I remembered the rumors, of course. They had nearly destroyed my family.
My sister and I were born in what was then called the Soviet Union during what was then called the Cold War. My father had been a medical doctor but lost his license on charges of incompetence trumped up because he was Jewish. That was how it was in those days.
At the same time, a reform synagogue here in the United States—Skokie, Illinois, to be more specific—was working hard on behalf of Soviet Jewry. During the midseventies, Soviet Jewry was something of a cause célèbre in American temples—getting Jews out of the Soviet Union.
We got lucky. They got us out.
For a long time we were heralded in our new land as heroes. My father spoke passionately at Friday night services about the plight of the Soviet Jew. Kids wore buttons in support. Money was donated. But about a year into our stay, my father and the head rabbi had a falling out, and suddenly there were whispers that my father had gotten out of the Soviet Union because he was actually KGB, that he wasn’t even Jewish, that it was all a ruse. The charges were pathetic and contradictory and false and now, well, more than twenty-five years old.
I shook my head. “So they’re trying to prove that my father was KGB?”
“Yes.”
Friggin’ Jenrette. I got it, I guessed. I was something of a public figure now. The charges, even if ultimately proven false, would be damaging. I should know. Twenty-five years ago, my family had lost pretty much everything due to those accusations. We left Skokie, moved east to Newark. Our family was never the same.
I looked up. “On the phone you said you’d thought I’d call.”
“If you hadn’t, I would have called you today.”
“To warn me?”
“Yes.”
“So,” I said, “they must have something.”
The big man did not reply. I watched his face. And it was as if my entire world, everything I grew up believing, slowly shifted.
“Was he KGB, Sosh?” I asked.
“It was a long time ago,” Sosh said.
“Does that mean yes?”
Sosh smiled slowly. “You don’t understand how it was.”
“And again I say: Does that mean yes?”
“No, Pavel. But your father…maybe he was supposed to be.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do you know how I came to this country?”
“You worked for a travel company.”
“It was the Soviet Union, Pavel. There were no companies. InTourist was run by the government. Everything was run by the government. Do you understand?”
“I guess.”
“So when the Soviet government had a chance to send someone to live in New York City, do you think they sent the man who was most competent in booking vacations? Or do you think they sent someone who might help them in other ways?”
I thought about the size of his hands. I thought about his strength. “So you were KGB?”
“I was a colonel in the military. We didn’t call it KGB. But yes, I guess you would call me”—he made quote marks with his fingers—“‘a spy.’ I would meet with American officials. I would try to bribe them. People always think we learn important things—things that can change the balance of power. That’s such nonsense. We learned nothing relevant. Not ever. And the American spies? They never learned anything about us either. We passed nonsense from side to side. It was a silly game.”
“And my father?”
“The Soviet government let him out. Your Jewish friends think that they applied enough pressure. But please. Did a bunch of Jews in a synagogue really think they could pressure a government that answered to no one? It’s almost funny when you think about it.”
“So you’re saying…?”
“I’m just telling you how it was. Did your father promise he would help the regime? Of course. But it was just to get out. It’s complicated, Pavel. You can’t imagine what it was like for him. Your father was a good doctor and a better man. The government made up charges that he committed medical malpractice. They took away his license. Then your grandmother and grandfather…my God, Natasha’s wonderful parents…you’re too young to remember—”
“I remember,” I said.
“Do you?”
I wondered if I really did. I have that image of my grandfather, my Popi, and the shock of white hair and maybe his boisterous laugh, and my grandmother, my Noni, gently scolding him. But I was three when they were taken away. Did I really remember them, or has that old photo I still keep out come to life? Was it a real memory or something I’d created from my mother’s stories?
“Your grandparents were intellectuals—university professors. Your grandfather headed the history department. Your grandmother was a brilliant mathematician. You know this, yes?”
I nodded. “My mother said she learned more from the debates at the dinner table than at school.”
Sosh smiled. “Probably true. The most brilliant academics sought out your grandparents. But, of course, that drew the attention of the government. They were labeled radicals. They were considered dangerous. Do you remember when they were arrested?”
“I remember,” I said, “the aftermath.”
He closed his eyes for a long second. “What it did to your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Natasha was never the same. You understand that?”
“I do.”
“So here he was, your father. He had lost so much—his career, his reputation, his license and now your mother’s parents. And suddenly, down like he was, the government gave your father a way out. A chance for a fresh start.”
“A life in the USA.”
“Yes.”
“And all he had to do was spy?”
Sosh waved a dismissive hand in my direction. “Don’t you get it? It was a big game. What could a man like your father learn? Even if he tried—which he didn’t. What could he tell them?”
“And my mother?”
“Natasha was just a woman to them. The government cared nothing for the woman. She was a problem for a while. Like I said, her parents, your grandparents, were radicals in their eyes. You say you remembered when they were taken?”
“I think I do.”
“Your grandparents formed a group, trying to get the human rights abuses out to the public. They were making headway until a traitor turned them in. The agents came at night.”