— Just say what you feel. Talk to them like you talk to me, from the heart, that’s why people have always listened to you. Because you never lie, you never pretend, you only ever say something if you believe in it.
Jesse blocked out the sound of the drums, preparing to speak, raising his hand. Before he said a word a man called out, one of the elderly war protestors with sinewy arms, a scruffy beard and a guitar hanging around his neck. His chest was bare, painted with a red peace symbol.
— Jesse Austin!
Being recognized took him by surprise and Jesse lost his train of thought. Before he could recover, the protestor had pushed through to him, shaking his hand and saying:
— Always loved your music. Tell me, Jesse, did they kill Malcolm X because he opposed the Vietnam War? I’m sure of it. They’ll kill anyone who speaks out against this war. Malcolm X said every black man and woman should support the Vietnamese, not the US soldiers, that’s got to be why they shot him, don’t you think? Who do you support? The Vietnamese or the Americans?
Malcolm X had been shot at the beginning of the year. It had crossed Jesse’s mind that his murder might be more than it seemed. To blame the Nation of Islam was a convenient explanation, and normally when there was a convenient explanation the truth was somewhere else. As he began to answer, the man called out to his friends:
— Hey! It’s Jesse Austin!
Though people hadn’t reacted to the sight of him on a crate, at the sound of his name people turned around and paid attention. Voices shouted out from the anti-Communist crowd, coarse with disgust:
— How come you said America wasn’t your home!
— You said you’d be glad to fight American troops!
The old protestor winked at Jesse.
— Better be careful what you say.
Jesse called back:
— I never said anything of the sort! I believe in peace, not war.
The first accusation had burst a dam, more insidious lies poured out, increasingly extreme, from the group of anti-Communist protestors who knew Jesse better than anyone, as a figure of hate and ridicule.
— Isn’t it true you seduced a bunch of white girls?
— Why don’t you pay taxes?
— Haven’t you been in prison?
— Don’t you cheat on your wife?
— I heayou hit her when you’re drunk!
Jesse couldn’t always see the faces of his accusers, voices disconnected. He struggled to control his anger, in contrast to his accusers, and answered the allegations:
— I pay my taxes! I’ve never spent a day in prison, except to visit those people in need of help. And I never touched any white girl, not like that, just like I never hit a person, let alone my wife, the woman I love more than anyone else. What you’re repeating is nothing more than slander! A campaign of hate and lies!
His voice was trembling. The pain of these lies welled up inside him, the memory of being helpless, watching his reputation being destroyed.
Sensing he was in trouble, Anna stepped up onto the crate with him, putting an arm around his waist to steady herself.
— Would I be standing beside my husband if it were true? Would I have stuck with him when the government took our home? When they took our jobs? When they took our money and the food from our table? We lost everything. Now, you’ve gladly listened to the lies. Let me tell you the facts. Jesse’s never hurt another person in his life. He’s never been in a bar fight, or street altercation. He’s never raised his voice against me! As for war, he couldn’t dream of taking up arms against another soul. He doesn’t believe in violence. He believes in love! He believes in love deeper than anything! He believes in fairness for all men and women, no matter where they’re born or the colour of their skin. You can disagree with what we believe in if you want. You can tell us we’re fools for our ideas. But don’t tell us that we don’t love each other.
As she stepped down from the crate, Jesse saw how her words had turned the crowd in his favour, pulling more attention his way. He regretted his retreat from public speaking. He’d allowed insinuation to fill the silence. It was his duty to put the truth out there even if the mainstream channels were closed to him. It was his duty to stand up to his enemies no matter how heavily the odds were stacked against him. He’d been beaten down into believing that the truth had no value. It did: it was stronger than their lies and the audience heard it in their voices when they spoke. Encouraged, he tried to move from a conversation to a polemic. It was time to say what he’d come here to say.
— Now that we’re done rebutting the false allegations, can we speak about what really matters? What matters to millions of Americans up and down this great country? The unfairness, the bias, the intolerance and the institutionalized discrimination not only of black Americans but of all poor Americans!
He put aside his prepared material, speaking off the cuff. Just as his Russian had come back to him in satisfying, rolling waves of words and phrases, so did the words of outrage perfected over hundreds of speeches, years of protests. His audience swelled, unified in his direction, men and women of different ages and races. Some of the anti-war protestors joined him, putting down their drums, allowing his words to be heard. It was the biggest audience he’d addressed in nearly ten years and they weren’t there for his songs, or to be entertained, they were there to change the world. And the crowd continued to grow, more and more people arriving, pressing into the area behind the steel barricades.
An angry woman called out:
— If you love the Soviet Union do much why don you go back with them to Russia!
His confidence growing, Jesse relished the adversary.
— Why would I go anywhere when this is my home! I’ve lived here all my life. My parents are buried here! Their parents are buried here! I’m as American as you are, perhaps more so, surely more so, because I truly believe in freedom of speech, in equality, concepts I doubt you even think about. You’re too busy waving the American flag to think about what that flag symbolizes!
The woman was joined by a breakaway group of anti-Communist protestors, taking turns to heckle Jesse, shouting above the noise, some of their comments disappearing, some breaking through.
— You live in America and you insult our country!
— The only people I’ve ever insulted were people like you, people who don’t understand that every man and woman on this earth shares a common humanity. While you may not understand it, the hope for a better life is understood all over the world. The desire to be treated fairly does not change depending on where you live, or what language you speak.
Jesse gestured at the United Nations Headquarters.
— That building represents the world under one roof. That is the reality of our existence. We live under one sky. We breathe the same air. We get warmth from the same sun. Government policy does not create human rights. Those rights came first! Governments exist to serve and protect those basic human rights. Those rights have nothing to do with how you vote in an election, where you live, the colour of your skin or the money in your wallet. Those rights are inalienable. I’ll fight for those rights as long as I have air in my lungs and blood in my heart!
Jesse knew the concert would finish soon. The Soviet delegation would exit onto the street, the young students spilling into the crowd, surrounding him. He could only smile at the thought.
Global Travel Company
926 Broadway
Same Day
Cuffed to the radiator in the back office, locked in the dark, Osip Feinstein had lost track of the time. He was now sweating from withdrawal sickness. Normally by this time he’d be smoking opium and his body’s desire for the drug overpowered all other sensations, including the emotion any normal person would be feeling in these circumstances – fear. His trousers were soaked where he’d wet himself. His wrist was hurting as the metal dug into his skin. He could no longer move his fingers. The photographs of Jesse Austin and the Russian girl had been taken and Osip
’s initial impression of Agent Yates had proved to be correct: the man was extremely dangerous.
In his dazed state he became aware of someone outside the office. Slowly the door opened. He blinked at the light. Standing over him was the Soviet operative who’d given him the camera. As Osip’s eyes adjusted to the light he saw that the man was holding a gun.
— Trusting the FBI was a poor decision, an unexpected misjudgement considering how shrewd you have been in the past.
Osip did not have the energy to resist – he did not even have the energy to fight for his life.
— I’ve ben running from you for thirty years.
— No more running, Osip.
The man picked up a bottle of hydroquinone, one of the chemicals used to develop film, highly flammable, and poured it over Osip’s clothes and face, splashing it down his throat and into his eyes. It was a powerful bleach and Osip’s skin stung as painfully as though it were burning, even before the man had set him alight.
Manhattan
United Nations Headquarters
The General Assembly Hall
1st Avenue & East 44th Street
Same Day
The concert was over. The audience was applauding. The young American student beside Zoya was so excited by the standing ovation he squeezed her hand. Only twelve or thirteen years old, the boy was smiling. Right now he didn’t care that she was Russian – they were friends, part of a winning team. The success was theirs equally. Belatedly she appreciated that her mother’s plans were much more than about the quality of the performance. It had been Raisa’s idea for everyone to wear the same clothes, American and Soviet students alike, and it had been her idea that they commission new music from international composers. The world’s diplomatic elite was applauding the way in which the concert had navigated the many potential traps, offending no one and including everyone. Raisa had tiptoed between different sensitivities with the aplomb of a diplomat, and the diplomatic audience was showing their appreciation.
Zoya followed the young American boy offstage, applause still ringing in the Assembly Hall. Once in the corridor the students broke formation, hugging each other, thrilled with their success. Raisa was talking to the American school principal, both of them laughing in contrast to their cagey conversations during the dress rehearsal. Zoya was pleased for her mother. She deserved to be proud of her achievements and Zoya regretted being so cynical about the entire event, wishing that she’d been more supportive, just as Elena had been.
Glancing around the students, Zoya couldn’t see her sister. She’d only been positioned a few students away in the line-up yet was nowhere to be seen. She began looking for her, nudging through the crowd now mixed with members of the audience streaming out from the main auditorium. More and more people were pushing into the corridor, keen to congratulate them, men she didn’t recognize shaking her hand. She caught sight of Mikael Ivanov, the propaganda officer, cutting a path through the students, with apparently no interest in them despite the fact that they were being photographed.
Zoya followed him.
*
Flushed with success, Raisa eagerly tried to find her daughters. It was difficult to locate them since the corridors were so full. She stood on the spot, slowly turning around, searching the crowd. They were nowhere to be seen. A tingling anxiety rose up through her legs into her stomach; she paid no attention to the congratulations offered to her, ignored the very men and women she’d been sent here to impress. Pushing through the group she saw Zoya and felt relief. She hurried towards her.
— Where’s Elena?
Zoya looked at her, pale with worry.
— I don’t know.
Zoya raised her hand, pointing in front of her.
Raisa saw Mikael Ivanov with his back to her and the children, staring out of the large lobby windows at the street and the demonstration. Behind him photographers flashed their cameras at the children and yet he didn’t turn around, his attention concentrated on the events outside. She walked up to him, grabbing his arm and turning him around, staring into his handsome face with such determined ferocity that he recoiled but she did not let go of his arm:
— Where is Elena?
He was about to lie: she could see the process as clearly as if she were regarding the mechanics of a watch.
— Don’t lie to me or I swear I’ll start screaming in front of all these very important guests.
He said nothing. She glanced at the demonstration and whispered:
— If anything happens to her, I’ll kill you.
Manhattan
Outside the United Nations Headquarters
1st Avenue & East 44th Street
Same Day
Elena left the United Nations Headquarters without being stopped. Preparations had been made, the route arranged, passage through security, a blind spot in the building leading to an exit where she escaped without being questioned. As she stepped out she’d been handed a dark red coat with a hood to conceal her face. Nothing had been left to chance. She’d been siphoned off from the main group as soon as the concert was finished. Mikael was not going with her. It was important he was not involved in the photo graph since the presence of a propaganda officer would undermine its authenticity. During the dress rehearsal the plans had changed. Mikael had explained it was impossible for a small group of students to join the demonstration: they could only manage to sneak Elena out. The American authorities had arranged for a coach to take the students doorstep to doorstep: straight from the United Nations to the hotel. FBI agents were going to drive it. Elena would have to go alone. The operation rested on her shoulders: a chance to redefine Communism in the eyes of the world, to create a modern progressive image that would be embodied in the photograph of a young Russian hand in hand with an older American, two nations, two generations bridged. The photograph would carry a powerful message of an inclusive ideology, reminding the world of the Soviet Union’s ability to embrace different races and cultures across a vast geographical space. Finally Elena would step out from the shadow of her sister, proving to Mikael that she was worthy of his trust and love.
The exit from the United Nations was located up the street, away from the main body of the demonstration. To reach Jesse she would have to walk past the police line. Hood up over her head, she hurried towards the protests, terrified of being intercepted. She kept her face down, her heart beating fast, glancing up to see Jesse on the crate. He was oblivious of her approach, engrossed in his speech. The easiest way to reach him would be to climb over the barricade but, fearful the police officers would swoop and arrest her, she joined the main body of the crowd. Surrounded by people, she breathed deeply, dropping her hood, feeling far safer than she did exposed on the street. Pushing forward, making slow progress, bustled by the protestors, she observed that this wasn’t a chaotic crowd but an attentive audience – they were facing the same way, listening to Jesse Austin, the tallest of the speakers and by far the most prominent, throwing his voice over the crowd. He had no microphone, no prepared notes in his hand. He was altogether a different person from the quiet, polite gentleman she’d met in his apartment. Addressing the crowd he was angry, powerful. Elena was captivated by his performance: the protest was elemental to him, as natural to him as taking a breath.
Compared to the stultified concert inside, the carefully selected and inoffensive songs washed clean of any provocation or genuine desire for change, this was noisy and raucous and the better for it. Elena had never been part of a demonstration before. She’d never seen one in Moscow and couldn’t imagine such a protest being allowed with the militia standing by idle. The New York police officers were concentrated in the street, not the sidewalk, seemingly having surrendered to the crowd, patrolling it, holding their distance, curiously disengaged. The substantial police presence didn’t seem to worry Austin. On tiptoes, Elena watched as his arms moved with the rhythm of each sentence, his hand punctuating each phrase. He was wearing a white shirt, his sleeves rolled up as if s
peaking was an act of intense physical labour. His communication transcended words – there was magic to it. Compared with the moody introspection of Leo, his cynicism, Jesse Austin was most intensely alive individual she’d ever seen.
Moving forward was like swimming against the current, her small frame shunted from side to side, jostled by an audience that didn’t want to part. No one wanted to lose position near Jesse. Elena didn’t have much time. The authorities would soon realize that she was missing and when they caught up with her she would be punished. It didn’t matter as long as she managed to pose with Jesse. From her pocket she pulled the Soviet flag. This was her opportunity to make a difference: her way of proving to Jesse how much his efforts were appreciated and how he would never be forgotten. She would embrace him, flag flapping behind them, achieving the photograph they desired – the two of them side by side. Abandoning good manners, Elena forced her way through, clawing the audience aside. Jesse saw her as she breached the front rank. He reached down and took her hand, pulling her up onto the crate. For a man his age he was remarkably strong. Elena saw his wife for the first time. Mrs Austin did something she hadn’t done earlier: she smiled.
At the sight of Elena on the crate, the crowd broke into a chorus of comments. Elena didn’t understand what they were saying but she knew exactly what she had to do. She released the flag, its full length spreading behind her. Jesse caught it. For a second there was fear in his eyes; he understood its provocation. Elena wondered if he might even fold it away. But he let go of the flag, allowing it hang behind them. The audience surged forward, like the crash of a wave against the crate. There were multiple flashes of cameras across the crowd, journalists asking questions, furious protestors and delighted supporters. Jesse cut his hand through the air, as if his arm were a scythe: