by Howard Fast
“Of course, Harvey.”
“Even a trip like this worries her. I suspect it’s the thought of the two of us traveling alone.”
“Well, Harvey, you are an attractive man.”
“Do you think so? I assured her—”
“Of course you did. Now let’s talk about what to expect. Will this be anything like the Hollywood writer hearings, with the publicity and the cameras and all the rest of it?”
“I don’t think so. I spoke to Donald Jay. He’s the counsel for the committee, and he’ll do a good deal of the questioning. He indicated that the session will be held in chambers.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means no press and no publicity during the hearing. They’ll meet in the committee room in the House Office Building, just you and the committee. You see, they’re not too sure of themselves. I think they’re fishing. I think they’d like to have a go at a whole slew of writers, and they chose you because they feel you’re vulnerable.”
“But why? Why me?”
“The Nazi business, probably. But I am stating their position. I do not think you’re vulnerable. Possibly they have something entirely different in mind. It doesn’t matter. I feel quite secure about you.”
“Well, I’m glad you do. I don’t. Tell me, Harvey, isn’t this precisely what Boyd calls a Star Chamber hearing? If I remember correctly, historically, the Star Chamber was a place in England where the accused was tried without benefit of defense counsel or jury. Isn’t this the same thing?”
“Oh, no, no. Not at all, Barbara. Congress functions through committees. Theoretically, this committee was formed to frame legislation to defend the United States against internal subversion. As such, they have the right to subpoena witnesses and take testimony that will aid them in framing such legislation. Not that they have ever offered any legislation. I have nothing but contempt for their methods. But their function is within the law. They are not a court, simply a committee of inquiry, and so long as you answer any pertinent questions forthrightly and honestly, there is absolutely nothing they can do to you. I do not share Boyd’s qualms.”
“Will you be in the room with me?”
“They have the right to exclude me, but I don’t think they will. Jay was very polite when we spoke on the telephone, very cooperative.”
“And just what is pertinent?”
“That’s hard to anticipate. They operate under a very broad spectrum. We’ll decide that on specifics. I know this is unpleasant and time-consuming, Barbara, but it’s a fact of life in these times.”
“I suppose it is.”
Because of the three-hour time difference, it was almost dark when the plane landed in Washington. They took a cab to the Shoreham Hotel, where Baxter had booked rooms for them. Barbara pleaded tiredness and begged off dinner with Baxter, saying she would have a sandwich and coffee in her room. She felt that another hour of Harvey Baxter’s observations on history and politics was more than she could tolerate.
In her room, she unpacked her things, then drew a very hot bath and soaked in it for almost an hour. She lay there, up to her neck in the deliciously warm water, now with her eyes closed, drifting off into fantasy, then with her eyes open, observing and measuring herself. The scar of her Caesarean, once so raw and ugly, had faded to a modest pink. Her body was still good, her breasts firm, her waistline only an inch more than it had been ten years before. Needing reassurance, she accepted the pleasure that came from observing herself. She was still a well-formed and attractive woman. She visualized a second scar on her body. She could still have another child, and Dr. Kellman had assured her that a second Caesarean section was no more dangerous than a normal birth. Very easy for him to say. He did not have to be sliced open. Still, she was rapidly approaching an age where the decision would have to be made, but not tonight. It would wait for when she could discuss it with Bernie—and from Bernie, her thoughts drifted to Marcel. More and more, as time passed, Barbara found it difficult to accept the fact of Marcel’s death. It was so easy to drift into the fantasy that it was simply a separation and that one day she would see him again. Was it because France was a world away and Paris almost like a dream that had never happened? In her dreams, Paris was always soaked in sunlight, a dream city of wonderful romance. How would it be now, she wondered, after the war? Would she ever go back there? Did she want to? Marcel was buried in Toulouse. Strange that she had no desire to go back to Toulouse, to see his grave again. She was not the type who put flowers on graves and who wept on tombstones. The past lived in her mind. It was there whenever she wanted it.
After her bath, she called room service and ordered a sandwich, salad, and coffee, then read a copy of the Washington Post that she had bought at the airport. Her appearance before the House committee was front-page news, and the story described her as the “attractive San Francisco heiress-turned-novelist.” The story was noncommittal. Even the liberal newspapers were cautious about taking sides, and Barbara had the feeling that no one was totally exempt from the pall of fear that had cast its shadow over the country. Was it indeed like Germany in the time of Hitler? She cast back to her own memories of Berlin in 1939. No, she would not accept that. She could not.
It was not yet ten o’clock, and she was not ready for bed, for what would probably be a sleepless night. She sat down at the writing table and decided to write to Bernie. She had nowhere to send the letter, but it was pleasant to imagine that he might well be back in San Francisco when she returned, in which case she would simply hand the letter to him. There it is; you can read what I felt the night before I faced the tiger in his den.
“My dear oversized husband,” she began; then she tore the sheet up impatiently. Why did she always dwell on his size? Was it because she saw him as a small, frightened boy who had spent his life attempting to overcome his fears? “Bernie, dear one,” was better, and she went on: “Here I am in a hotel in Washington, D.C., trying to understand why I deceived you. At first I thought it was very noble of me not to tell you about the subpoena, which arrived before you left on that nutty mission of yours, because if I had told you, then you might have decided not to leave me to face the House Committee on Un-American Activities all alone; but upon due reflection, I have come to the conclusion that I withheld the fact because I was afraid that you would never forgive me for aborting your adventure. Believe me, I know you and love you well enough to know how much you wanted to take that flight of planes over to Europe and save the brave Jews whom you felt you had deserted by marrying me and settling down to run a garage in San Francisco. But don’t think I didn’t have some very bad moments when days went by without a word from you. Happily, I received your cable yesterday, so I could come here with no more to worry about than two days of Harvey Baxter’s legal advice. Why, why do lawyers talk the way they do? Ah well, you will not solve that one.
“As to why I have been subpoenaed, we have not the faintest notion, except to guess that it concerns my own harebrained adventure when I undertook my mission to Berlin. But since I put that in a book for the whole world to read, I am not concerned about repeating the story to these local anthropoids. Anyway, here I am in Washington, and today we made the front page in both the San Francisco Chronicle and the Washington Post. I really am notorious. And it just occurs to me, as I write this, that poor Tom will have no end of explaining to do to his Republican sponsors. What will they think of a conservative candidate whose sister is redder than a rose? I think I shall clear Tom by making a public statement to the effect that we disagree about everything. After all, Booth’s career was not ruined simply because his brother shot Lincoln. Or was it? I shall have to check that.
“Anyway, just as you must assuage your soul by such dumb escapades as the present one, so must I as a writer poke my nose into this and that. It did occur to me that daddy, with all his kudos from the War Shipping Board, might do something about quashing this silly subpoena; but
the poor man had a mild heart attack, and right now he’s in the hospital, and this is hardly something to annoy him with in his present condition. He is going to be all right, but still, I did not want him to know about it until he was much stronger. And I must confess that I am filled with curiosity as to how our local brand of repression functions, and also, believe it or not, it’s my first trip to Washington. I am to appear before the committee at ten a.m. tomorrow, and if they don’t keep me too long, I intend to spend the rest of the day sightseeing, since I don’t have to be at the airport until five.
“Also, you must not worry about Sam. Our beautiful son is up at Higate, where Eloise is taking very good care of him. We do have good and dear friends. Harvey Baxter is a very nice gentleman, but I think he is a dunderhead; if you ask why I didn’t find another lawyer, the answer is that one doesn’t. He was Sam Goldberg’s partner, and he must know something. Anyway, I have my own common sense to fall back on, so I am not really worried, just quite curious to see what faces me.
“Now to bed, and please, please be home when I arrive tomorrow, so we can resume our sensible, plodding lives. It should please you that I am ready to be so content in a world that is so packed with discontent. I love being a housewife and I love being a mother, and if you have gotten all the maggots out of your system, I am ready to discuss having a second child. I know I can’t produce the half dozen you originally desired, but two are a nice round number. Get home!”
She underlined the last two words.
***
Stephan Cassala opened the door of Dan’s room tentatively. He had been a daily visitor since the heart attack, and today he came with a briefcase and his son, Ralph. Ralph, a short, slender boy, much like his father, was twenty-one and a senior at Stanford. He was Stephan’s only child, a fact of considerable sorrow to Stephan’s mother, whose daughter, Rosa, had presented her with five grandchildren.
“Come on in,” Dan called out; Stephan was relieved at the strength and vigor in his voice. Dan’s bed was tilted up, and half a dozen newspapers were spread out over the counterpane.
“I had dinner in town with Ralph,” Stephan explained. “I thought I’d bring him along. He wanted to see you.”
“Glad you did.” Dan shook hands with the boy. It was two years since he had seen him. “You look fine.”
“How do you feel, sir?”
“Good. What are you up to, Ralph?”
“Well, sir, you know I’m at my last year in school. They’ve been allowing me to do some independent work on the Wilson cloud chamber method, and I think I’ve found a way to improve it.”
“Physics?”
“Well, it’s all I ever really wanted.”
The boy shook hands with Dan again and left. When he had gone, Stephan shook his head. “I try, Dan, but he’s beyond anything I understand. Would you believe it, there’s a good chance he’s on his way to a Nobel Prize. Twenty-one years old, two generations out of a Sicilian hole of ignorance and superstition. We didn’t do too badly.”
“We sure as hell didn’t. How’s Joanna?”
Stephan shrugged. “How long can an empty marriage survive? She lives, I live. There’s no point in talking about that. How do you feel?”
“Pretty good. Another week, and Jean takes me home—but how I’m going to stand another week of this, I don’t know. Tom came to see me.”
Surprised, Stephan made no comment.
“It wasn’t too bad. It’s time.”
“Yes, it’s time,” Stephan said.
“I’ve been reading about my daughter,” Dan said, pointing to the newspapers.
“I know. I saw Senator Claybourne. He happened to be in town yesterday, and I pulled all our rank to get to him. He gave me ten minutes.”
“We gave that sonofabitch ten thousand dollars.”
“Well, it’s a thousand dollars a minute. It didn’t buy much. The truth is, Dan, he’s scared. So help me God, McCarthy and this committee has the whole damn country running scared. He says there’s not one blessed thing that he or anyone else in the Senate can do about the House committee. He won’t touch it. This business of guilt by association has become a disease with us.”
“Did you get anything from him?”
“Nothing. He suggested that you might call the President. You do know him, don’t you?”
“I met him once. So did ten thousand others.”
“I spoke to Judge Fredericks. His feeling is that you should relax and simply let events take their course. They will question Barbara, and she’ll answer their questions, and they’ll make their headlines, and that will be the end of it. Whatever damage it may do to her career—well, that has already taken place, and she’ll survive it. I had the crazy notion of a lawsuit against the committee—”
“That’s not so crazy.”
“Well, it’s out of the question, Dan. You can’t sue a congressional committee.”
“I’d like to corner the lot of them in a dark alley. That’s all in the head. I indulge the luxury of talking tough, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do for the kid. What’s all that?” he asked, pointing to Stephan’s briefcase.
“I thought we might go over some things.”
Dan shook his head. “No. No, forget it, Steve. Business is the last thing in the world I give a damn about right now. I’ve been lying here trying to make some sense out of being alive sixty years on this earth, and in my present state of confusion, you’ll get nothing sensible out of me. By the way, have you been able to reach Bernie?”
“No. Nothing at the house, and at the garage, they’ve heard nothing.”
***
It was almost three o’clock in the morning before Barbara finally fell asleep, and she was awake at seven, wide awake with no feeling of weariness, cheered by the thought that after seeing this long day through, she would be back home in San Francisco before midnight, California time. Jean had been very insistent about Barbara’s clothes, having always regarded her daughter as a prime enemy of fashion; so in deference to her mother’s wishes, Barbara had agreed to appear in a navy blue suit, black pumps, and a white shirt. Her light brown hair was just wavy enough to present no difficulties. She wore it parted on the side and cut evenly just above her shoulders, and it took her only a few minutes to comb it out. Her complexion was good, and after a brief glance in the mirror, she decided that the occasion did not warrant make-up.
Before breakfast, she walked in the lovely gardens of the hotel. She was alone except for a black man who was trimming rose bushes and who bid her good morning.
“It’s a beautiful morning,” Barbara agreed. “Do you have many days like this?”
“Some. Not so much at this time of the year as in another month. You ain’t from here?”
“California. San Francisco.”
“That’s a long way.”
“It is. It is indeed.”
She walked back to the hotel dining room, hungry now. Harvey Baxter was already there, hunched over bacon and eggs. He jumped to his feet.
“Oh, don’t get up, Harvey. I feel wonderful. We shall tilt against Mr. Drake’s committee and conquer them. Onward and upward!”
“Barbara, I do wish you’d be serious. It’s not Mr. Drake’s committee. He’s simply well known locally because he’s from our state. Not that I wish to defend him. I find most of his practices deplorable. But you must take this seriously. I just had a call from Congressman Hood’s office. He’s the ranking member. The hearing will be public. It will not be filmed or televised, but they will have a press table.”
“What made them change their plans?”
“I don’t know, and that worries me. They must have dug up something. Barbara, are you sure that we’ve discussed everything?”
“I think so. Harvey, please don’t worry.”
“One slight ray of sunshine. With this kind of hearing, I
shall be sitting next to you, and you can consult me whenever you wish.”
“Good. Now let the condemned woman eat a proper breakfast.”
They took a cab to the House Office Building, and Barbara, looking about her, observed, “It is a rather nice city, except that one has seen so many pictures of everything.”
“I keep thinking that Sam Goldberg would have been more thorough,” Baxter said worriedly.
“I suppose it’s why I’m here that keeps me from being thrilled. You’ve been here before, so you’re not thrilled. That’s the Capitol, Harvey.” The truth was that Barbara was simply impatient with the whole thing. Her mood of a few hours before was washing out, and now she was irritated that a handful of men in Washington had the undisputed power to summon her across the country and ask her questions—with the threat of punishment hanging over her head if she refused to answer. The guard at the desk in the House Office Building took their names and told them what room to go to. It was on the main floor, down a corridor to where a cluster of men stood smoking and waiting. They examined her with their eyes as she and Baxter entered the room, but no one spoke to her, and she wondered whether they were reporters.
There were five men already in the room. Three of them sat at the press table. One sat in front of a raised platform that held a long table and fiddled with a stenotype machine. The fifth man, tall, cadaverous, and gray-complexioned, came to them as they entered. He had small, dark eyes under bristling brows, sunken cheeks, and a long hatchet chin; he introduced himself as Donald Jay, counsel to the committee. Barbara noticed that his fingernails were clogged with dirt. He shook hands with Baxter. She told herself that if he offered a hand to her, it would go untouched.
“You can both sit here, Mr. Baxter,” he said, indicating a small table in front of the press table and to one side of it.
There were only six chairs at the press table, but Barbara noticed a dozen additional chairs behind it, either for additional press or for some small section of the public. The room itself was no more than forty-five feet long and twenty-five feet wide. On the long table on the raised platform, five small placards spelled out the names of the congressmen who would make up the quorum: Arthur Hood, Norman Drake, Lomas Pornay, John Mankin, and Alvin Bindle. Of the five, Barbara was familiar only with Drake, who represented a district in the Bay Area.