the office in downtown." There was no point to protest. They sat into a black limo and the driver started his skillful maneuvering in the afternoon rush hour. As if the man was reading her mind, he said: "Vasiljevich is a person of special interest and we know that you met him. We would appreciate if you could answer a few questions about this visit."
Christine's had was spinning. For a while she could not rein in her swirling thoughts but finally it all cleared up. "Two days ago I was a normal, everyday citizen... then, I decided to visit the only man who could clear my father's name, but he gets a heart attack and may not survive…, the KGB documents supporting his recount are shred and now the CIA is going to interrogate me!" Suddenly, she found the whole situation so bizarrely comical that she broke out in a loud laugh. The man looked at her puzzled. Wiping her tears, she explained: "You know, I am starting to question the wisdom of this trip."
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