Traitor Page 12
I remember your first glance. Yours was a look touched with surprise yet full of warmth—a secretive smile in the corners of your eyes, your pupils widening suddenly in their lakes of blue. Yours was a look of invitation to an adventure, or so I thought, but I realized the moment I held your hand that it was an invitation of a different kind, a call to a journey.
And we did indeed embark on a journey, my Katrina, a journey conducted in the heart and via words scripted in ink, meeting face-to-face just once a year, just once. But oh, those meetings! The storms that raged through my body and soul, the joy and delight that washed through my very being. And yours, too, my darling. Your soul, too, filled to the brim with bliss and peace, raging storms and tranquility. And I say these words to you now, too, without hubris or pretension. With me, I sensed, you felt liberated, free of the chains of the oppressive relationship shackling your spirit and restricting your every step. With me, all of a sudden, you were a young girl again. Barefoot, laughing, carefree. With me, with me of all people. Because our souls touched each other. Because we found that freedom in each other’s arms.
My darling, please don’t allow the lines to follow to weigh heavy on your heart. Fate has thus decreed and there’s nothing more to be done. And I have accepted my fate, and feel at peace with myself, and whatever transpires over the coming days or weeks won’t move me at all. I’m dying, my Katrina. There’s no other way to put it. It’s my destiny. I have severe cancer, stomach cancer. It’s aggressive and terminal, and my doctors have told me there’s nothing more they can do. Truth be told, I appreciated their honesty and cruelty. Regrettably, I wasn’t spared months on end of chemotherapy, which seemed to spark an inferno and set fire to my insides. I accepted my pain and anguish, however, because they afforded me additional weeks and months through which to think of you, my darling, to recapture and cling to those sweet and lazy days we spent in each other’s arms, or walking aimlessly hand in hand, purely for the purpose of being together.
I’m writing to you, my darling, so you will always know just how loved you are, just how much beauty and pleasure you have within you to give, and just how worthy you are of living life to the fullest, with all the force of your emotions and the splendor of the first blooms of the spring.
Yours, only yours,
Igor
33
DIMITROVGRAD, FEBRUARY 2013
Silent tears streamed down Katrina’s cheeks. She looked like a figure in a Rembrandt painting, Ya’ara thought. Wrapped in a clay red shawl, her light hair turning golden under the reading lamp, as if the light were radiating from the fine strands themselves, her small living room gloomy and dark, Igor’s letter stark white in her hands.
“Forgive me, Galina, I know your father passed away a while ago, but it’s as if it’s all happening for me right now, the letter, his imminent death.”
“He loved you until the day he died, just like I told you when we spoke on the phone, and it’s so plain to see, plain and simple, from the letter, too. I have to confess, I’ve read the letter. I couldn’t help myself. I have no idea why he chose not to send it in the end. Perhaps because he didn’t want to cause you sorrow. Perhaps he thought his words were inadequate and unable to properly capture his true feelings. To express the connection you shared. In any event I read it, and it made me feel a little strange, a daughter shouldn’t be exposed like that to her father’s feelings, and certainly not to the manner in which he expresses his love for a woman. But I did read it, and in some strange way it allowed me to discover not only him but you, too. A little. A woman who inspires such love has to be someone special. And not only in the eyes of her beloved.”
“I sent him quite a few letters over the years, until the one in which I asked him to cut off all contact with me.”
“I know, he saved all your letters. I found them wrapped together in one of his drawers, and I packed them just as they were into one of the boxes and haven’t touched them since. I didn’t open them, didn’t read them, perhaps thus preserving his privacy. His and yours. But I did open the last letter he wrote to you, wrote but didn’t send, I apologize . . .”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Galinka. Naturally you were curious. And thanks to your curiosity, you’re here now, with me. Warming the heart of an old woman.”
“Old? What nonsense! And so beautiful, still now, seeing you took my breath away. As if time had stood still since I last saw you in Bat Yam, in our apartment. Back then, however, I was mad at you . . .” Ya’ara said with a shy smile.
Ya’ara had penned Igor’s last letter, with a suggestion or two coming from Adi, who remarked, “It’s like we’re writing a chapter of Anna Karenina.” Amir listened to the version proposed by Ya’ara but said he didn’t really know much about such matters. Aslan said: “Not bad, not bad. A little too flowery, but similar in style to the last letter he actually wrote, melodic like the things you read to us from his sketch pad, the notes he made about nature’s moving beauty and all that.” Aharon, for his part, remained quiet after reading the Hebrew version composed by Ya’ara; he frowned, shook his head a little, briefly closed his eyes, and after a few moments of apparent intense thought, he pulled out his fountain pen, an old green and gold Pelikan, erased a word, altered an expression or two, and said, “Excellent, excellent. Great job, Ya’ara. Michael, take the letter now to Sasha. The guy from the language school. Let him read it to check we haven’t made any mistakes in Russian. Don’t let him improve the letter, you hear me? I don’t want a ‘translate and embellish’ job. He only needs to check the Russian. And then give the letter to Avraham from the graphics department. So he can put it down on paper in Igor’s handwriting. Give him a few samples. And tell him to use materials from the late 1990s. Tell him not to be stingy with his treasures. And not to say a word to anyone. Tell him it’s for me and that’s all. We’ve done a few things together, Mr. Forger-Extraordinaire and me. So here’s one more thing now, for old time’s sake.”
Katrina brushed her hand across her cheek and then wiped it inadvertently on her dress. “Come a little closer so I can see you,” she said, the letter still in her hand. “Where do the years go, where?” she sighed. “It’s so hard. So hard. You know, perhaps it’s better that your father didn’t see me like this, in this remote city. Come, I’ll pour you some more tea.”
She stood up and filled Ya’ara’s cup from the urn in the corner of the room.
“I want you to understand something, Galina,” she said to Ya’ara, looking her straight in the eye. “I had no choice. I had to break off my ties with him immediately. Right away. They didn’t give me a choice.”
“They didn’t give you a choice? Who are they?”
Katrina remained silent for a moment or two. And then she said: “Perhaps we should continue later. I’m exhausted. I’ll rest for a while. Drink some more. Your room is heated. You can rest, too, if you like. Please forgive the mess. All the booklets lying around there. That’s how I earn a living these days, translating technical manuals into Russian. From English or French into Russian. But I cleared away as much as I could, and I put some linen and a nice blanket on the sofa. Rest, my dear, you look tired, too. I’m sure it isn’t easy for you either to remember your father like this.”
Ya’ara stood up and approached Katrina. She reached out and embraced her warmly. Katrina rested her head on Ya’ara’s shoulder, allowing her arms to hang at her sides and losing herself in the touch and lemony fragrance that enveloped the young woman. Ya’ara tightened her embrace for a moment, feeling the bones of Katrina’s slender shoulders. She lifted Katrina’s head and kissed her closed eyes.
Aslan was outside, standing on the edges of the thick vegetation in front of Katrina’s home, his person blending with the shadows and broken branches. His head was covered with a gray fur hat he had bought in Moscow, and his eyes watered from the cold.
34
It was only seven in the evening, or so said the clock in the small living room, but it had been dark f
or quite some time already. Katrina washed her face with ice-cold water and felt a little more refreshed. She glanced outside, through the living room window, and couldn’t see a thing. It was pitch black out, with mounds of dirty snow painting murky white stains in the sea of dark ink that surrounded the house. A reflection of the reading lamp appeared in the window, as did the figure of Ya’ara, who emerged stretching from the study where she had been resting. Katrina grabbed hold of the thick curtain and closed it completely. She went over to the radiator and turned the dial. “I’m turning up the heat a little. It’s cozy under the comforter, but the cold gets into my bones like this,” she said, tightening her shawl around her. “Come, sweet child, let’s sit in the kitchen.”
They sat on either side of a small table that was covered with a red cloth. Alongside the steaming cups of tea stood a squat jar filled with black cherry jam. “Have a little. Taste some. Jams I’m good at. It’s excellent.” Their fingertips met in the center of the table, and Katrina suddenly clasped her two hands around Ya’ara’s one.
“I want to tell you something. It’s important for me to tell you, because I couldn’t tell Igor the truth. And the lie, the lie”—her throat tightened for a moment—“it weighed heavy on all we shared, our true love, our destitute love.”
Ya’ara looked into Katrina’s face and whispered almost inaudibly: “I’m listening.”
“I fell in love with your father, Galinka, out of the blue, in an instant. Without intending to. He wasn’t a strikingly handsome or tall man with a particularly impressive physical presence. But you know that naturally. A thin man, not very tall, modest and gentle. After you got to know him you learned of course that he had the eyes of an artist, and a beautiful soul and enthralling passion, too. Perhaps I shouldn’t be saying such things to his daughter, but we don’t have time for niceties. When I first saw him at the museum, I could see the way in which he was conversing, talking without words, with the painting hanging there in front of him, a work by a Russian artist, I think, or French. Those kinds of things had never concerned me. I was at the museum only for the peace and quiet it offered. And suddenly I wanted—desperately wanted—him to speak to me just like that, too. To be able to listen to me and see me, and to be able to give me things I’d never had before in my life.
“I told your father that I was married and worked as an interpreter. That wasn’t the truth. I do indeed earn a living today as a translator, as I’ve already told you, translating technical material. But that’s the present. Back then, I worked for the KGB. I’d been a part of the organization for almost twenty years already when I met your father. I was recruited at a very young age, immediately after I graduated from university. I studied foreign languages and literature. I was very beautiful back then, and adventurous, and I loved my country. Still today, here in this remote location, and maybe even because I’m here in the middle of nowhere, I love Russia. I was assigned to the First Chief Directorate, which was responsible for KGB operations abroad. I was a dedicated and loyal field operative. We worked hard. The things I did! But that’s not what I want to talk about. I was never married. The opportunity never arose, and perhaps I never met the right man. Work always came first anyway. And second and third.” A small glint appeared in Katrina’s eyes. A tired smile. “But I fell pregnant. The result of a brief and whirlwind relationship with a handsome military officer, ten years older than me. He was in the fast lane. And married, of course. He got a slap on the wrist when the story emerged, a letter of reprimand in his file, his promotion put on hold for two years, but he was talented, and well connected, and they didn’t want to ruin his career. And me, stubborn me, I rejected the warm offer of those who knew about the affair, to have an abortion and move on. Having an abortion in Russia at the time wasn’t a problem, and I don’t think things have changed. A woman in Russia has say over her own body, and she and no one else decides what she does with it. She, and sometimes the party. They didn’t make things difficult for me, they just wanted the mishap to be resolved quickly. I went on leave for a few months, moved in with my mother, had the baby, and we raised Natalya together, my sweet mother and I. And after four months, my mother continued to take care of my beautiful baby and I went back to work. I used to spend weeks at a time outside the Soviet Union, one trip after another, operation after operation after operation.
“One day, toward the end of the 1980s, just a few months before the fall of the Berlin Wall, I was summoned to a special meeting. I reported to the offices of the directorate’s Tactical Planning Division. I learned later that the division was responsible for special, highly classified undercover operations. The division wasn’t even based there. It was a cover office of sorts inside the Lubyanka headquarters. I got there and a young man immediately asked me to accompany him. We went down to the underground parking garage and left from there in an unmarked car for a different facility, in southern Moscow. Oh, Galina, I don’t even know if any of this interests you, but at my age—who’s left for me to talk to? Anyway, we arrived at an industrial building in an area of garages and workshops. That’s where I met the colonel. His name isn’t important just now. He was dressed, of course, in civilian clothing, and told me after politely introducing himself that from that moment onward I belonged to them. I was a part of them and was now working with them. He told me I’d been drafted into the division responsible for handling a small and particularly classified group of spies working for the Soviet Union in key locations around the world. Top-level agents, he termed them. A special committee headed by the commander of the directorate himself decided which agents were transferred to the division. My job would be to provide cover, security, and operational assistance to the agents’ handlers. Every case is a unique case, he said, and my role would be determined in keeping with the special requirements of each operation. And that’s how I met your father.”
“I don’t understand,” Ya’ara whispered. “Are you saying my father was a top-level KGB agent?”
“No, no, don’t be crazy! Your father an agent? Are you serious? What would he have filed reports about, the deliberations of the Bat Yam Artists Association? Don’t get me wrong, my dear. Your father was an innocent and honest man. He was an artist. Period. You knew him better than I did, after all, even though you don’t look like him at all. Anyway, my work took me, among other places, to Israel, too, and so, only because I was in your country on a mission that had nothing at all to do with Igor, only because of that did fate bring us together.
“I can tell, in fact, that my story does interest you,” Katrina said with a bitter smile. And to sweeten it, perhaps, she scooped up some jam with her teaspoon and stirred it into her tea without bringing the fruit preserve to her lips. “I don’t know the identity of the agent we were handling in Israel. Compartmentalization was very tightly observed, so if I didn’t have to know something, I wasn’t told. The agent was referred to as Cobra, that I knew. After all, we had to use some code name in the operational orders, on the expense report forms, on all the endless paperwork that accompanied our operations. Sometimes I felt more like a desk clerk than a field operative. I also knew that he was very important, and that we were investing a great deal of time, effort, and money in him. Even his handler himself was a rare and valuable resource. He was a long-serving KGB operative, who worked very deep under cover, as deep as possible, in the United States. We must have handled Cobra under the guise of being Americans; it’s the only way to explain why such a valuable asset was assigned to the operation. Just imagine, an officer living in the United States as an American, for all intents and purposes. Believe me, he really did look and sound like an authentic American. His cover was perfect, as if we had tailored it ourselves, aside from once. I knew he was actually Russian by birth. There’s a look in the eyes that only a Russian can have. He went by the name of Brian Cox, but I didn’t know his real identity. I’d meet with him during his trips to Europe, in Switzerland or Italy usually. We traveled to Israel together as colleagues. He operat
ed under a Canadian passport, and his cover was that of a professor of the ancient Near East. He truly was an expert in the art of the ancient world, he knew a lot and told me quite a bit during the long hours we spent together, waiting for a flight or a meeting or a final briefing before a round of meetings with an agent. Sometimes we’d visit a local museum together, or even exhibitions of small collections at universities. He was an avid admirer of the art of the Middle Ages, and whenever possible we’d visit cathedrals and churches, where he’d lecture me enthusiastically about the murals and sculptures and ancient sacred artifacts. It was a hobby of sorts for him, he said, and he certainly knew a great deal. Of course, I’m pretty sure it was a lot more than just a hobby. It wasn’t simply a cover. He lived the subject, understood it, was a true expert.” Katrina’s gaze turned distant and Ya’ara could tell that she had never had anyone to talk to about the things she had experienced over the years. Katrina pulled herself together and continued: “Like him, I received my documentation for the specific assignment only once we were in Europe, to carry with me to the operational arena. I operated under a different identity each time we met. French, Swiss, or Belgian. My French is near perfect, which made things a lot easier. Confronted by a Belgian, I’d say I was Swiss; if the person talking to me was Swiss, I was from France—and so on. Look,” Katrina smiled again, “can you believe it? You’re getting a crash course in espionage. Anyway, when we met, Cobra’s handler and I, I’d accompany him as his research assistant, and if the cover so required, I was his mistress, too. All men, including police officers and interrogators, are respectful of affairs on the side, and if they’re led to believe they’re touching on delicate territory, they’ll remain discreet. It’s always easier to operate as a couple, a man and a woman. You’re spared a lot of questions. My assignments in Israel, or anywhere else we met with him, also included providing security for Cobra, to ensure he got to the meetings unaccompanied, without anyone on his tail. And to make sure that Brian wasn’t being followed either. I was also there to act as the liaison with the Russian embassy, but only if left with no alternative. We didn’t want to go anywhere near the embassy, because we assumed the Shin Bet kept it under surveillance. I went into the embassy only once during all my visits to Israel. Brian had some kind of a problem with his secret communications system, and I had to get him a new diskette from our representatives at the embassy, from the Rezidentura. Just once. And I noticed thereafter that I was being followed and it took me a few hours to put them to sleep, to bore them, and then to give them the slip so I could meet up again with Brian and give him what he needed.”