never imagined her real grandfather once looked like this.
Her mother made a small noise, like a bird about to be crushed.
“I’m sorry, Mama. We don’t have to look at these.”
Her mother patted her throat. “Show me.”
Annette turned to the next page. There he was again. Much younger, a grinning teenager wearing an old-fashioned bathing suit with a striped top. 1932. Upstate New York, the label read.
The face was open and pure. How could that be? These photos contradicted everything Annette believed.
She slowly turned the pages as her mother studied each photo with her. Her grandparents wrapped in a plaid blanket on a toboggan, wearing ice skates at the side of a frozen lake, laughing with another couple whose faces were blurry. December 1943, Laurels Hotel, Catskill Mountains, New York.
She turned the page. Another picture of her grandparents with the same couple seated around a table in a restaurant. Her grandfather was in his military uniform, the others in evening dress. In this photo, Annette could see the faces of the other couple clearly. An older man with thinning hair and a much younger-looking woman. The woman had dark hair and eyes, high cheekbones, and a movie-star smile. A cluster of large stones that looked like rhinestones sparkled in her ears. She was stunning. Next to her, Grandma Betty with her small eyes and pronounced upper jaw looked like a mouse, despite the white orchid she wore on a velvet ribbon around her neck. Annette read the caption. With Mariasha and Aaron Lowe. December 1944. Dinner and dancing at the Starlight Roof Supper Club.
She wasn’t sure why she was so taken aback that her grandparents had had friends. Yet here was a photo of four people out for an evening. None of these people looked like monsters. Certainly not her grandfather.
Her mother took the album from Annette and turned the pages. She stopped on the last page. Annette looked over her mother’s shoulder at the photo of two little girls, both blonde, holding hands in front of a brick apartment building. They could have been sisters.
“This is me,” her mother said. “And I think I remember the other girl.”
Annette read the caption. “1950. Our Sally with classmate Essie Lowe. In front of our apartment on 120 Columbia Street.”
Essie Lowe. Probably the daughter of her grandparents’ friends, Mariasha and Aaron Lowe. And if the girls were classmates, they’d probably all lived in the same Manhattan neighborhood.
“Essie was my friend,” her mother said, in a voice that sounded childlike and plaintive.
Annette’s heart ached for her. Her mother had once been a happy child until one day her ordinary life was publicly shattered. Then, probably to escape a vicious world, Grandma Betty bundled herself and little Sally off to Paris, away from friends, family, their old neighborhood, and a familiar language.
But why had it happened? Because her grandfather had been a monster or because it was convenient for people to believe he was?
Annette reached into the pocket of her jeans, pulled out the article she had torn from the newspaper, and looked at the smudged photo of Isaac Goldstein. His hooded eye glared at her. A monster?
She quickly read the two short paragraphs about the KGB agent’s memoir. According to the agent, Isaac Goldstein had no involvement in passing secret atomic-bomb information on to the Soviets. Goldstein was never a major player in communist spy circles, the agent had written. He didn’t have access to crucial material. That all came from another source.
What if there was something to the Soviet agent’s story? Annette was a journalist, someone who didn’t accept things at face value, and yet that’s exactly what she had been doing all these years.
She took the album from her mother and looked again at the photo of the smiling bridegroom, a decorated army hero. Her real grandfather. Isaac Goldstein. He looked nothing like the smudged picture of the angry man from Le Figaro , a
Her mother made a small noise, like a bird about to be crushed.
“I’m sorry, Mama. We don’t have to look at these.”
Her mother patted her throat. “Show me.”
Annette turned to the next page. There he was again. Much younger, a grinning teenager wearing an old-fashioned bathing suit with a striped top. 1932. Upstate New York, the label read.
The face was open and pure. How could that be? These photos contradicted everything Annette believed.
She slowly turned the pages as her mother studied each photo with her. Her grandparents wrapped in a plaid blanket on a toboggan, wearing ice skates at the side of a frozen lake, laughing with another couple whose faces were blurry. December 1943, Laurels Hotel, Catskill Mountains, New York.
She turned the page. Another picture of her grandparents with the same couple seated around a table in a restaurant. Her grandfather was in his military uniform, the others in evening dress. In this photo, Annette could see the faces of the other couple clearly. An older man with thinning hair and a much younger-looking woman. The woman had dark hair and eyes, high cheekbones, and a movie-star smile. A cluster of large stones that looked like rhinestones sparkled in her ears. She was stunning. Next to her, Grandma Betty with her small eyes and pronounced upper jaw looked like a mouse, despite the white orchid she wore on a velvet ribbon around her neck. Annette read the caption. With Mariasha and Aaron Lowe. December 1944. Dinner and dancing at the Starlight Roof Supper Club.
She wasn’t sure why she was so taken aback that her grandparents had had friends. Yet here was a photo of four people out for an evening. None of these people looked like monsters. Certainly not her grandfather.
Her mother took the album from Annette and turned the pages. She stopped on the last page. Annette looked over her mother’s shoulder at the photo of two little girls, both blonde, holding hands in front of a brick apartment building. They could have been sisters.
“This is me,” her mother said. “And I think I remember the other girl.”
Annette read the caption. “1950. Our Sally with classmate Essie Lowe. In front of our apartment on 120 Columbia Street.”
Essie Lowe. Probably the daughter of her grandparents’ friends, Mariasha and Aaron Lowe. And if the girls were classmates, they’d probably all lived in the same Manhattan neighborhood.
“Essie was my friend,” her mother said, in a voice that sounded childlike and plaintive.
Annette’s heart ached for her. Her mother had once been a happy child until one day her ordinary life was publicly shattered. Then, probably to escape a vicious world, Grandma Betty bundled herself and little Sally off to Paris, away from friends, family, their old neighborhood, and a familiar language.
But why had it happened? Because her grandfather had been a monster or because it was convenient for people to believe he was?
Annette reached into the pocket of her jeans, pulled out the article she had torn from the newspaper, and looked at the smudged photo of Isaac Goldstein. His hooded eye glared at her. A monster?
She quickly read the two short paragraphs about the KGB agent’s memoir. According to the agent, Isaac Goldstein had no involvement in passing secret atomic-bomb information on to the Soviets. Goldstein was never a major player in communist spy circles, the agent had written. He didn’t have access to crucial material. That all came from another source.
What if there was something to the Soviet agent’s story? Annette was a journalist, someone who didn’t accept things at face value, and yet that’s exactly what she had been doing all these years.
She took the album from her mother and looked again at the photo of the smiling bridegroom, a decorated army hero. Her real grandfather. Isaac Goldstein. He looked nothing like the smudged picture of the angry man from Le Figaro , a
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