In Paris, back in 1958, all Russian mathematicians were gathered in largest suite for party marking end of conference Papa had addressed. Free vodka, apparently at expense of People’s Republic of China. Political Officer Badenov never questioned free vodka, being barely functional alcoholic. All his vodka, however, was drugged with compounds which would give him blinding headache, and unrelenting nausea and vomiting. CIA engineered party and bartender was CIA operative of Chinese ancestry who made sure Badenov got doctored vodka, mathematicians got undoctored vodka, and my papa got water.

Next morning, Papa made his way to Israeli Embassy while Adam Andersen masqueraded  as Itzak Korkova (later changing our names to Koen) and his presence on train was verified by very compromised Political Officer Badenov. Our plan was simple in concept, but depended on many things going right. Our Political Officer needed to know that Papa was on train back to Moscow before we could leave on our plane to go to Rome.

“We are awaiting word from Paris regarding your husband, Comrade Doctor Korkova. It is necessary that we receive confirmation that he is on the train before you can fly to Rome.” Political Officer Kryuchkova was basically talking to herself there in airport, not waiting for any response from Mama. Families did not travel out of country together or leave country at same time from Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Especially families with scientists as members, even though Papa, as mathematician, was relatively low in status. Rules were rules. Party had created these rules to keep defections to minimum. They felt if member or members of family were still in Soviet Union, it would be less likely that rest of family, which was outside Soviet Union, would defect. Political Officer got off phone and said, “You and your daughter may board the plane now, Comrade.”

“Thank you, Comrade. Come on, my darling. We can board now.” I faked another coughing fit lasting seconds but severe nonetheless. Political Officer shrank back, apparently afraid of catching whatever I had. I thought, Papa must be making his way to Israeli Embassy in Paris . . . Yay!

Officer stood silently in middle of airport in quandary, probably wondering if she was in more danger from Party if she canceled Dr. Korkova’s convention address or if little girl (me) got sicker and died on plane. I looked at Mama and it was clear she was wondering if we’d overdone it with coughing. It seemed we were standing there for eternity, our future in hands of Political Officer Kryuchkova. I made big deal about hopping around playfully and breathing easily like normal, healthy seven-year-old . . . which I was. Finally, she made her determination. She nodded and three of us boarded Aeroflot to Rome.

                                                                                            ***

Weeks went by in desert without seeing Foch. He had apparently been replaced by other man we’d met in limousine. Heavyset man with Texas accent. Papa was up and walking within five days and back at work week after having “mild” heart attack. Mama and I were given access to library which was remarkably well supplied and we walked around compound during specific times, still not having contact with any other inmates. We were able to surmise through bungalow windows that there were at least six other “families,” each with one or more scientists, we supposed, involved in this project which we were becoming more and more certain was some kind of super weapon. Papa would not talk about it. He would point up and mouth “They are listening.”

I did not feel any better, but I felt that my prior behavior had maybe added to Papa’s stress and possibly contributed to his heart attack, so I put on brave face for him and saved my tears for nighttime, alone in my room, pillow muffling my weeping. My poor Misha. What must he be thinking? Nights got colder as winter solstice approached. I wondered what Ava and Maria and Steve were doing, wondered about John and Paul, wondered if Misha was still in band. I couldn’t believe he would be but still, I wondered. 

                                                                                            ***

Flight to Rome was turbulent and more than one passenger became nauseated from motion and threw up into vomit bags, including Political Officer. I am certain she was thinking, Why am I babysitting this privileged Jew and her wretched brat? Why do they even let Jews join party?

“Are you alright, my darling?” Mama was whispering to me.

“Mama . . . eta vesela, [this is fun],” I whispered back. “I guess not everyone likes this kind of motion in a plane.”

Mama suppressed smile and told me later she’d said silent thank you to God her daughter possessed rugged vestibular system. “I think Comrade Kryuchkova is one of those people not liking it,” Mama whispered, trying very hard not to laugh.

From her seat in next aisle, Kryuchkova looked over and Mama turned her stifled laugh into fake retch and reached for her vomit bag. Officer looked pleased until plane abruptly changed altitude causing her to once again avail herself of her own bag. Cabin was beginning to reek of vomit. That, not roller coaster ride of Aeroflot passenger liner, was what was starting to make me sick.

At last plane mercifully touched down in Rome. Passengers wasted no time leaving our vomitorium, and Political Officer with Mama and me in tow managed to reach terminal before running for toilet, her hand over her mouth, after screaming at Mama to stay put. 

As Kryuchkova entered restroom, kindly gray-haired, clean-shaven older man, very well dressed in gray suit and red tie, approached mother and child and said gently, “Comrades, this way, please.” He guided us into nearby open door which closed immediately behind us and which led to narrow passageway of terminal which was dark and, except for us, completely unpopulated. There was something so reassuring about man, both Mama and I followed him without least bit of fear.

“Welcome to Italy, Dr. Koen and a very special welcome to Miss Koen.”  Man took Mama’s hand and kissed it politely with old world charm, then, as he offered me chocolate bar, “Doctor, if I may,” referring to candy in his hand.

“Of course. Thank you. Who are you?” She asked.

I accepted chocolate gratefully. I still didn’t quite believe we were safe. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’m sorry. I’m an . . . associate of a man you may know as Adam Andersen and I’m here to help you.”

“What of my husband?” There was tension in Mama’s voice.

“Oh, yes, Doctor Koen, other Doctor Koen is in the Israeli Embassy in Paris as we speak.” 

Young dark haired man in airport uniform appeared around corner and, smiling, said, “Would you like to speak to your husband, Doctor?”

“Yes, very much!” Mama said breathlessly.

“This way, please.” He led us to bank of four phone booths, none of which was occupied. He stepped into nearest and dialed number, quietly asked question, then handed phone to Mama.

“Rakhel, is it you?”

“Oh, Itzak . . .” She sank to floor, handing phone to me.

“Papa?” I said and began to weep, only then realizing full extent of my terror during trip on plane.

“Oh, my precious one,” Papa was himself weeping. “You are in Rome? You are alright?”

“Da, Papa. We are fine. Mama is just a little verklempt . . . here.” I handed phone back to Mama

“Izzy . . . oh, my darling . . .”

With Papa safely in Israeli Embassy in Paris and Mama and me on our way to Israeli Embassy in Rome we were one step away from being together in Tel Aviv. I watched my mama speaking softly, privately to my papa on phone and knew I should be happy. But somehow I couldn’t shake feeling of being watched. And I thought, Maybe I never will.

                                                                                              ***

Months passed in American desert without change in routine. We woke one morning in February. There was snow on ground. Very cold. We went out for morning walk. There were no guards. We were incredulous. We ran all over compound looking for guards. I ran. Mama held on to Papa, keeping him from acting like frisky puppy. Our captors seemed to have vanished. We began knocking on doors. Other captive families came out and we were able to talk to them for first time. Central work building where scientists met daily was locked. We smashed locks and entered, perhaps unwisely but emotion was high. There was no work left behind. Our captors had removed it all. Clinic was also empty. Not even nice doctor had stayed behind. Of course he would not have been allowed to stay.

Physicist from India stood up. “I know we are all in the same boat here. We should inventory our food supplies and ration them until we can figure out a way to leave here.”

There was clamor of mostly agreement. Papa stood up. “My colleague has good idea, and I am in agreement, but are there any among us with sufficient skills who can endeavor to travel to nearest town so as to effect rescue?”

Mathist from South Africa stood up. “We don’t even know where we are! How on earth can we even know which way to go?”

An even louder clamor ensued until small, dark-skinned woman from Angola stood at front of room with her hand up, waiting for clamor to die down. “I know exactly where we are.” There was silence. “We are exactly 101 miles due east of Juan, Nevada . . . I brought a sextant with me when my family was kidnapped.”

Mama, Papa and I looked at each other with big smiles. “Thank God for science geeks,” I said.

Moment of elation was interrupted by distant hum of vehicles. Three black helicopters hovered above perimeter of camp as five military ground vehicles arrived, driving through open gate. Everyone was scurrying back to their bungalows, believing our captors had returned. Man jumped down from one of trucks, shouting instructions and waving his arms for emphasis, our “friend,” Adam Andersen – Konstantin Kabanov.

                                                                                        ***

“My friends, I don’t know what to tell you. I am so sorry. The people who seized you and the other families were a rogue element of the Department of Defense so secret it doesn’t even have a name. Once I realized you were gone and likewise the other families it took me six months to find you. I can’t imagine what you went through. Believe me, we are searching for Herr Foch and General Masters. They won’t remain at large for long.”

Andersen looked steadily at me before lowering his eyes. “That is a bit of a problem. This secret organization apparently has members in the State Department as well as the Department of Defense. It’s . . . an embarrassment for the Company, the CIA . . . and for State (meaning State Department). We’re going to need you to stay secret, hidden, until we can root out all the members. I’m afraid you will not be able to go home . . . not yet. In fact, you will not be able to communicate with anyone except me and my fellow agents.”

Papa was becoming very agitated. “You mean to tell me you, your government, whatever this rogue organization is . . . rips us from our home, our friends, our work, our schools and we can’t even resume our lives? This is unbelievable, Adam. It is totally unacceptable.” Papa suddenly stopped, raised his hand to his chest, clutching it, and began to lose his balance. Adam and Mama caught him and eased him back into his chair and Adam called for medic.

                                                                                              ***

Mama and I were sitting on opposite sides of Papa’s bed, both holding his hands. He was resting comfortably. He had experienced heart pain called angina but doctors were fairly certain he hadn’t had another myocardial infarction. We’d been flown to Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore in special jet from Nellis Air Force Base outside of Las Vegas. Mama and I had been checked into hotel close to hospital and had been almost constantly at Papa’s side for over seventy-two hours.

“Izzy, no more excitement, ok? I don’t think my heart could stand it,” she said, her eyes twinkling with her little joke with her husband.

Papa smiled at Mama drowsily. “Alright, my love . . . no more excitement. You two must be exhausted. Why don’t you go back to the hotel and sleep? I’m fine. No pain. They’re going to get me up and exercising tomorrow, so go, my beauties.” He smiled at us both and we kissed him on opposite cheeks, went back to hotel and fell into deep long sleep. At least I did. 

I awoke with start and for moment was back in desert, then remembered where I was and had terrible pang of missing Misha for thousandth time and reflexively reached for phone. No dial tone. I held it to my ear for several seconds. Finally, a man’s voice. “Miss Koen? I’m sorry but you’re not allowed to use the phone at this time.” I slammed receiver down and screamed in rage. Mama was nowhere to be found but she’d left note on hotel stationery.

“Rivala. I decided to let you sleep. Take a shower and have the man in the hallway take you to the hospital. That’s where I’ll be. I know this has been hard for you. I know you miss Misha. I tried to use the phone. I could not. Come to the hospital and we’ll talk. I’m so proud of you . . . Mama”

                                                                                                ***

“This place isn’t so bad, Rivala. Adam assures me as soon as they catch Foch and Masters and contain the mess we’ll be able to communicate with the outside world and you’ll be able to call Misha. Please don’t cry, my little star.”

“Don’t call me that, Papa. I’m not a little girl anymore. You have the woman you love. I have been ripped away from the other half of my heart. Misha probably thinks we’re rotting in some Siberian gulag. Not set up in this nice townhouse in Georgetown.”

“I know you’re not my little girl, but you’re still so young, my love. If you really love each other you’ll be able to wait a few more months?”

“Papa, that is maybe the cruelest thing you could have said to me. ‘If we really love each other?’ Misha and I have shared one heart. We have been intimate, as intimate as two people can be . . .”  I ran from room, up to my bedroom and buried my head in pillows . . . like “little star.” I wept great heaving sobs of sorrow and frustration. Later I could hear my parents talking, my mama’s voice rising and falling not in anger but emotional. Papa’s voice was subdued. I looked around my room. There was nothing familiar, nothing but what I’d packed in my suitcase so many months ago. There was picture of Misha and me, running on beach, my hair flying in wind, Misha laughing, our hands entwined. I’d thought I’d cried myself out. I was wrong.

There was knock. “May I come in?” Mama speaking French.

“Oui. . . Entrer.” She entered and sat down on my bed with me. I thought, So, we are speaking French . . . language of diplomacy.

“My sweet girl. My heart. Papa is sometimes clumsy. He loves you so much. He didn’t know fully the intimacy you and Misha shared.”

“And you did?”

“Of course I did. So did Sharon.”

“Oh, my.”

“You needn’t worry. She doesn’t think you’re . . . easy.”

“Oh my God . . . do you . . . think I’m easy.” I was still angry.

“No, my sweet angel. I think you and Misha are very much in love. I wish you had waited until you were older but I understand. You both are very mature. Sharon and I both realized you would find a way regardless of how we felt.” She put her forehead against mine. I could feel her love and that opened up the floodgates. We wept together.

                                                                                               ***

We were allowed to go out with escort to market, library, museums, parks. After our confinement, being allowed to go out anywhere was kindness. Papa had apologized to me profusely after Mama had talked to him and anyway, I couldn’t stay mad at him for long regardless of what he’d said. I loved my papa so much. 

After breakfast one Saturday, Papa suggested, “Why don’t we go together to this synagogue?” He passed around pamphlet as Mama and I rolled our eyes. “Look, I know we haven’t exactly been shul-goers but your mama and I were raised in very observant families and it might be nice to . . . something to think about . . .”

I thought it would be colossal waste of time but, as we had nothing else to do . . . ”Okay, Papa, I’ll go with you.” Mama, I think, did not want to be left out so she agreed to go along.

I knew Hebrew . . . had studied it secretly with my parents in Russia and openly in America with Misha and Papa. I had never been in synagogue. Inexplicably I never went with Misha. I don’t know why. I guess I felt I had to maintain my staunch atheist bonafides, keep something separate from him. But as I sat there between my parents, who were chanting along with other Jews, I felt, for first time . . . Jewish . . . felt sense of belonging . . . part of millenia long struggle of people just wanting nothing more than to be allowed to be together and chant like this in peace. I sat in silence, eyes closed, being swept along in current of time, Jews chanting same words, melodies passed down through generations. I saw face of my lover, his eyes closed, imagined tears streaming down his face as he chanted along. I felt my own tears and for moment . . . I felt euphoric.

Following Saturday I returned to that shul by myself. I sat and stood and kissed my prayer book and touched Torah scroll as it passed. And as I sat amid other Jews chanting prayers, blessings, I found small bit of bliss. It left me breathless. I returned again and again. I don’t know if what I felt was just neurochemical reaction somewhere in my brain. I don’t know if I was feeling presence of God, but boy oh boy, it was best feeling I’d had since Misha and I had lain together, and if it took going to Temple and chanting with Jews, I was sold. I came to believe . . . strongly, that I would see Misha again. That synagogue, those chants with other Jews . . . got me through. I knew that if . . . when . . . when I told Misha, he would say something like “I told you so” and I was fine with that. I yearned for it.

Months went by and finally in August, almost year exactly after we were kidnapped,  Hermann Foch and General Masters were caught. After what we assumed was extensive interrogation Andersen/Kabanov gave us heavily censured story involving right wing/fascist conspiracy, in existence since long before two Great Wars, surviving deeply within American government. American General Wendell Masters, man with Foch nee Fogel in abduction limo, had been on staff of General Patton and had found Fogel when in Berlin on fact finding mission for Patton at end of World War 2. Fogel had been working for Hitler on super weapon and that’s what this whole fucking mess had been about. Masters was high up in this conspiracy and he was trying to duplicate and finish this super weapon to be unleashed on Soviet Union. It was clear Masters was bit . . . looney. And dangerous as fuck!

Mama was incredulous. “You mean to say this huge clandestine organization exists within American government and nobody knows anything about it? Konstantine, these people had vast resources, soldiers, weapons, physical facilities. How is this possible?”

Papa joined in. “They had weapon almost completely designed when rest of scientists and I arrived in desert. Are you telling me Hitler’s scientists did all this work during War . . . in Berlin? Do you have work that we did? Please tell me you have it. This weapon is monstrous. It cannot be allowed to fall into wrong hands! It cannot be allowed ever to be built, ever to be used!”

“We have it. We have it, Doctor Koen.” Kabanov said gently but firmly, patting Papa’s shoulder, trying to reassure my papa . . . and Mama . . . and me.

Papa took some time, breathing deeply and sitting, Mama stroking his shoulder. Then he  asked, “Konstantine, the work the wartime Germans did was the most advanced work on subatomic particles done during the middle years of this century. I know of these German scientists. I have read their work. I am saying this with the greatest humility, those guys were not that smart . . . not smart enough to do what they did.”

“Da, Itzak. What you say is true. Our scientists have looked at their work and agree with you,” said Konstantine.

I asked, “So Fogel ran . . . task force, whatever and somehow whipped those mediocre scientists to achieve something beyond their capabilities? Is that even possible?”

Mama said, “Something is fishy, Konstantine. Something weird happened back then and either you don’t know what it is or you’re not telling us.”

Konstantine sat there at table, subdued and looking back and forth at all three of us, and said, “I’ve told you everything I can tell you.” 

All four of us sat silently, each in their own thoughts for what seemed like hour, but was probably only seconds and then Papa said, “So . . . Adam . . . when do we get to go home?”

CIA was satisfied they could find rest of conspirators and my family was allowed some freedom. Not enough to go back to Hillsdale, as Department of Defense and CIA had yet to work out plan for repatriation of all scientists and their families. For time being, we had to stay in DC. It was unclear to us then and remains unclear to us why that was so, but at least we were allowed to communicate with outside world so long as we kept details of our detainment secret. And yes, they were monitoring calls. My first call was to Hillsdale, Oregon. Mama Sharon answered on third ring.

“Hello, Mama Sharon. It’s Rivka . . . Koen.”