The accidental meeting with Andrei Aarons had only confirmed that he was right to have walked out. He was sad for his old colleague. The loyalty, the enthusiasm and the talent that had been so coldly abused from youth to middle-age.
CHAPTER 27
In the first six months after his return from Moscow Aarons extended his network slowly and carefully but despite Moscow’s comments and instructions he found it impossible to abandon his in-built interest in politics. He spent a lot more time with Myron Harper and most Wednesday and Sunday evenings they played bridge with two of Harper’s friends. Although the other two had no inkling that Aarons was anything other than an unusually knowledgeable bookseller they assumed that like themselves he was on the left in politics.
The third player was another political journalist who wrote for a weekly magazine and was based in Washington although his home was in Brooklyn. The fourth player was a woman who worked for the New York headquarters of the Democrats. In her middle thirties, she was both intelligent and attractive and in private was quite openly sympathetic towards the Communists.
It was at one of the Sunday evening games that they sat around talking as usual of what was going on in New York and Washington. Nick Coletti had brought two bottles of wine and had poured them each a drink and there had been the usual cracks about Aarons’ preference for hot chocolate or cold milk. When they were finally settled down the woman, Jo Lafferty, said, “Has anyone read the piece by Walter Lippmann in the Tribune?”
Coletti laughed. “You mean the reference to Mr. X?”
“Yeah that’s the one. Who is Mr. X?”
“He’s George Kennan, was at our embassy in Moscow for a stretch.” Coletti looked at the others. “Kennan did a report for Truman saying that the Soviet Union contained the seeds of its own decay and would eventually disintegrate. He went on to say that the Soviet Union must be resisted and confronted at every point where they are encroaching on the interests of a peaceful and stable world.”
Myron Harper said, “And Truman believes him, hence the so-called Truman Doctrine. The Reds must be opposed on all fronts.”
Aarons said nothing as Jo Lafferty added, “And Lippmann was saying that we couldn’t do it even if we wanted to. We haven’t got the forces to do it.”
Harper laughed. “Nevertheless that’s going to be our policy while the little guy from Missouri’s in the White House.”
Aarons said quietly, “How do the people in the White House justify such a policy?”
Harper shrugged. “Because Moscow has been under the delusion that they won the war alone. And quite openly they’re telling the world that they are the masters now. They look like drunks looking for a fight. And our little man was the wrong guy to try it on. Somebody should have warned ’em.”
Aarons said, “Do you think he’ll get a second term?”
Jo Lafferty said, “Inside the Party they don’t think he’ll make it. They think Dewey will get a landslide.”
“What are Dewey’s views on the Soviet Union?”
Coletti laughed. “Nobody knows. Our Tom isn’t talking policy until he’s safely in the White House.” He stood up stretching his arms. “You want a lift, Joanna?”
“That’s very galant of you, Nicholas. Thank you.”
Aarons stayed on after the two had left and Harper brewed them a pot of tea. As they sat opposite each other Harper said, “There’s going to be a big campaign against the Party, Andrei. I’ve heard talk of a committee being set up to search out communists in government jobs. There’s even talk that they’re going to attack the Hollywood studios. Especially writers and directors.” He paused. “You’d better warn your people. It’s going to be rough.”
Aarons had sent a report to Moscow but there had been no comment from them.
By January 1948 Aarons was faced with a difficult decision. His network had grown, and living in Brighton Beach meant too much time and energy was spent in travelling. But he needed the bookshop as his cover. Common sense said that he should sell the bookshop and open another somewhere in Manhattan. He could sell the shop at enough profit to rent a central shop but Aarons resented having to make the move to facilitate his work for Moscow. For him, running a network was just a matter of careful administration and caution. He was aware of its potential dangers but indifferent to the possibility of being caught. He was quite sure that nobody would penetrate his security or his cover. Moscow seemed to be pleased with the information he passed back to them, but his mind was always focused on the successful development of Marxism. All those years working for the Comintern had taught him how to read the thoughts behind the actions of the men in the Kremlin. And his years in the United States had made it possible for him to think like an American. And now, as they faced each other, pawing the ground, he could have been of real help to Moscow. Their ambassador in Washington had no idea of what ordinary Americans thought. He never met any, he lived a secluded life of comparative luxury. He couldn’t even speak the language.
Why couldn’t those men sitting around the table listening to him see that he could help them far more his way than working out dead-drops in outside toilets, derelict buildings, holes in trees in Central Park and under benches in Bryant Park? And all for what? A copy of the minutes of some Congressional committee, a training manual for US Navy radio operators, the blue-prints of a gyroscopic sight for the guns on new tanks, a copy of the White House’s internal telephone directory and the radio frequencies used by the FBI in Washington. Maybe he should talk to Lensky.
Two well-established Armenian refugees had bought the shop and Aarons had sold them most of his
