The Patriots – opening chapter

TH E

PATRI OTS a

n o v e l

SAN A K R ASI KOV

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Granta Publications, 12 Addison Avenue, London W11 4QR First published in Great Britain by Granta Books in 2017 Published by arrangement with Spiegel & Grau, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York Copyright © 2017 by Sana Krasikov The moral right of Sana Krasikov to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. This book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publisher, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2 ISBN 978 1 78378 181 2 (hardback) ISBN 978 1 78378 364 9 (trade paperback) ISBN 978 1 84708 834 5 (ebook) Book design by Barbara M. Bachman Offset by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford on Avon, B50 4JH Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY www.grantabooks.com

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For T. Friedman

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CONTENTS

p r o l o g u e / SARATOV, 1956

xi

BOOK I 1.

Qualitative Leaps / NEW YORK, 1934

3

2.

Agnosia / WASHINGTON, D.C., 2008

14

3.

Brooklyn / NEW YORK, 1932

17

4.

Graphomaniacs / WASHINGTON, D.C., 2008

28

5.

Dangerous Liaison / CLEVELAND, 1933

43

6.

Steel / CLEVELAND, 1933

58

7.

Departures / CLEVELAND, 1933

64

8.

Arrivals / MOSCOW, 1934

78

BOOK II 9.

The Great Communicator / WASHINGTON, D.C., 2008

89

10.

Independence Day / MOSCOW, 2008

95

11.

Homecoming / MOSCOW, 2008

113

12.

Little Enemies / SARATOV, 1951

120

BOOK III 13.

Magnetic City / MAGNITOGORSK, 1934

145

14.

Gold / MOSCOW, 1934

154

15.

A Man of

161

the People / MOSCOW, 1934 16.

The Heatbird / MOSCOW, 1934 17.

A New Mentalìtē t / MOSCOW, 1934 18.

Socialist Realism / MOSCOW, 2008 19.

Conspiracy Theories / MOSCOW, 1934

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CON T E N T S

20.

Za Nas, Za Vas / MOSCOW, 2008

217

21.

Tragic Errands / MOSCOW, 1936

226

22.

A Clean Record / MOSCOW, 2008

231

23.

Receipts / MOSCOW, 1936

237

BOOK IV 24.

The Utopist Altar / MOSCOW, 2008

257

25.

Cleaning House / MOSCOW, 1937

264

26.

Our Friends from Geneva / MOSCOW, 2008

271

27.

Life on the Mississippi / MOSCOW, 1939

276

28.

A Dignified Exit / MOSCOW, 2008

288

29.

Secrets / MOSCOW, 1940

300

30.

Volgans / MOSCOW, 2008

311

31.

Little Birch Tree / MOSCOW, 1940

316

BOOK V 32.

Invisible Man / MOSCOW, 2008

323

33.

Second Chances / KUIBYSHEV, 1943

341

34.

Life vs. Pravda / MOSCOW, 1948

350

35.

Escape / MOSCOW, 1948

381

36.

With Good Steam / MOSCOW, 2008

406

37.

Savages with Chronometers / MOSCOW, 2008

420

38.

Comrade Brink / MOSCOW, 2008

454

39.

Muzhchina / MOSCOW, 2008

466

BOOK VI 40.

The Pilot / PERM, 1951

473

41.

The Magic Flight / MOSCOW, 1975

514

42.

The Dialectics of

Florence Fein /

MOSCOW, 1978

522

43.

Avalon / MARLBORO, N.J., 2008

528

44.

Brooklyn / NEW YORK, 1981

534

541

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acknowledgments

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PROLOGUE SA R AT OV 1956

ON A SUNDAY IN AUGUST, A BOY AND A ONE-­A RMED MAN APPEARED ON

the platform of the Saratov train station. The train they awaited was due to arrive at six. In that early-­evening hour the air was beginning to cool.

The sunlight shifted, deepened and turned to gold the dust suspended by the shoes of hurrying passengers. Leading the way through milling crowds, the man drew a handrolled cigarette from his jacket and gripped it between his teeth. He worked a match out of a box with his one hand, struck it up with the flesh of his thumb, and leaned down on the flame.

Sucking his cigarette, he glanced back to see that the boy had not been swallowed up by the masses.

All summer had found the railway stations mobbed as they hadn’t been since the war. To contain the stench of public toilets, the sanitation workers poured bleach powder in the latrine pits. The man forbade the boy to go alone into one of these facilities, knowing they were full of urki ready to slit your throat for the money you carried in your underwear. A wave of crime had hit the cities two years prior, for the first of the condemned to be let out were the pickpockets and prostitutes, the murderers, thieves, and onanists. Only now, three years after the tyrant had croaked, were the others being released—­the fifty-­eighters and counterrevolutionaries and enemies-­of-­the-­people whose number was too absurd, too enormous for the bosses, with their abiding fear of chaos, to free all at once.

From Vorkuta they came, from Pechora and Inta, from Kolyma and Kengir and Perm. They arrived that summer moving south with the trains,

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x

P rologue

like logs down a swollen river. Entire forests of people felled, bound and piled and now cast adrift into the rising water. A winter’s cut, carried aloft with frightening rapidity.

A signal blasted from the locomotive up ahead. A click and switch of iron rails brought the final filling of teakettles. When the second wail sounded, the boy wished he hadn’t heard it, then reproached himself for the cowardice of this wish. All week long he’d been failing to conjure her up in his head. Now, as he prepared to recognize his mother among the strangers rapidly streaming from the wagon, he felt swamped by despair.

“Car nine,” said the man, and let the boy walk ahead.

His hair, freshly cut, fell across his forehead in a fringe that made him look younger than his twelve years. His clothes, though not new, were ironed and starched.

A woman stepped off the train, her mouth frozen in an imploring smile. Her olive padded jacket reminded the boy of the one worn by the farmer who delivered potatoes to his orphanage. Her thick sweater hung over a coarse-­hemmed dress. The suitcase she set down on the platform was cardboard, reinforced with metal corners, and so small he couldn’t imagine it holding anything besides a few papers. The light that entered her face as she recognized him sent a twinge of nausea down his throat.

She was older, of course, her face pale and puffy. Her once-­sculpted features were altered by an odd short haircut: parted on the side in two dove-­gray streaks. Only her eyes, those heavy-­lidded blue eyes that had always been the striking focal point of her face, were troublesomely familiar.

The man gave him a shove.

She squatted and cupped her hands around Julian’s face. “Let me look at you, my precious, sweet boy.” He caught the meaning of her words at the last moment. She had spoken them in English—­a language he hadn’t heard or uttered in almost seven years. As if teasing, she said, “You don’t recognize me?”

“Of course I do, Mama!” he answered in Russian.

“That’s all right. I’ve turned into an old crow, haven’t I?” He wasn’t sure how to answer this, and in a voice full of falseness said, “Let me carry your bag, Mama!”

The train was leaving. Bits of sky flashed between wagons. But where was her hair? The long, thick curls he’d buried his small face in, which

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xi

he’d pictured for years in his sleep, all he’d been able to preserve of her—­ their loss felt like betrayal. He held her suitcase as she approached Mark Pavlovich, the children’s home director, and took his one hand in both of hers. She was thanking him for everything he had done for her son all these years. Now that she’d reverted to Russian, Julian was suddenly stunned: her voice, surprisingly loud and clear, was afflicted with the thick lilt of an American accent.

How could he have not remembered this?

“We’ll be sorry to see him go,” said the director. “Yulik has been a real helper.” Briefly he glanced at the departing train. “You’ll see for yourself what a fine boy he is. An outstanding worker.”

“I’m certain I will,” she said, putting a hand on Julian’s shoulder. He felt his body go rigid. He’d have to leave school now, forsake the games behind the cowshed, say goodbye to his friends, to his whole life. The thought that he would have to go live with this woman made him want to crumble in angry tears. But the director, seeming to read his mind, said, “I hope you won’t mind that we’ll keep him a little longer. . . .” It was less a question than a promise to look after him until she could get back on her feet. It had all been arranged beforehand. It was done this way for all the prisoners’ children.

His mother’s eyes filled with bitter gratitude, but still she looked at Julian to make sure he approved. He felt a pang of shame. It was clear she had no means to take him with her. Mark Pavlovich asked whether she wanted to stay that night, but she said she’d wait for the nighttime connection to Moscow. There she would sort out her life—­obtain her rehabilitation papers, look for work, find a room for the two of them to live. “But everything should be in order by December,” she said with an effortful, slightly bronchial laugh. “Then we can celebrate the New Year together.

Won’t that be something?”

For years he had rehearsed what he might say to her once they were together (Sit down, Mama, rest, I will take care of you). Now he felt like a conscript who’d evaded the draft.

“What’s a few more months after all this time?” she said. And with these words, his mother—­the phantom of his exhausted imagination—­ reentered his life.

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BOOK I

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1.

QUALITATIVE LEAPS New York, 1934

BREAKING YOUR FAMILY’S HEART WAS THE PRICE YOU PAID FOR RESCU-

ing your own. Florence had committed herself to this credo, letting it carry her through the cruelty of the past six weeks—­so that she was surprised, on the upper deck of the Bremen, to feel her faith recede. From under her narrow palm she gazed down at the people crowding the dock.

A May sun accosted the harbor and coated everything with a blinding shine. The air smelled of coal and rotted fish. Small green waves raced from the hull back to the pier, where her parents and her little brother stood squeezed in among strangers. She would have shouted out to them but knew her voice could not carry over the screeches of gulls and the intermittent bassoon of the ship’s tremendous whistle.

her ticket had Florence told her parents she was leaving. Then she braced herself for the family volcano.

“Cleveland was not enough!” Her father’s shouts had rattled their Flatbush living room. “Russia! You want to go where they’re shooting people dead for eating their own grain?”

She’d fought back. “No one who’s traveled there ever reported seeing any such thing.”

He turned to her mother. “Never reported! They’re being duped, Florie.

And you’re being duped.”

ONLY AFTER SHE’D BOUGHT

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“Sure, and the factories are only burning straw to make smoke come out the chimneys?”

“You think I’m such a dummy that I don’t know what kind of hoodwinked world my own father left. A young person such as yourself, ripe for recruitment . . .”

“No one has recruited me!”

But his eyes were wild with lunatic distrust. “Let me see your Party card!”

“I don’t have one!” she shouted, her voice caving from tears. “For Pete’s sake, I am not a communist!”

“Then why, Florie? Just tell me why. What kind of madness is this, for a girl to want to leave her family, her home, all the people who love her? To the other end of the world!”

She could not tell him the truth. Could not show him the photograph of the dark-­eyed man with the Apache cheeks, tucked in the back of her dresser drawer. Better they think her a communist than a nafka. “I am not leaving forever, Papa!” she said in a voice hoarse from shouting.

“Then tell us how long?”

“I can’t tell you. A year, maybe more.”

“And throw away another year of your life?”

“I want to live my life.”

“Go, then! I’ve had enough of you,” her father said. “May the day never come when you feel the pain we feel now.”

Despite their threats, her parents had come to see her off. Her mother gave Florence her own fur coat to brave the snowy Russian winter. Her father bought her a traveler’s trunk. They stood watching as it was tossed by a ship’s attendant into the hold, where it took on the size of a matchbox beside all the other cargo—­enormous boxes and barrels, chrome automobiles, upright pianos. Her brother Sidney had given her his beloved BSA Taylor compass, whose cold beveled edges Florence now dug with torturous pleasure into the soft flesh of her thumb. She’d discovered it in her purse only after she boarded the ship. She wanted to walk off the boat and give it back to Sidney, whose muskrat’s hard hat of hair was still visible in flashes among the bodies on the dock. But it was too late; the third-­class passengers were boarding, blocking the gangway with awkward bundles.

Danes, Poles, Germans, stocky in their winter overcoats and rubber boots.

With their American children in tow, they were returning to their home-

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lands in search of work. Observing them trudge aboard, Florence suddenly felt she was watching an old Ellis Island film reel flipped by the Depression into reverse: masses of immigrants returning to the ship, being herded backward through that great human warehouse as Lady Liberty waved them goodbye.

Her reverie was interrupted by an argument on deck. Somebody was demanding to carry a poultry incubator aboard ship rather than abandon it to the hold. Into the fray came the noises of a hen cock crowing in defiance of the third steamer signal. Taking advantage of the clamor and tumult, one of the Poles was making the rounds with a collection box. When he saw a tall, handsome girl in a tailored green suit, he mistook Florence for a wealthy young lady and approached her with a heavily accented speech about penniless deportees. It was impossible to hear the story in the flapping of ropes and echoes from port. She thought she heard her name being called—­her father’s voice a hallucination conjured by the wind’s eddies. Florence opened her purse and gave the man a coin.

She felt ready for the ship to cast off, but a fresh commotion had seized the crowd. On the gangway ramp, a girl of about eighteen had dropped her glasses and was now palming around for them, interrupting her search only to toss angry defenses at those she was holding up behind. In her myopic squint Florence recognized the feral defiance of someone who’d learned to carry her awkwardness brazenly. A girl accustomed to being out of place. But it was her physical appearance that most struck Florence. The girl might have been Florence herself—­younger, shorter, and plumper, but otherwise bearing an almost familial likeness. Her skin was equally pale; her curls, only slightly darker than Florence’s, had the strong kink that Florence had learned to tame out of her own hair with relaxers and combs. Someone from the boat was sent to help the girl, and soon her spectacles were retrieved from between the gangplanks. The commotion was drowned out again by a final signal from the ship’s heights. The chimneys belched coal smoke, and the engines of the tugboats began to turn. At last the Bremen made its imperceptible slide backward into the Hudson.

A flock of gulls with black-­edged wings circled the ship as it churned and split the water. Slowly by slowly the crowd on the pier receded, her family along with them. Only the gulls stayed close. Trailing the Bremen, they rose and fell on a tunnel of air which seemed to propel the ship and

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everyone on it down a course that stretched irreversibly into a bright, portentous sea.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING THE SUN’S RAYS WERE UNOBSTRUCTED BY

any buildings or trees. An ocean chill drew bumps on Florence’s arms as she sat on a lounge chair in the scalloped shade of an awning. She drew on her round sunglasses and attempted to read a book she’d brought for the journey: Red Virtue: Human Relationships in the New Russia by Ella Winter. Winter’s prose was making it hard to get past page 2. And another human relationship was presently competing for her attention: on the top deck, in first class, a tall madam with sunken cheeks and a greyhound’s ropy body was promenading on the arm of a much younger, darker-­ skinned gentleman. The man’s hair was gelled back like Valentino’s. His spine stayed rigid with military aplomb even as his companion petted his shoulder and brushed his ear with her thin lips.

“So—­what do you make of her?”

Florence turned to find the girl she’d seen the day before. Her tortoiseshell glasses were now affixed firmly on the short bridge of her nose. Atop her curly head a woven beret was tipped at a precarious angle.

“Pardon me?”

“Ella Winter. Your book. Another phony Margaret Mead, if you ask me.”

Florence frowned and took a glance at the cover.

“It must have been real disappointing for her to discover her Russians weren’t illiterate savages like the Samoans,” the girl resumed with no preliminaries.

“Have you read it?” Florence said mistrustfully.

“I read all I needed to in the essay they printed in The American. They’ll print any so-­called scholarship as long as it’s penned by Mrs. Lincoln Steffens. You like it?”

It wasn’t a question so much as a preemptive dismissal of her tastes, and therefore, Florence decided, undeserving of a response. In fact, the book was astonishingly dull. Yet this odd girl’s exuberant abrasiveness now

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compelled Florence to defend it. “And what about Dorothy Thompson—­ you won’t read her, either, ’cause she’s Mrs. Sinclair Lewis?”

“What kind of false comparison is that?” The girl plopped down on the neighboring lounge chair. “Thompson’s queen of the press corps. Winter is just another suffragette born twenty years too late.”

The girl’s eyes—­as blue as Florence’s own—­glowed with a lust for debate that Florence found all the more irritating having once had it in good measure. She sensed that entering into a conversation with this creature would return her to a version of herself that she had struggled to shed. In high school and college Florence had earned good marks but a part of her knew that the educators she admired did not admire her back. Her history teacher once applauded her to other students as being the kind of girl “who could chop down an oak with a baseball bat.” She cringed to think how tone deaf she’d been to this double-­edged praise.

“Why a suffragette?” she now inquired with careful nonchalance.

“The place of the working-­class woman is beside the men of her class, not beside women of other classes. It’s basic Marx, if she’d ever bothered to crack him.”

“If you’d bothered to crack her, you’d see she acknowledges that Marx claims it’s only true for societies that haven’t eliminated class. Anyway, I’m not reading it for the theory.”

“I knew it! You’re heading to Russia, like me.” The girl jutted out her hand. “Essie Frank.”

“Florence Fein.”

In less than a minute, Florence was assailed by an artillery of questions. Which class was she traveling? Where was she from? Where had she gone to school? Where did she plan to stay once she arrived in Moscow?

“The Intourist Hotel?” Essie sounded horrified. “They’ll fleece you.

They overcharge all foreigners.” Essie, evidently, would be lodging at a workers’ dormitory at the Foreign Language Institute, where she already had a job lined up.

“I’m only staying in Moscow till I can get a ticket for Magnitogorsk,” Florence said, in a way she hoped both sounded mysterious and discouraging of further inquiry. The Bremen was making stops in Copenhagen, Danzig, and Libau, and Florence had yet to meet anyone who, like her, was disembarking in Latvia and taking the train to Moscow. Judging by her

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talk, Essie had undertaken the journey with more preparation, carrying extra passport photographs as well as items to trade or gift. Her preparedness felt like a challenge to Florence’s faith in the future. “Magnitogorsk, all the way out in the Urals!” Essie said, either impressed by Florence’s bravery or stunned by her foolhardiness. “Have you got a job there or something?”

Florence was uncertain how to answer. She was hardly sure herself what dream she was pursuing: one of Soviet Mankind, or of one particular dark-­eyed Soviet man.

At that moment, a coterie of passengers from steerage emerged on deck. One of the men waved to Essie.

“Is that your group over there?” Florence said.

Essie seemed embarrassed. “No, no, I’m not really with them. . . .”

Having intruded on Florence’s privacy, Essie now seemed to be jealously patrolling her own. “See, there was a vacancy, and, last minute, I got the ticket on the cheap. . . . They’re all getting off at Danzig.”

“Oh.” Florence turned her gaze back to the couple in first class. The greyhound in her silk pajamas was arching her long torso in a swooning laugh, while her tanned and ascotted paramour clutched her waist as if to keep her from throwing out her back. “It’s like they’re posing for pictures,” Florence remarked.

“And wouldn’t you know it’s the press she’s trying to escape,” Essie said unexpectedly.

“You know who she is?”

“Everyone on this steamer knows it. It’s Mary Woolford, the utilities heiress, and that’s her new Alfonse, an Argentine polo player of legendary prowess. Oh, don’t look so shocked; he’s far too dark to be American. He’s husband número tres for her.”

Florence was shocked, not at the shade of the new husband’s skin but at Essie’s superior command of ship gossip. “Look, she just fixed his shirt again.”

“I hope she doesn’t get it greasy after touching his hair,” Essie quipped.

“Ick!” they sang in unison, and nearly choked laughing.

“You know what they say,” Essie said. “ ‘From the back a damsel fair, from the front a wrinkled mare.’ ” “Well, he does like ponies,” Florence said, before a second convulsion of laughter made the two of them collapse, red-­faced, in their chairs. Essie

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removed her glasses and wiped her eyes, and Florence now found herself battling the powerful sensation of feeling won over by this girl, whose dimples looked like they’d been poked out with a gimlet.

“Don’t look now,” Essie said, grabbing Florence’s wrist, “but there’s a couple of Joe Colleges about to waltz over.”

Florence glanced back and recognized two young men in cable sweaters who’d been circling the deck since breakfast time. “More like Joe Grammar School,” she said, then stretched her legs for an extra precious inch of sun, letting the boys get a good look. The two young men consulted each other quietly before making their approach.

“We don’t mean to lean into your conversation, girls,” said the shorter of the two. He had a large-­eared, cheerful face. “But my friend was convinced you were Norma Shearer.”

It wasn’t the first time a boy had made the comparison. On her good days, Florence could notice the similarity in the mirror: her deep-­set blue-­ gray eyes, the aquiline profile people called “regal,” features that hovered somewhere between innocence and arrogance. “I’ll be Al Jolson if you want, darling,” she said, “as long as you have a Lucky. We’re all out of smokes, as you see.” On the courage of the sea air, she sounded like a hardened flirt.

The young man turned out his pockets. “Sorry, Miss Shearer, no gasp­ ers before tournaments, coach’s orders. But we could bring you some desert horses from the restaurant. . . .”

And so they did. They said their names were Jack and Brian and they were traveling to Germany with the New Haven Tennis Club, as guests of the Rot-­Weiss Tennis Club. With her nail, Florence opened the pack of Camels they’d brought and shared one with Essie.

“Russia! That’s really jumping the blinds,” said Brian when they told him where they were heading. “Off to build the Red Paradise?”

“As a matter of fact,” Essie remarked unplayfully.

The boys gave her a confused smile and turned again to Florence.

Whenever Essie opened her mouth, Florence noted, it was plain to see how inadequate she was at saying anything that might hold a man’s attention.

Soon the boys had to go to practice (somewhere in the ship’s labyrinth was a full-­sized tennis court), but they asked if the girls would join the team for a drink after dinner. “If it isn’t past our bedtimes,” Florence said, waving them goodbye with a cigarette between her fingers.

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second dinner bell, Florence met Essie in the carpeted hallway outside the Kronprinz Lounge. She took a look at Essie’s skirt, and at her shoes, and said, “Come with me.”

From the lower berth in Florence’s cabin, Essie looked around with undisguised envy. “You’ve got this all to yourself?”

“They don’t normally sell out of second-­class tickets. What’s your shoe size?”

“Six-­and-­a-­half. They pack us eight to a room, but it’s really nine because there’s a four-­year-­old, too, and the others are all Social Democrats who debate in Polish all night, so you can’t catch a wink of sleep.”

“I only have size eight. We’ll have to stuff the toes. Here, try this for size.” Florence threw her a loose dress with wide kimono sleeves.

“What’s the matter with the shoes I got on?”

“Nothing’s the matter if you don’t care to tell which one’s left and which one’s right, they’re so boxy.” She squinted at the dress and said, “We’ll have to cinch the waist,” though Essie hardly had any waist to speak of.

“The trouble’s my hair,” Essie said despondently. “All the salt in the air makes it a bird’s nest. If I had your curls . . .”

“You can. Just roll ’em around a hot pair of scissors. I’ll show you after,” she said. “Right now we’re late.”

THAT EVENING , AFTER THE

about half a dozen of them, were assembled at one of the high tables near the bar. Collectively, they gave off an almost menacing air of good health. Essie and Florence’s arrival aroused from them no interest apart from Brian’s cheerful dragging of more chairs.

“Two Joe Rickeys over here.” He tapped his glass. “They claim to be out of gin, so we’re nursing bourbons.”

“Three Rickeys,” corrected a pink-­cheeked six-­footer beside Florence.

“You’ve had enough to wash the decks, Kip,” someone said. Unpersuaded, Kip lifted a finger to the waiter.

“I’ll tell you one thing, the Davis Cup’s become too big,” said a young man by the name of Leslie. “No one hears his own name called anymore.

THE NEW HAVEN PLAYERS,

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You hear ‘advantage, States,’ or ‘France four, England two.’ The fate of the whole damn country’s on your neck.”

Florence didn’t have the remotest idea what they were talking about, and was glad when Brian asked if the two of them were really headed to Russia. “Don’t we look it?” she said.

Kip cast a bored look over them and said, “The Frenchies don’t seem to be feeling the heat.”

“The Germans do, I can promise you,” said Leslie. “And they’ve got Hitler breathing down their throats about their physical superiority.”

“So long’s they’ve got von Cramm, they can still take the Cup. One champion horse is all you need.”

“Which one’s von Cramm?” Essie said, entering the conversation late, but the men went on talking.

“If von Cramm plays.”

“Why won’t he?”

“He and Old Hitts aren’t exactly chums. Last year he called Herr Führer a house painter.”

“I heard Ribbentrop was trying to get him to sign up with the Nazis but von Cramm told him to go eat hay.”

“Too much an aristocrat for them, eh?”

“No, he’s sore about them kicking his buddy Daniel Prenn off the team.”

Florence saw Essie’s eyes grow bright with angry comprehension. “It’s revolting,” she said, “the way they’ve been expelling the Jewish athletes.”

“They’re crippling themselves without Prenn,” said Brian.

“Prenn’s an all-­right player,” admitted Kip, “but no one’s irreplaceable.”

Florence was considering a proper rejoinder to this when Essie jumped in ahead of her. “It’s imponderable to me,” she pursued, “how Germany can even be permitted to host the Olympics when they’re driving out the Jewish players. . . .”

“Just imponderable!” Kip mimed cruelly. “Prenn can go play for someone else if he doesn’t like it.”

“The Brits will snap him up.”

“Or the Russkies. He’s one of theirs, right?”

“They ought to toss Germany out of the games,” Essie declaimed.

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“So you don’t like their politics. Well, I don’t like the Bolshies and theirs,” said a sharp-­nosed boy with a crew cut. “Let’s toss them out. And the goat-­sniffing Greeks while we’re at it, why not?”

Taking the bait, Essie launched into an attack on this reasoning. But no one was listening to her. Even to Florence, she looked like a schnauzer among Dobermans. “I’d say your friend’s a wet fish on dry land, but there ain’t any for miles,” Brian said in a whisper to Florence. Florence felt a sense of shame for her silence—­letting Essie take a beating from these shkotzim.

“Come on, chaps, no politics tonight,” someone pleaded. “Let the Olympic Committee sort it out.”

“They have sorted it out,” said Kip. “Brundage said all this talk about the Jewish athletes was pure booshwash.”

“And these committees always do such a fine job,” Florence replied, seizing her opening. She washed down the dregs of her Rickey. Her gaze fell coldly on Kip. “It ain’t booshwash when half the world’s calling for a boycott.”

“Not half the world, just a few Jews and commies who want to get us into a fresh war. Good night, everyone,” he said, rising to his full Aryan height.

“Auf Wiedersehen!” Florence called after him, and took hold of Essie’s hand before her friend could drop any more cinders from the hot cavity of her mouth.

for loyal patriots these days, Florence! First-­ class American flag-­waving bigots. That’s who’s in charge, and that’s why I’m through with the fine U.S. of A.” Florence could hear heavy tears gathering behind Essie’s nasal passages. Essie hadn’t stopped talking since they’d entered Florence’s cabin.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Florence happily assured her. She wondered why Essie’s dismay made her so buoyant. Then it occurred to her that, for the first time since separating from her family and boarding the ship, she was absolutely convinced of the rightness of her decision. America had nothing to offer her.

“High-­minded swine with their muzzles in their fancy drinks and their heads in the sand. Hypocrites making nicey-­nice with the fascists while

“AND THAT’S WHAT COUNTS

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they arm against all of Europe,” Essie went on. “And it’s people like that who’d be the first to call my parents traitors.”

“Don’t cry, Essie, or can you at least take off my dress?”

“Sorry,” Essie said, wiping her dripping nose on her bare arm. She removed Florence’s dress, revealing the girders of her yellowed brassiere and drawers. “Oh, look at me,” she cried. “I didn’t even have new bloomers or a proper girdle to bring along with me. If my mother was still alive, she’d have taken me to get one, but I didn’t want to ask my father for the money.

Oh, Florence, he didn’t even come to see me off. And the worst part is, I’m to blame. It’s true, because I told him not to come. I didn’t think he’d listen. . . . Don’t make that face!”

“I’m not.”

“I thought he’d come anyway. But I said so many nasty things to him.

Such awful things . . . ​See, we were all supposed to be on this ship together.

My papa, my little sister Lilly, and my mother too . . . ​Oh, you’ll think I’m horrible if I tell you.”

“Sweetie, I wouldn’t.” Florence picked up Essie’s old clothes off the floor and sat down beside her. “Whatever it is, it’s all behind us now.”

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