Erika Holzer - Freedom Bridge

Before Houston could retrieve Brodsky’s cigarette lighter, a black boot nudged it barely out of Stepan’s reach.

“You sadistic sonofabitch!” Seizing a broken piece of the car’s bumper, Houston swung—just missing von Eyssen’s head.

Clicking his heels in mock deference, a smiling von Eyssen joined the men now swarming over the bridge.

Houston knelt down. He started to reach for Brodsky’s lighter when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Watch my back,” Ernst Roeder muttered as he slipped a smooth silver object from his jacket pocket—a Minox miniature camera no more than a few inches long. Concealing it in one oversized hand, he took three surreptitious photographs in rapid succession before returning the camera to his pocket.

Then, “Good lord, he’s still alive,” Roeder whispered.

Houston made a grab for the lighter. But not in time.

With what seemed like a last burst of energy, Brodsky pushed his cigarette lighter over the edge of the bridge.

Then his hand lay still.

At the same time Stepan Brodsky lay dying on Glienicker Bridge, in Manhattan black-booted men in loose white tunics and red sashes performed deep knee bends and gravity-defying leaps as they formed a large loose circle. Inside the circle, young barelegged women whirled, red-and-black peasant skirts whipping above their knees. The exuberant cries of the dancers threatened to drown out the cheerful strains of an accordion. Suddenly the men and women broke into a heel-stamping finale, then bowed and waved at the crowd in traditional Russian fashion.

About twenty-five fashionably-dressed people stood in a walled-in garden half the size of a basketball court. Tall-stemmed sunflowers and stately shade trees ran along the walls all the way to the East River. They stood looking up at Grace Manning, their blonde blue-eyed hostess, as if waiting for permission to applaud the dancers.

Grace stood in front of a brass and teak bar, a fetching picture in a red-and-black peasant blouse and matching skirt identical to the women dancers. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, tapping a thin brass knife against a red goblet; pausing until she had complete silence. “Thanks are in order to the ambassador of the Soviet U.N. Mission for this combination May Day celebration and sneak preview of tomorrow night’s gala opening at Lincoln Center. But before we treat ourselves to some tantalizing Russian delicacies, every recipe courtesy of the Soviet U. N. Mission”—she gestured toward a sumptuous buffet table—“I should like to propose toast.”

On cue, butlers appeared with trays of brimming glasses.

“It’s vodka. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” a smiling Grace Manning cautioned her guests. “The champagne comes later. I propose a double toast,” she said, raising her glass. “First, to the talented dancers from Ukraine who have brightened what surely would have been a dull Sunday afternoon in New York. Second, to the gentleman who arranged this exciting glimpse into his country’s cultural heritage,United Nations Ambassador Anton Zorin!”

The trim-looking Zorin downed his vodka Russian-style—in a single gulp. His glass was quickly refilled by a hovering butler. Most of the guests, but not all, sipped their vodka somewhat tentatively.

“Now it is my turn for a double toast,” the ambassador said in fluent English. “To our distinguished host, Russell Manning.” He raised his glass high. “And to Russell’s pride and joy, Medicine International, an organization that lives up to its slogan—World Peace through World Health—and by so doing contributes significantly to the relaxation of world tensions!” he enthused.

A beaming Russell Manning ran a hand through waves of silver hair. “One cannot indulge in toast-making,” he said, “without acknowledging America’s most prominent heart surgeon and noted humanitarian, Dr. Kurt Brenner. Dr. Brenner will represent the United States at Medicine International’s forthcoming Artificial Heart Symposium in West Berlin.”

Kurt Brenner acknowledged the applause with a nod and a half-smile. The silver-blue of the East River and the brighter blue of a cloudless sky were perfect backdrops for his tall, stately figure in an impeccably tailored off-white linen suit. Brenner’s eyes were velvet-brown, his face deeply tanned. His hair, in stunning contrast, was white.

He waited for his glass to be refilled. Waited, as Grace Manning had, until he had everyone’s full attention. “It looks like double toasts are in fashion,” he said with a faint smile, and wondered if the people who returned his smile were responding to his sense of humor or to the praise Russell had heaped on him. Both maybe. “To my Russian, French, and British colleagues in absentia, who will be joining me in West Berlin,” Brenner said in his rich baritone. “And to the success of Medicine International’s Artificial Heart Symposium, which I look forward to with great anticipation.” He smiled broadly—this time for a photographer from the Soviet News Agency.

The guests lost no time in switching from vodka to champagne, and even less for descending upon the sumptuous buffet table.

“Isn’t this exciting!” exclaimed a breathless brunette version of their hostess. “Grace practically took an oath that the food’s authentic. Chicken Tabaka with garlic sauce. Fish in aspic. Pickled cabbage. Oh, and crabmeat. I hear it’s impossible to beg, borrow, or steal crabmeat in Moscow these days.”

The dancers looked longingly at the buffet table, uncertain as to whether they were allowed to approach it. Clustered in a small group off to one side, they showed no sign of the grace and vigor that had characterized their performance.

No one seemed to notice them. A couple of men in dark baggy suits stood among them. No one noticed them either.

“—cannot grasp why Americans don’t demand a standard of medical care at least as high as that found in the Soviet Union,” Ambassador Zorin was lecturing Brenner.

“You’re certainly way ahead of us there,” Brenner said diplomatically. “I’ve always admired your policy of making the health of your people a government responsibility.”

“Quite so,” Zorin said. “Once a citizen is enrolled in his or her neighborhood clinic, every medical need is met. Medical care for our children—”

“Now there’s a subject close to Kurt’s heart,” Grace Manning chimed in, taking familiar hold of Brenner’s arm.

“But of course. We in the USSR have heard a great deal about your cardiac clinic for underprivileged children,” Zorin said—and paused as a butler approached him regarding a telephone call in the library.

Interesting, Brenner thought. Zorin didn’t look the least bit surprised about that incoming call…

“Don’t look so disappointed,” Grace Manning quipped as Zorin left the room. “Surely you weren’t intending to squeeze a donation out of the Soviet Union?”

“Don’t be a bitch.” Brenner’s lips curved into a characteristic half-smile—part amusement, part contempt.

“Why shouldn’t I?” she retorted. “You’re such a busy man these days. Lectures. Charity work. Important people to see . I’m beginning to think you only came to my party because Russell wanted to show you off to the Ambassador. Russell tells me you’re absolutely desperate for money these days.”

Brenner shrugged. “A combination of the recession and some injudicious investments. I’ve neglected you lately because I’ve been in Washington a lot. Government grants are becoming as scarce as hen’s teeth.”

“Poor dear,” Grace said, mollified. “Too bad most of Russell’s handouts end up in underdeveloped countries instead of heart institutes on the upper Eastside of Manhattan. With all your money problems, how on earth do you find time for surgery?”