Snow Wolf

Until a few years ago, the cemetery hadbeen closed to the public. Khrushchev's grave was nearby, a massive monument ofblack and white marble. Stalin's wife and her family were off to the right.Chekhov. Shostakovich. Grand marble edifices to heroes of the Soviet Union andwriters- and actors, men and women who had left their mark on Soviet history.And my father, an American, was strangely among them.

And as I stood there in the pouring rainunder the wet trees in the corner of the cemetery I saw the gray-haired manfrom the Mercedes put up his umbrella and speak quietly with the priest, whonodded and went to stand under one of the trees a short distance away.

The gray-haired man was in his lateforties, tall and wellbuilt, and he wore a smart blue business suit under hisdamp raincoat, and he smiled warmly as he came toward me.

"A wet day for it, wouldn't yousay?" He offered his hand. "Brad Taylor, US Embassy. You must beMassey?"

The handshake was firm and as I let go Isaid, "For a while there I was afraid you wouldn't make it."

"Sorry I'm late, I got held up atthe embassy." He took a pack of Marlboro cigarettes from his pocket andoffered me one. "Smoke? I hope it doesn't seem disrespectful?"

"No it doesn't, and thanks, I don'tmind if I do."

He lit both our cigarettes and lookedback over at the priest as he arranged his white vestments under his blackraincoat and removed a Bible from his pocket, almost ready to begin.

Taylorsaid, "Bob tells me you're a journalist with the Washington Post?

Have you ever been to Moscow before, Mr.Massey?"

"Once, five years ago on a briefassignment. What else did Bob tell you?"

Taylorsmiled, showing a row of perfectly white and even teeth. "Just enough so Iwouldn't be at a loss when we met. He said you were a friend of his from wayback, when you were at boarding school together, and that you served in hisunit in Vietnam. And he said to make sure everything went smoothly for youwhile you're in Moscow. Bob seemed very anxious about that."

Taylor went to say something else then,but hesitated and looked back just as the priest had made himself ready,lighting a small censer of incense before he came over to join us.

Someone had left a fresh marble slabagainst one of the trees and I could make out the simple chiseled inscriptionin Cyrillic letters.

JAKOB MASSEY Born: 3 January 1912 Died: 1March 1953

Nearby was an old unmarked stone slabthat had been uprooted from the grave, green with lichen and weathered by theyears. There was another one still lying on the ground, marking a second gravebeside my father's, looking just as old, and out of the corner of my eye I sawtwo gravediggers wearing capes standing a distance away under some trees, waitingto go to work and erect my father's headstone.

And as I stood there I realized howsuddenly everything had come together. One of those twists of luck that seem toconspire now and then to make you believe in fate. A week ago and over fivethousand miles away in Washington I had received the phone call from Langley,telling me they had arranged the funeral ceremony and that A

The Orthodox priest stepped forward andshook my hand and said in perfect English, "Shall I begin now?"

"Thank you."

He stepped toward the grave and startedto pray as he swung the censer of fragrant incense, chanting the prayers forthe dead in Russian.

It was all over in no time at all, andthen the priest withdrew and went back to the car. The gravediggers came overand began to place the fresh headstone on my father's tomb. Taylor said,"Well, I guess that's it, except for your lady-friend, A

Taylorlit us both another cigarette. "I guess Bob explained the groundrules?"

"Sure. No photographs, no taperecorder. Everything is off the record."

Taylorsmiled. "I guess that about covers everything. The place she's at is inthe Swallow Hills outside Moscow. Belongs to the Israeli Embassy, one of theirstaff houses they vacated for the meeting." He handed me a slip of paper."That's the address. They're expecting you and the appointment is forthree this afternoon." He hesitated. "You mind if I ask you aquestion?"

"Ask away."

He nodded over toward my father's grave."Bob told me your father died forty years ago. How come you're having thisservice here today?"

"All I can tell you is my fatherworked for the American government. He died in Moscow in 1953."

"Did he work for our embassyhere?"

"No." Taylor said, puzzled,"I thought Moscow was out of bounds to Americans during the Cold War,except for those working in the embassy?

How did your father die?"

"That's what I'm here to findout."

Taylorlooked puzzled and he went to say something else then, but suddenly thundercracked above us and he glanced up.

"Well, I'd like to stay and talk,but duty beckons." He crushed his cigarette with the heel of his shoe."I've got to take the padre back. Can I give you a lift someplace?"

I tossed away my cigarette. "Noneed, I'll find a taxi. I'd like to stay a while. Thanks for your help."

"Whatever you say." Taylor put up his umbrella. "Good luck, Massey. And I sure hope you find whatever itis you're looking for."

This is what I remember.

A cold, windy evening in early March1953. 1 am ten. I am in my dormitory in the boarding school in Richmond, Virginia. I hear the footsteps creak on the stairs outside, hear the door open. Ilook up and see the headmaster standing there, another man behind him, but thisman isn't a teacher or staff. He's wearing an overcoat and leather gloves andhe stares at me before he smiles weakly.

The headmaster says, "William, thisgentleman is here to see you." He looks meaningfully at the other two boysin the room. "Would you leave William alone for a while?"

The boys leave the room. The headmasterleaves the room. The man comes in and closes the door. He's broad andhardfaced, with deep-set eyes, and looks every inch a soldier with his tightcropped haircut and polished brown shoes.

For a long time he says nothing, as if hefinds what he's about to tell me difficult, and then he says, "William, myname is Karl Branigan. I was a colleague of your father's."

There is something in the tone of hisvoice that puts me on my guard, the way he says was a colleague, and I look upat him and say, "What's this about, Mr. Branigan?"

"William, I'm afraid I've got somebad news for you. It's about your father ... he's dead. I'm sorry ... trulysorry."

The man just stands there and doesn'tspeak again. And then I'm crying, but the man doesn't come toward me or touchme or offer any comfort and for the first time in my life I really feel utterlyalone. A little later I hear his footsteps go down the creaking stairs again.The wind screams and rushes outside the window. A tree branch brushes againstthe wall outside, then creaks and snaps. I call for my father. But he doesn'tanswer.

And then a scream from deep inside me,which echoes still inside my head, a terrible cry of grief, and I can't stop mytears.

I remember ru