From Russia With Love
In the summer of 1971, I saw the movie, “Dr Strangelove – Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb.” At 10 years old, I did not totally appreciate the bizarre characters like Brigadier General Jack D Ripper or Dr. Strangelove. I could not entirely understand why Slim Pickens aka Major TJ “ King” Kong rode the atomic bomb out of the B52 bomber like a bucking bronco. However, I clearly understood that the US and Russia were fighting a Cold War. My fiery imagination was stoked by a father who was constantly criticizing the US for letting down its guard against “commies” and “spies”. Hollywood was full of “Reds” and while Senator Joseph McCarthy did his best in the 50’s to root out these ideological weeds, communist dogma was invasive and required relentless vigilance to detect and remove political parasites. The entertainment industry, Congress, all of Europe and even our church had been infiltrated by the vodka swilling, plate breaking, Gulag operating, godless collectivists who were just biding their time waiting for the last capitalist to sell them the rope that they would hang us with.
I had to do my patriotic duty and keep our neighborhood safe for democracy. This required me to develop a clandestine intelligence organization to inform on any person who might be providing secrets to the enemy. I was not sure what secrets the Reds could gather from a neighborhood that was more boring than watching paint dry. However, one never knew where a sleeper cell might be cocooned. Authors like Robert Ludlum described how sleeper agents could lay dormant for a generation. A Manchurian candidate could be activated with a simple phone call.
“ Is this Mrs. Ruth Turpin of 1828 Windsor Road?”
“ Yes, who is this?”
” Sasha sells sea shells by the sea shore.”
With this heavily accented, tongue twisting alliteration, my mother, the sleeper agent, would go into a brainwashed trance, drive her station wagon up the winding mountain roads of Mt. Wilson and blow up the radio tower disabling all radio and TV transmissions across the San Gabriel valley, isolating us from the outside world. Just up the street in Pasadena was Cal Tech, a bastion of high IQ engineers, rocket scientists and astrophysicists. We were indeed a tempting target. The 64,000 ruble question was which of my neighbors might be actually conspiring to sabotage our town. Could the confederate turn out to be someone we never suspected like green thumbed Mr. Seidell who upon being “ activated” would fly across the country to Washington DC and attempt to assassinate President Nixon with his trowel? Spies were clever and not easy to catch. They were ruthless and not above posing as retirees, gardeners and even parents.
I recruited my friends to assist me in patrolling our neighborhood. Of particular interest was Mr. Harmon who lived across the street with his parents and kept odd hours. We also had some concerns about Mr. Meister who routinely screamed at us to get off his lawn. Vodka and socialism made people angry and loud. Perhaps, Mr. Meister missed the snow of Moscow and was annoyed at the constant sun and temperate climate of Southern California. On a warm summer afternoon, armed with binoculars, a Polaroid camera and walkie-talkies, we embarked on a series of information gathering patrols.
The next morning, my mother received several angry calls from neighbors who were concerned over a disturbed child peering into windows, crawling through juniper bushes and in one case, taking a photograph. Although I was not identified in person, the default accusation on our block was to always blame the Turpin boys. Annoyed, and lacking actionable information, my mother could not deduce the identity of the young peeping Tom. As all good spies do, I convincingly lied when interrogated. I even provided an alibi. While she could not prove anything, she lectured me about people’s personal privacy. If she only knew that we had already uncovered some seamy information about some of our “upstanding “neighbors, including the disgusting fact that ultra tan Mr. Brown sunbathed in the nude and mowed his backyard in a Speedo while Mrs. Franke watched him from her adjacent upstairs window. It seemed moral decline was everywhere.
My parents were naïve and did not understand the town was teeming with traitors.I even suspected my brother of selling information to foreign agents. He was a weak individual with liberal ideas. I searched his room and discovered a magazine stuffed between his mattresses. It was called amazingly “ From Russia With Love” and had a beautiful woman in a provocative pose on the cover. It was obviously intended for fans of the 1963 James Bond thriller starring Sean Connery. The magazine was weathered and torn. I opened it and to my delight and shame, I saw photographs of naked “Russian” women. None of these women looked sinister like Spectre agent Rosa Klebb, the spy who attempted to kill James Bond with a poison tipped knife that jutted out from the end of her boot. No, these women seemed, well – – more open to détente.
As any dedicated spy would, I immediately disappeared behind the garage for to “study” the magazine to be certain that if I ever saw any of these women in public, I could identify them, even with their clothes on.
After committing each page to memory, I carefully tucked the magazine under my pillow and went off to school ready to share what I had learned with my friends in homeroom. I knew my brother would not report the magazine as missing. Yet, as I was sitting through Social Studies class, my mother was fatefully making my bed. I rode home in record time, as I was eager to examine the magazine models for other distinguishing features – beauty marks etc. As I walked in the back door, I immediately knew that something was not right. I was escorted into the dining room, which was the center for all corrective action. My mother looked overly concerned and for a moment I thought there had been a death in the family. “ Honey, is there anything you want to talk to me or your dad about?” I was stumped and then I saw the magazine on the chair next to her. “ That’s not mine.” I protested. “ It’s Tom’s!” I protested to no avail. She remained convinced of my guilt. “The neighbors have been complaining about someone peeking in their windows and now I have found this adult magazine in your room. I think you and dad need to have a talk. “
Suddenly, it hit me. It was all so clever – I had been framed. I was obviously getting too close to someone or something and “they” wanted me out of the way. Like my Dad always said, those Reds are pretty determined and would go to great lengths to remove any threat. Later that evening I endured my father’s unimaginative lecture on the birds and the bees. I had already heard a more graphic and entertaining version from Dennis Higgins in gym class. It would do me no good to attempt an explanation to my Dad. I would have to endure this punishment and bide my time.
One thing was certain. When I got older, I wanted to join the CIA – especially if it meant interrogating one of those Russian women. After all, I was probably the only guy who could pick them out of a police line up.