Columbia University, NYC, a sunny summer day. Two men in Dr. Friedman’s office. Besides Dr Friedman himself, there is also his guest, a man in his ‘20s named Josh Concorde, whose face is now distorted in desperate attempts to suppress a yawn.
Enter a young man, casually dressed, a folder in his hand. His name is Leonid Zak. (That’s the name I was using then.)
“I brought the stuff,” says Zak in a borscht-thick accent. “I put here, ok? Anything else, sir?”
As he speaks, his eyes drill Josh.
“Ah, Leonid.” Friedman is clearly annoyed. “Thank you. Please don’t call me ‘sir’. This smacks of…I dont know, just don’t do it.”
“As you wish, Professore”
Zak nods at Friedman, then at Josh, while giving the latter a long hard look. He exits.
“I am such a pushover,” complained Professor Friedman. “You take this Leonid guy – you saw him, he just brought in this folder. He translates articles from Soviet science journals for me, he’s quite a competent translator, plus works fast, but I swear to God if it wasn’t for Myra Feldman I wouldn’t give him time of the day.
‘Myra is one of those Jewish women. She can’t take a breath without getting involved in a cause. She knows she can count on me, I went to school with her husband Mark, if I tried to say No to her, it would be a big Oy vey iz mir. Anyway, her cause du jour is Let My People Go, getting Soviet Jews out of Russia. People like Myra, their hearts are in the right place, but their methods are all wrong. I mean, the Soviet Union is a superpower, they lost 50 million people in WWII – you would think they deserve a bit more respect, instead of being constantly harassed about a bunch of Jews. When you see those Jews in real life…
‘Take this Leonid character – he is so cynical, no wonder the Soviets would get rid of him first chance they had. Always makes sarcastic jokes with a scowl, I can just see it in his eyes – he would do anything to get ahead. Climb over bodies. Don’t get me wrong: ok, so he’s a refugee, but my own grandparents, do you think when they got to Ellis Island they had charity taking care of them, paying for their air tickets and putting them up in a hotel? My grandparents were educated people, with law and medical degrees from University of Berdichev – but they knew how to be grateful to this country.
‘I think it is a disaster to let these people in the US. The Republicans just want to stick it to the Soviets, so they issue these people entry visas right and left. They’ll be on welfare to the day they die. The only hope lies with their children, Jewish genes can’t go wrong, eventually they will go to good schools and regain their progressive bearings. For someone like this Leonid guy, I have no hope. Sorry I didn’t mean to take up your time, but his cynical scowl – I swear if it weren’t for Myra –”
“I think you have some papers for me.” Josh tapped on his watch.
“Oh yes I do. So sorry about this ranting. Here, I hope the Company – can I call your employers the Company?”
“The ‘government’ is fine.”
“Right, of course – and you will make sure that our grants get a positive review, right? because we have had some really unexpected expenses recently–”
“Including supporting Soviet emigres?”
“No no, this is peanuts, do you think I would pay him anything above minimum? Frankly, it is just a way to keep Myra out of my hair.”
I was right outside, smoking with a dramatic expression. (Unless indicated otherwise, you can assume I am always smoking with a dramatic expression, like I am having to choose between pushing a button to blow up the world at the cost of betraying someone or something.) Professor Myron Friedman’s views of me were no secret, I didn’t even need to eavesdrop.
When I came to the US, all I had was Myra’s office address and phone number. She took me to lunch at Carnegie Deli, maternally watched me devour everything on the menu, and gave me a pat on the back. “You are out of danger now. You are in the land of freedom. No one will denounce you to the KGB again. Come to the rally – Bella will be there, a bunch of other people — ”
I nodded and nodded. My facial muscles, having barely recovered from conquering an impossibly tall Sandy Koufax pastrami sandwich, struggled to keep up a smile of gratitude. Gratitude is not my forte, really, sorry, Myra –
“– and Myron said he would be there, too – I mentioned him to you, he’ll help you out, he’s a schlemiel, but he has a heart of gold– he said he would help–”
He did. And the buck stopped. Myron was my personal cul-de-sac.
But Prof. Friedman’s visitor – him I was really interested in. Friedman’s clumsy attempt to show off his knowledge of spy-thriller lingo sounded like a QED to me. Josh Concorde worked for the CIA, and that made him my target.
chapter two:
“Hey, you want to buy some brand-new Soviet nuclear submarine blueprints? Whiskey Class? We are having a clearance sale, all blueprints must go – I’ll throw in a torpedo guidance system, never used, whaddaya say?”
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