hearing. I looked out my hotel window into bright sunlight and smelled the faint scent of gunpowder on my jacket. It had happened. Now what was I supposed to do about it? Gregor was dead. Arkady had saved my life, or I had saved his.
I took the train down to Washington, and Pat picked me up at the station.
“Did you find any spies?” A sour edge in her voice.
“Not yet, dear,” I said.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll get them.”
“You don’t have to say that,” I told her. I closed my eyes on the way home, pretended to nap. Some instinct told me to lock away what I remembered, to keep those strange blurred moments of struggle shading into inexplicable horror in a separate part of myself. Over the next few days, the strangeness faded and I began to doubt what had happened. The rest of the world continued as it had. I was a nobody with no connections and I was going to disappear from the world.
I went back to work. The hearings had moved to Washington, DC, and the political press was watching. Chambers described in detail the Hiss household, its decor, the family’s quirks, and odd bits of personal trivia. When Hiss took the stand, he dismissed Chambers as a passing acquaintance, a parasite, and a mediocrity. I glared at him helplessly. I had seen the man’s diary, and in theory all I had to do was wait for a slipup or a sign of weakness, but he had nerves like a gunfighter. He toyed with me, and gave up nothing. All that fall he kept it going. Prominent politicians were coming out in support of Hiss, and my grandstanding opportunity was turning into a national embarrassment.
One night I had dinner with my family in front of the television set and we watched American planes landing in Tempelhof Airport to bring food to cheering, blockaded Berliners. No one had to say anything; it was obvious. When I pointed the finger at Hiss I’d thrown a pebble down a hillside, and now it was part of an avalanche. For once I’d guessed right about where history was going, but my opportunity to be the Cold War’s first great hero was slipping away. It was probably gone already.
I excused myself and went for a nighttime walk in the suburban streets, the air still warm with late-summer heat. I tried to see a way out of the trap I’d put myself in. Hiss was a spy, I knew it, but I couldn’t say anything about the diary, and I couldn’t prove it any other way.
What I did next was the kind of irrevocable step that you take without thinking or knowing why until years after. I was angry and unhappy, and on some profound level I didn’t care about what I might be sacrificing, my reputation or my country or my marriage or the sanctity of my oath of office. I didn’t give a shit, and I didn’t even know it. Not until the moment I watched myself throw it all on the fire and let it burn.
I stopped at a public telephone and dialed the number I’d copied from the piece of scrap paper in Hiss’s office. I held my breath as it rang. I still only half believed in what I remembered from that night. A woman answered.
“Hello? Who is this, please?” she said.
“It’s Alger Hiss calling.” I couldn’t say my own name, could I?
“Just a moment, please,” she said. Then, farther off, “He says he’s Alger Hiss.” I heard a click as the phone was transferred, then a familiar voice.
“Mr. Nixon! It is good to hear from you. You are well, yes? I see you in papers all the time now. How is trial?”
“It’s not a trial, it’s a hearing. Hello, Arkady. How did you know it was me?”
“Who else? The hearing goes well, Mr. Nixon? You catching the spies yet?”
“Not really, Arkady.”
“Well, then. How can I help you?”
“Do you know…do you know where I got this number?”
“Of course I do, Richard. Why do you call me? No spies here, I promise you.”
“Where are you, Arkady?”
“Russian embassy, of course. In my job as cultural attaché. I am arranging Kandinsky show here in Washington, you must
I took the train down to Washington, and Pat picked me up at the station.
“Did you find any spies?” A sour edge in her voice.
“Not yet, dear,” I said.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll get them.”
“You don’t have to say that,” I told her. I closed my eyes on the way home, pretended to nap. Some instinct told me to lock away what I remembered, to keep those strange blurred moments of struggle shading into inexplicable horror in a separate part of myself. Over the next few days, the strangeness faded and I began to doubt what had happened. The rest of the world continued as it had. I was a nobody with no connections and I was going to disappear from the world.
I went back to work. The hearings had moved to Washington, DC, and the political press was watching. Chambers described in detail the Hiss household, its decor, the family’s quirks, and odd bits of personal trivia. When Hiss took the stand, he dismissed Chambers as a passing acquaintance, a parasite, and a mediocrity. I glared at him helplessly. I had seen the man’s diary, and in theory all I had to do was wait for a slipup or a sign of weakness, but he had nerves like a gunfighter. He toyed with me, and gave up nothing. All that fall he kept it going. Prominent politicians were coming out in support of Hiss, and my grandstanding opportunity was turning into a national embarrassment.
One night I had dinner with my family in front of the television set and we watched American planes landing in Tempelhof Airport to bring food to cheering, blockaded Berliners. No one had to say anything; it was obvious. When I pointed the finger at Hiss I’d thrown a pebble down a hillside, and now it was part of an avalanche. For once I’d guessed right about where history was going, but my opportunity to be the Cold War’s first great hero was slipping away. It was probably gone already.
I excused myself and went for a nighttime walk in the suburban streets, the air still warm with late-summer heat. I tried to see a way out of the trap I’d put myself in. Hiss was a spy, I knew it, but I couldn’t say anything about the diary, and I couldn’t prove it any other way.
What I did next was the kind of irrevocable step that you take without thinking or knowing why until years after. I was angry and unhappy, and on some profound level I didn’t care about what I might be sacrificing, my reputation or my country or my marriage or the sanctity of my oath of office. I didn’t give a shit, and I didn’t even know it. Not until the moment I watched myself throw it all on the fire and let it burn.
I stopped at a public telephone and dialed the number I’d copied from the piece of scrap paper in Hiss’s office. I held my breath as it rang. I still only half believed in what I remembered from that night. A woman answered.
“Hello? Who is this, please?” she said.
“It’s Alger Hiss calling.” I couldn’t say my own name, could I?
“Just a moment, please,” she said. Then, farther off, “He says he’s Alger Hiss.” I heard a click as the phone was transferred, then a familiar voice.
“Mr. Nixon! It is good to hear from you. You are well, yes? I see you in papers all the time now. How is trial?”
“It’s not a trial, it’s a hearing. Hello, Arkady. How did you know it was me?”
“Who else? The hearing goes well, Mr. Nixon? You catching the spies yet?”
“Not really, Arkady.”
“Well, then. How can I help you?”
“Do you know…do you know where I got this number?”
“Of course I do, Richard. Why do you call me? No spies here, I promise you.”
“Where are you, Arkady?”
“Russian embassy, of course. In my job as cultural attaché. I am arranging Kandinsky show here in Washington, you must
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