They came at night, 3 am. They weren’t noisy, but neither were they subtle. Mama knocked on my door. “Rivka, get up, my love.” Her voice was shaky, tense. I was fully awake as I opened door and saw two big men, armed, in dark combat dress without rank or nametags, standing behind Mama. Black caps mostly covered their closely cropped military style haircuts and masks covered their faces below their eyes. 

“What’s happening, Mama?”

“They are taking us, my love. I don’t know where. I don’t know why.”

“Where’s Papa? Is he alright?” 

“Speak English!” One of the men commanded. 

“He’s alright, my love. We have thirty minutes. Pack one suitcase.”

I almost asked again where we were going but swallowed the question. “Alright, Mama.” I went to close my door but one of the . . . Nazis, I’ll call them, blocked it with his boot. “Do you mind? I need to get dressed.” I was wearing light blue flannel nightgown that only reached mid thigh. I stared at him, only his eyes visible, until he looked down and moved his foot and closed door. I reached for phone. It was dead. I closed my eyes and thought, How can I talk to Misha? He would know what to do. But there was no way.

I dressed rapidly in jeans and sneakers. Door opened again without knock. In place of Nazi thug stood tall slender man dressed in long black leather coat and wide brimmed black fedora. His skin was white, almost translucent, his hair was white and his eyes almost completely devoid of color. “Make haste, Fräulein Koen,” he said with German accent. He glanced at his pocket watch. “We leave in twenty-five minutes. Whatever is in your suitcase at that time, that is what you are taking.” He clicked his heels and nodded and left, leaving door open for guard to see me. I felt unclean, like evil had left residue all over everything in my room.

I packed like automaton, putting in underwear, socks, jeans, T-shirts, then I lost track. In my mind it was 1940 and I was about to be put on train to Dachau. Nazi thug was called away and I was left unwatched. I snapped out of my nightmare, looked around frantically and settled on Brothers Karamazov Misha had given me last Chanukah. I found page at end of chapter, relatively blank and wrote note:

“My love, I don’t know what’s happening. We are being taken. I don’t know who these people are. They’re not speaking to us. We have minutes to gather up whatever we are taking. I don’t know where we’re going. I tried to call you but the phone is dead. I’m writing this fast as the guard was called downstairs. Wherever we end up please believe I will always love you. Have to . . .”

Guard was returning. I put book back, hoping my lover would find it. Hoping I would see him again.

                                                                                           ***

My parents and I shared backseat in big black limousine initially moving slowly down Hillsdale streets then picking up speed on Freeway. Facing us was white-skinned man from house and uniformed, helmeted, older, heavyset man without rank or insignia or nametag. Initially Papa was indignant. “Why are you taking us? We have done everything that was asked of us. I demand to speak with Adam Andersen.”

Andersen, AKA Konstantin Kabanov, was with CIA and had helped us escape Soviet Union in 1958. He had shepherded us to Israel, where we lived for almost year while CIA could find place for us in America. This did not feel like KGB operation to me. Why would KGB have Nazi working with them? Also, they would be speaking Russian.

The albino held up his hand and spoke slowly. “Doctor Koen, you are in no position to demand anything. Herr Andersen, or should I say, Comrade Kabanov, cannot help you. And I don’t care what agreement you had with the American government. I too am working for that government and all you need concern yourself with is doing what I tell you to do.”

I was in middle. My mama’s arm was around me as she said, “We have no intention of doing anything until we speak to Adam Andersen or Konstantin Kabanov, whichever you prefer. You can’t just rip us out of our home, out of our lives. We are American citizens. We have rights,”

Again Albino held up his hand and silenced Mama. “Please don’t speak to me of rights. My rights were trod on by the American military.” His voice was rising. He pulled Luger from somewhere inside his big black coat and aimed it directly at my head. “This gives me the right to do whatever I damned well please.” Mama reflexively moved in front of me facing him. He then retrained gun directly at middle of Mama’s forehead only inches away.

“Please . . . sir . . . please put gun away. Please stop threatening my family . . . please, sir.” Papa’s voice was quavering slightly and I could feel his rage and his terror.

As quickly as it appeared, Luger disappeared in albino’s coat and he settled back in his seat. The other man seemed bored. “My name is Herr Foch,” said the German. “That is all you need know about me except for . . .” He patted his coat, indicating storage place of Luger. 

The other man spoke with accent, like Oklahoma or Texas. “I represent the interests of the United States of America. You don’t need to know my name. You may never see me again but I assure you, I will be aware of everything you do.”

I spoke with as big of voice as I could muster. “Are we allowed to ask where you are taking us?” My heart was still racing, pounding after Luger threat.

They shouted in unison, “You are NOT!” And we jumped in unison.

                                                                                                  ***

It was long car ride and after first two hours, Herr Foch and other guy left us in company of one of Nazi guards, who rotated regularly with few other nameless guards everytime we stopped for bathroom breaks. Mama, Papa and I kept conversation to minimum so I had plenty of time to think. I thought back to last day we were in Soviet Union, feverishly preparing for adventure of my lifetime.

Mama was whispering in my ear.“Maya zvyozdochka [My little star], I know this is asking a lot of you.” I was seven.

“No, Mama. It’s just a little needle stick. It-it’s not bad. Really, Mama.” I was whispering back to her. We were in closet, our heads together, with double paper bag over us. We weren’t taking any chances of being overheard. 

We were discussing what we were going to do, same as we had done in past when I faked being sick with asthma. I had got tiny shot of adrenaline just under skin. It always made me feel little flushed and made my heart rate go up. Not dangerously so, and I always reported to medical assistant feeling better within about minute after shot . . . so I didn’t have to have second one. For this trip Mama was going to be giving shot and she would be substituting saline for adrenaline. So, no flushing and no elevated heart rate.

You just need to fake your asthma, fool them enough so that you have to stay with me, not make them think you’re so sick you need to go to the hospital.”

For about two years we had faked that I had asthma causing me to wheeze at unpredictable times. Everytime I became ill, Mama took me to clinic at University. Always I was able to fool them with my fake wheezing act. There was shortage of doctors and nurses and we went at times which were very busy and it was easier for medical assistant to just give me shot of adrenaline. My fake wheezing then would suddenly go away, assistant would note my improvement and send us on our way so they could take care of actually sick patients. I thought I was pretty good little actor. We felt little bit bad for wasting valuable resources but desperate people do desperate things.

Over time clinic visits became more frequent and we changed our approach. Mama started making big deal about me getting shot and she began to refuse shot and tried hypnotizing me. Mama had done great deal of reading about hypnosis and visited with Psychologist colleague at University, consulting with her about hypnotic techniques and often I would be “miraculously cured” by her hypnotic interventions. Comrade Mama took advantage of her Party membership. Harried medical assistants noted “miracles” in my chart and sent me home.

Finally, after umpteenth clinic visit, they sent us to actual nurse who fashioned herself expert with hypnosis. She looked at my storied chart, acted very important and tried to hypnotize me herself. Her efforts just made me giggle. Mama had never actually hypnotized me in University clinic. I was just good actor. Truthfully though, nurse’s technique was somewhat clumsy and heavy handed, using imagery of me being encased in cement, and when Mama demonstrated her own gentler technique there in nurse’s office, I actually was hypnotized. 

Nurse became angry. “What a willful young child!” Like it was my fault she was shitty hypnotist. I heard her, but felt so warm and cozy from Mama’s hypnotic suggestions it didn’t upset me.

Mama said calmly, “Comrade, in my experience, children respond better to gentle indirect hypnotic suggestions.”

Nurse would not let go. “Comrade, in my experience, children of average intelligence respond perfectly well to my technique.”

I could tell Mama was really getting angry, not fake angry with Nurse, who was suggesting I was below average intelligence. Since I was old enough to talk, I presented myself to world as being not particularly intelligent, but my parents always were fierce in their defense of me and would brook no suggestion that I was below average intelligence. We felt that was more believable approach than idea they would accept world’s judgment of me as delayed.

To clarify, I was born self aware with ability to maintain two separate lives. I realize how strange this sounds now. Then, for me it was just way it was, had always been. In Herbert’s epic Dune series, Alya, Paul Atreides’s sister, is born that way as result of her mother, Jessica, having ingested large quantity of spice, melange, apparently a powerful psychedelic, early in Alya’s fetal development. For record, Mama never took anything stronger than alcohol or nicotine prior to her awareness of having conceived me. So, we must look elsewhere for cause of my . . . somewhat unique condition.

I read voraciously, studying Torah silently on paper (we assumed our flat was bugged and always destroyed any paper with Hebrew on it in stove), doing Calculus on any scrap of paper my parents brought home from University or playing piano wedged in corner of “great room” and which I shared with Mama who was my piano teacher. When at home with parents and I needed privacy I would retreat to my bedroom, actually just closet illuminated by bare bulb hanging from ceiling, completely taken up by my mattress on floor and shared with continuously changing selection of books stacked on one corner.

 We had private flat because Mama and Papa were Party members. It was small because we were Jewish. There were no religious icons anywhere and no Mezuzah on door post. Nothing that said “Jew.” But even though my parents had changed last name to “Korkova,” from “Koen” (Papa’s family name), our first names, Itzak, Rakhel and Rivka, were definitely Jewish.

To say our apartment in Moscow was small is maybe glorifying it. There was Mama and Papa’s bedroom which always seemed dark to me. Probably because only window in room looked out at concrete wall of newer Soviet apartment building. Room always seemed like it was in state of use, blankets on bed slightly rumpled, pillows askew, one chest of drawers on same wall as window, drawers never quite completely closed because of contents trying to escape. A few photos in frames hung on opposite wall from window, next to closet door. And in rest of flat books were everywhere, on shelves, on floor in stacks teetering precariously, on chairs, on piano . . . everywhere.

“Mama, who are these people in the photograph with you and Papa?”

“That is your Uncle Yakov, Papa’s brother, and that is Riggo.”

“You all have guns. Were you in the army?”

“Sort of.”

“Did you shoot anyone?”

I felt powerful mix of emotion from her. Revulsion, shame, hatred. She was looking down, breathing deeply. Finally, she looked up at me. “Nazis.” She shook her head and looked down again, her long, wavy, almost blonde auburn hair falling over her face. She stayed that way with her face covered for what seemed like long time to me. But then, I was only three years old.

“You . . . you don’t have to tell me, Mama . . . it’s alright.”

She pulled her hair back from her face and looked up at me with something like gratitude. “Someday, little star . . . I’ll tell you everything.” Then she held me so tight and only thing I felt was love.

In one of exceedingly few times Mama spoke of their life during War she told of dark haired woman who visited Papa and her in middle of night, about how light had seemed to shine from her face, and how mysterious woman had touched Papa, who was near death. She would say no more of this woman. I did not believe in God or angels, but I suspected Mama did as I felt intensity of emotion from her when she spoke of this beautiful, raven-haired woman. An emotion so powerful, akin to love, but more like awe.

Outside our tiny flat, even as toddler, I presented myself as sickly, unremarkable, unathletic, untalented, ungraceful and incurious. This was my fake persona. Inside our flat I learned whispered Yiddish and Hebrew from both parents and French from Mama as patriotic music played from small phonograph to mask whispered Jewish teachings. 

Back in Nurse’s clinic, “Comrade, are you suggesting my child is delayed? Do you know Comrade Lunacharsky? She is close personal friend . . . and fellow member of Party.”

I thought, Uh-oh. Mama is playing Party card. I was emerging from my relaxed hypnotic state and saw expression of fear on Nurse’s face. I knew Comrade Lunacharsky was Political Officer for clinic because my parents and I had talked about somehow using our clinic visit to achieve our ends. This was all part of our plan to escape.

“Comrade Nurse, do you like your job here?” Mama said this, then was silent, staring steadily at nurse. I was glad I was not nurse.

She looked back at Mama, her face blank, jaw slack.

“Because I understand there is a great need for nurses in the eastern provinces.”

“Eastern provinces” was code for Siberia. Nurse was breathing rapidly and slowly shaking her head, then said, “Please, tovarish [comrade], I didn’t mean to imply your child was anything other than exceptional. I had no idea you were in the Party.”

Mama said, “Perhaps I misunderstood you, Comrade.” Mama was taking a more conciliatory tone. “There is something you could do for me which would make both our situations better.”

“Anything, Comrade. What can I do for you?”

All it took was Nurse’s signature and we had certification for Mama to treat me at home with hypnosis or subcutaneous adrenaline if hypnosis failed. Nurse showed Mama how to give subcutaneous shots, allowing Mama to practice on Nurse, using saline, not adrenaline of course. By time we left clinic visit Mama and Nurse were almost joking with each other, Mama thanking her profusely. Thus, stage was set for me needing to be with Mama during her trip to Rome because I was “sick.” And we were having pre-trip talk in closet, our heads in paper bag, Mama reminding me what I needed to do for Political Officer at airport before our flight to Rome.

“Izzy, do you have your notes, my darling?” Back in main room of tiny flat we were speaking in normal voices .

“Da, da, my love. I have everything . . . I will miss you and Rivka so much. First I go to Paris without you then when I come home, you will be in Rome. I won’t see you for two weeks. And only then, when you come back will I see my zvyozdochku, my little star.” He picked me up then fell back into divan, laughing. “When did you get so big?”

I was laughing too then stopped abruptly. “Papa, why do you have to go away again?” I was putting on my pouting act for benefit of any hidden microphones.

“Papa is representing the Motherland. It’s a great honor, little one. It is my duty. Just as it is Mama’s duty to go to Rome to receive honors for her work. We must all do our part, Rivka. Someday, you too will have the privilege of working for our great Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.” Papa was being very dramatic, his voice rising at end of his soliloquy. We were all rolling our eyes.

I’d heard these speeches countless times. I took deep breath, focusing, so I would not laugh. “I understand, Papa. I will be a big girl while you are gone and maybe, some day, I will go to Paris to honor Russia.” I believe I did fairly good job faking enthusiasm. Maybe not as good as my future favorite actress, Natalie Wood, but still pretty good. We were all trying very hard to keep straight faces and not to laugh.

                                                                                               ***

Mama looked up from her suitcase. “Let’s go for a walk.” Papa and I nodded in assent and we trooped out into late afternoon heat.

Compound was somewhere in desert. Ten separate identical single story dwellings like motel rooms were arranged in semi-circle with only openings in and out of each one through single door facing center of circle. Corrugated metal roofs were slightly sloped down towards center. It seemed to me these weren’t constructed with comfort or fire safety in mind, like motel might be. More like prison. Other half of semi-circle could have been airlifted in from Soviet Union with bland, utilitarian buildings looking like boxes of various sizes. Each of these buildings had its own guard at front door, each with weapon looking like machine gun. Entire compound was surrounded by maybe eight meters or twenty-five feet high fence with barbed wire lining top. Only thing taller than single story were four guard towers . . . with four guards, each manning mounted machine gun. We had no idea whether there were even any other inmates in this prison.

“Papa, where do you think we are?” I was still somewhat dazed.

“This looks like somewhere in the Southwest of America. We were only traveling on roads, not flying, and it’s been two and a half days so I’m thinking we’re in eastern Nevada or western Utah maybe.”

“What could they possibly want from us?” Mama said, trying to remain calm. Remaining calm was becoming difficult for us all. All around compound we saw guards in same uniforms we’d been seeing only now they were wearing sunglasses.

I lost track of time. I only remember my misery, cycling through weeping, wailing and catatonia. I must have slept. I refused to eat. That was only way I had to resist. I only thought about Misha, how he must be suffering. Only then did I realize I’d been taking him for granted. My boyfriend, my lover. I assumed he would always be there. We had made plans. I could almost hear Misha, “Want to make God laugh? Make a plan.” Just to hear his voice, feel his touch, taste his lips. His image in my head provided my only moments of peace and then the darkness, the misery.

And then one day the albino Nazi came into my room without even knocking. “Fräulein, you need to stop this. You are preventing your papa from working.” He slapped me. Motherfucker slapped me. Hard. “There, I got your attention . . . there are worse things that could happen to you, little one . . . much worse things. We could separate you from your parents. Send you to a place where you were the only female among rough men. We could do this to your mama also . . . Good, I see you are understanding. Stop this nonsense. I need your papa functioning.” And he left as abruptly as he’d come. I sat up and wiped tears from my eyes on backs of my hands and went out to find my parents.

I found Mama sitting, her face ashen, at table in tiny kitchen. “Oh, Mama, did that terrible man talk to you?” I fell to my knees, my face buried in her lap. But I didn’t cry.

“He is evil. He was a Nazi. I think he still is.” She stroked my hair.

I told her what he’d told me. She closed her eyes and shuddered. “He said the same things to me . . .”

“Do you believe him?”

“I believe they are capable of anything.”

Just then came pounding on door. Man’s voice. “You need to come with me to the clinic.”

We were guided through entrance of one of larger boxes. Papa was in hospital bed with IV, hooked up to monitors. He was in obvious pain. A man, I assumed doctor, was injecting some medicine into IV. Papa was waving us to him.

“My darlings,” he said weakly, “You are alright.” Halfway between statement and question.

I looked at doctor. “What is going on? What is wrong with my papa? What are you giving him? You’d better start talking!”

The doctor looked at me blankly. “Your father has suffered a myocardial infarction.” He said it as if he were reading grocery list. Actually, it seemed like he might generate more emotion reading list.

Mama spoke. “Heart attack? He’s never had problem with his heart before. How serious?”

“We think it’s a small one. We’re treating his pain. He needs to not be stressed. So you need to pull yourselves together and . . . not stress him.” He said it like he didn’t care either way. Then another doctor, short and squat with bald head, walked in and abruptly took clipboard away from asshole doctor and told him to leave. Asshole doctor shrugged and left.

“Nurse, 5 mg. Morphine IV STAT. Have another 5 doses ready to go if necessary. And nasal oxygen at two liters.” The nurse moved with purpose. New doctor turned to us. “I’m terribly sorry. Let me get things under control here and then we’ll talk . . . How is the pain, Doctor Koen?”

“Like fucking elephant is sitting on my chest . . . sorry, Rivka.” In his pain my sweet papa was apologizing to me for using f-word. I hung my head and silently wept.

“5 more mg. Morphine STAT!” He sat at Papa’s bedside, continuously monitoring his pulse in his wrist and every few minutes taking Papa’s blood pressure and listening with stethoscope to his chest. I lost track of how many doses of morphine Papa received but finally Papa said he was feeling no pain.

Good Doctor got up from his seat and motioned for Mama to sit there. I stood behind her until he made someone bring me chair. Everyone had calmed down and Papa was in and out of consciousness, receiving supplemental oxygen via plastic tube with prongs in his nose. Doctor came around to head of bed and spoke to us in subdued voice. 

“Doctor Koen, your husband, your papa (turning to me) had a heart attack. We think it was not too bad but we’re treating it aggressively.”

Mama, cold as February morning, said, “Itzak has no history of any heart disease. Why should he have myocardial infarction?”

“I’m not sure. I’m gathering information but I gather he’s been under some stress lately.”

“Yes, doctor, you could say that. We’ve been kidnapped and held incommunicado while he’s been here, doing some kind of work he has not been happy about. So, yes, doctor, we have all been under considerable stress and there is man in charge with German accent, Herr Foch, he said, and if he spoke to Itzak way he spoke to us I would say that is probably cause of my poor husband’s myocardial infarction!” If I hadn’t been so upset about Foch’s threats and Papa’s heart attack I think I would have told Mama how impressed I was with her at that moment. “Man is beast,” she added with some heat.

Doctor stood there in thought, head down for few moments, then spoke to us. “I don’t know what he’s working on. I’ve only been told it is vital to the security of the United States. I’m just a doctor and my only job is to make sure I get Doctor Koen through this with as little damage to his heart as possible.”

Mama gasped at the word “damage” and shuddered then recovered. Papa was asleep. “Thank you, doctor. When will you know more?”

“I will be here at his bedside for the next twelve hours. We should know quite a bit more by then . . . You may want to go some place more comfortable, like your bungalow for a few hours at least. I’m going to keep him pretty snowed, er, sedated, for a while. If he wakes up and asks for you I’ll tell him you are fine and safe and that you’ll be back soon. Will that be ok?”

Mama and I curled up together in my bed, nestled like spoons. I was still weepy but she was like steel. She stroked my hair and whispered. “Don’t worry, little star, your papa will be alright. He is tough. He survived Nazi death camp. He will survive this. This funny little doctor is, maybe, a good man and seems to know his business. So maybe try to sleep, little one.”

Mama and I curled up together in my bed, nestled like spoons. I was still weepy but she was like steel. She stroked my hair and whispered. “Don’t worry, little star, your papa will be alright. He is tough. He survived Nazi death camp. He will survive this. This funny little doctor is, maybe, a good man and seems to know his business. So maybe try to sleep, little one.”

I distantly registered information about “Nazi death camp,” but temporarily placed it in “list of things to ask about later” and must have fallen asleep because I started awake and it was dark. She was still stroking my hair in her sleep. We got up and walked to clinic, finding nice doctor, true to his word, at Papa’s bedside, checking his pulse and blood pressure, writing notes, and looking up at us, he smiled. He got up and motioned us into chairs. He looked very tired.

“He is much better. His EKG has normalized which is a very good sign. His blood chemistries indicate it was a mild heart attack. I’m thinking part of his pain was related to an ulcer in his stomach or small intestine so we are treating him for that as well.”

“Are they going to put him back to work right away?” she asked.

“Not if I have anything to say about it!”

“And will you have anything to say about it?”

He looked down, genuinely embarrassed. “I . . . really don’t know.”