Then I said, "After the war, when you knew him, what did he do?"
"At first he kept on. But he became more and more uneasy. McCarthy, the witch-hunts — that sort of thing kept him going. But he wasn't a Communist and he certainly wasn't a Stalinist. He'd supported the Russians because that seemed the best way to strike at the Germans, but as time went on, thinking like that became more and more difficult."
"He was hooked, though."
"Yes."
"By you."
"He was on the same hook I was on, Mr. Thorne. But I expect your mother was much more important. She believed. I was prepared to let him wiggle away, and in fact I did — he began shifting his career, taking himself out of the path of the more important material. But your mother would never have let him stop altogether."
"Except he did. With that gun."
"That week was terrible for him — it was the week of the Hungarian Uprising, you remember—"
"I was only a boy."
"Well, it was a terrible week for a lot of people. Your mother became very frightened and phoned me — she was afraid he'd turn himself in. I panicked, I'll admit… partly because that's just what I wanted to do myself. You met Hamilton. I called him, and asked him to do something — since they were both in the State Department — but he refused. That made me even more frightened. I knew, if he did turn himself in, that I was finished. He was an honorable man — he wouldn't have wanted to betray me. But he would have."
"So what happened?"
"We came here and talked. I'd had this place for years, you see; it made a discreet, convenient meeting place between Toronto and Washington — your father had helped me find it… He was terribly upset. The Russians hadn't sent in the tanks yet but he knew they were going to — he had access to all the State Department estimates and that's what they were saying. I told him he couldn't be sure and calmed him down. But of course he knew he was right. Still, I always wondered if that's why he did it when he did—before the Russians made their move. That way, at the end, he could still have a little doubt, a doubt which was equivalent to a last faint hope that things might have turned out differently. In any case, he became very despondent and your mother got a message to me, but I didn't feel safe coming here so we agreed to meet in the woods. I remember wondering later whether he'd brought that gun intending to shoot us all, but in fact he'd killed himself before I arrived. I remember, just as I was leaving, that there was someone — I always wondered…"
"Yes. That was me."
"I'm very sorry."
"What happened after that? What was my mother's reaction?"
"In what way?"
"Toward you."
"It… steeled her, I suppose you might say. She went on. I didn't really want her to, but she did. She passed me gossip, little items… It was useless but it made her feel she was important and let me… keep an eye on her."
"You mean, in case she ever took it into her head to betray you."
"That wasn't a worry. I just felt responsible… even for you, if you don't mind my saying so. When we met, she'd usually mention you. One year I realized you were in New York at the same time as May, so I arranged that you meet… and I suppose that's one more thing I should apologize for."
Should he have apologized for anything? Then, I didn't care; later, I wasn't sure. But what he said after this, even if he meant it as an apology, was a hundred times better, for it seemed to explain. And though he was attempting to describe my father, to give me some guide as to how I should feel toward what he'd done, his words ended by giving me a clearer picture of Bright-man himself.
"I just want you to know something," he said, "about your father and who he was. Above all, I don't want you to think he was that much different from the person you remember— don't overestimate the importance of any of this. You knew him, as his son, better than I ever did. Who you are is a truer indication of his qualities than any of his 'secrets' reveal. And I'm not trying to comfort you — in fact, I'm trying to warn you about the dangers of romanticizing him. That's what's happened to those times, you see; they've become part of the movies. Even the Depression — even treason — has been given the golden glow of nostalgia. I hear it all the time. People were wrong — but committed. What they did was mistaken — but daring. You see? Philby, Blunt, Burgess, Maclean… they can all be turned into heroes. I can even do that to myself, and you may be tempted to think of your father that way. Don't. You'll do him a disservice. It's easy, looking back, to forget the distinctions between people, but I lived through those times and, believe me, they were there. Some people were attracted to Communism because capitalism was collapsing — people were starving — and the liberal democracies were turning Fascist. In principle, there was nothing shameful in that; under the circumstances, it only made sense to consider alternatives, and Communism — at first glance — was no worse than the others. But only at first glance. Closer inspection revealed to a good number of people enough of the truth to turn them away. There's distinction number one… because, of course, a good many stayed. And of course each purge, murder, or massacre eliminated some of them… and these, if you like, are subcategories of diminishing gullibility. Some could swallow what they said about Trotsky, but not about Bukharin, and that should honorably distinguish them — say — from people who were still justifying Andropov when he was murdering Imre Nagy in Budapest. Compare the two extremes, if you like. At one end of the spectrum is the loyal, dedicated Communist who left the Party over the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact — and at the other are the loyal, dedicated Communists of today who still try to pretend that the Gulag only existed because Stalin was mad. Of course, I'm condemning myself. I've been dedicated and loyal and committed to barbarism… though in fact that's probably too generous, too grandiose. In the end, I haven't even served an ideology, but rather a second-rate country that can't even feed itself. And if, toward the end of my life, I've come to realize this — realize the obvious — it's been the result of pure accident___May, as you know, was an accident.
That chance — having her — loving her… a freak of sentimentality… is the only reason I can speak this much sense. But now compare me to your father. Draw that distinction. You see? You can't claim him as a hero, but give credit where credit is due. He saw the truth; not immediately, but before many others. And where others permitted themselves to be blackmailed — literally, or through their own guilt, or simply by circumstance — he refused. This far, but no farther… and the ultimate price for his mistake was paid by himself." He paused then and shrugged. "For me, his death wasn't even entirely wasted, because when I saw him lying there in the woods, I understood in a way I hadn't before. This is what it comes down to. This is what it all means. One more dead body. . " What could I say?
Not much, I suppose: it was his speech, he spoke it well, and I had neither the experience nor the wisdom required to comment. Besides, there was no time. We'd done as much as we could to the hut, and Subotin's gun, disassembled, was stowed in my bag — we couldn't take a chance on the police tracing a high-powered rifle to a man who'd tripped over his shotgun. Staggering beneath cartons and satchels, we made our way down the path and up to the road. Last problems: inching the pickup around Subotin's parked car. Last details: getting the scabbard from the back seat, remembering to shove his keys over the visor. Then, headlights off, we drove up the side road to the road where I'd parked. My car was still there; no one had touched it. No one, we both felt certain, had seen us. So, still clad in the old man's sweater and pants, I got down from the pickup; and then, for a last instant, I leaned on the door. Now, much too late, my mind was filling with questions, questions that only he could give answers to. If May was the key to his life, how had he found her? What was the truth about Dimitrov… and Grainger… and what did he know about Travin?… Perhaps he saw all this running through my mind, and I think he relished keeping these mysteries. But then, at the end, I gave him one: or at least we exchanged them. For just as he extended his hand, I told him to wait, went to my car, and fetched him that little traveling icon that Yuri Shastov had given me.