by Howard Fast
“She denied it,” Kimmelman argued. “She denied it under oath. If there is any question of proof, why doesn’t the government bring a charge of perjury?”
“I ask it only to lay a foundation. The question comes up again and again in her testimony before the House committee.”
“May I see that testimony?” the judge asked.
Crombie handed him the printed record, and he leafed through it. The lawyers waited. Then the judge said, “I’m afraid I shall have to allow the question, Mr. Kimmelman. You can deal with it on redirect.”
“Then I respectfully request that my objection be on the record.”
Crombie walked slowly around Barbara, and, facing the jury, he asked, “Mrs. Cohen, are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?”
“No, not now, not ever.”
“Did you, in nineteen thirty-nine, undertake a mission for the Communist Party of France into Nazi Germany?”
“Objection,” Kimmelman called out.
“Overruled.”
“It was not a mission—”
“Would you answer yes or no? Did you, in nineteen thirty-nine, undertake a mission for the Communist Party of France?”
“I can’t answer that question yes or no.”
“Was your purpose to contact the Communist Party of Germany?”
A long moment went by, and then the judge said, “Please answer the question, Mrs. Cohen.”
“Yes,” Barbara said.
Crombie shrugged. “I have no further questions.”
“What was your profession in nineteen thirty-nine?” Kimmelman asked her.
“I was a journalist, a correspondent for Manhattan Magazine.”
“And you entered Germany as a journalist on assignment from your magazine?”
“Yes.”
“Who were Claude and Camille Limoget?”
“They were journalists, friends of my dead fiancé.”
“What was their relationship with you?”
“It was a social relationship. They would come to my apartment, and we would have fierce arguments.”
“Fierce arguments? But why?”
“Because they were Communists. Marcel and I were not.”
“Yet you could be friends?”
“It was that way in Europe, in France anyway.”
“And since you were to go to Germany as a journalist, what did these two friends, Claude and Camille Limoget, ask of you?”
“They said that all the connections between the Communist Party of France and the Communist Party of Germany had been destroyed. They wanted desperately to find out whether there was any kind of organized resistance left in Germany. They gave me the name of a professor at Friedrich Wilhelm University in Berlin, and they asked me to try to find out whether he still had anti-Nazi connections.”
“And did you find out?”
“No. The Gestapo had killed him.”
“Then you never had or attempted any contact with the Communist Party of Germany?”
“No.”
“Did you ever have any contact with the Communist Party of France?”
“No. The Limogets were the only Communists I knew, socially or otherwise.”
“So the construction that you undertook a mission for the Communist Party of France is Mr. Crombie’s invention?”
Crombie objected angrily, and the judge asked Kimmelman to rephrase his question.
“You never undertook a mission for the Communist Party of France in the sense implied by Mr. Crombie?”
“No, I did not.”
“Then why did you put your life in jeopardy, as I understand you did, by trying to contact this German professor?”
“Because it was nineteen thirty-nine,” Barbara answered tiredly. “Because the whole world appeared to be going down before the Nazis. Because they had killed the man I loved, and because I despised them and everything they stood for.”
“That is all. Thank you,” Kimmelman said.
Boyd Kimmelman did not believe in long summations, especially in this case, since all through the trial he had sensed the hostility of the jury. There was a thin line between annoying them and touching, somewhere, a nerve of response, a memory of human dignity.
“My client,” he said, “is not an ordinary woman, and I would do her a disservice if I pleaded that she was. She is a person of principle, and she has lived her life according to the principles she has cherished. She comes from one of the oldest and wealthiest families in San Francisco. At the age of twenty-six, she fell heir to a legacy of something in excess of fifteen million dollars. She refused this legacy, not accepting any part of it. It became the Lavette Foundation, a charitable institution that supports research in science and in medicine. I mention this only to underline her sense of morality and principle.
“She is a widow. Her husband was killed six months ago, in the struggle for the State of Israel. She has a small child. She earns her living as a writer, and she is recognized as a gifted and a humane artist. Under other circumstances, a grateful government might see fit to reward her sense of compassion, her humanity. She has never done anything of which she need be ashamed. Indeed, her whole life honors the country that gave her birth.
“You have heard her on the witness stand. In no way has she tried to evade her responsibility. She has not denied her action. A question was asked of her. She was asked to give the names of eighteen people who were her friends and who had placed their trust in her. She could no more do this than she could reject her whole existence. She was not defying her government or the powers of Congress; she was not being stubborn or intractable; she was simply doing what had become the very fiber of her being. A great writer once wrote, ‘To thine own self be true, and it must follow as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.’ Must she be condemned and punished for being true to herself and to the best principles of this nation? I think not, and I beg you to have the compassion and the understanding to bring in a verdict of not guilty.”
Crombie was even briefer, as if certainty dispensed with any great need for argument. “We are a nation that functions under law, and God willing, this will continue to be the case. Congress makes the law of the land, and in order to make that law, to frame legislation for the well-being and health and protection of this nation, it is empowered to gather information. He who is subpoenaed before a committee of the Congress of the United States and who refuses to answer a question pertinent to the matter at hand and posed by Congress—he who does that is in contempt of Congress. Do away with this power of Congress, a power before which the mightiest must bend his head, and you do away with democratic government.
“At what point does so-called principle become arrogance? Are we to believe that only Mrs. Barbara Cohen is possessed of principle? Are there no principles in our government? In our Constitution? And what is principle? Is anyone who defies the Congress of the United States entitled to wrap himself in this so-called principle—and insinuate that we ordinary folk are immoral, that we have the ethics of thugs?
“I reject such insinuations. And I am not impressed by the fact that the accused comes from a background of wealth. This is a government of the people, not of the rich, and when the rich break the law, they must look for no impunity. This woman, Mrs. Cohen, arrogantly confesses to the act of contempt. She proves her own guilt. There is only one point at issue here: Did she refuse to answer a question addressed to her by the House Committee on Un-American Activities? We have proven that she refused. The rest is up to you.”
Judge Meadows’ instruction was equally concise. “You have heard the evidence,” he told the jury. “Mrs. Barbara Cohen, the accused, is charged with having committed a contempt of the Congress of the United States. The act of contempt, in a congressional inquiry, is the refusal to answer a question that is pertinent to the inquiry at
hand. Now as far as the accused’s refusal to respond to the question is concerned, the evidence given leaves no room for equivocation. The question was asked. She refused to answer it. By her own testimony today in this court, she specified and concurred in that refusal.
“This leaves only one point to be decided by this jury: Was the question pertinent to the function of the House of Representatives’ Committee on Un-American Activities? In its original establishment, under the chairmanship of Congressman Martin Dies of Texas, this committee was constituted to conduct investigations into Nazi, fascist, communist, and other organizations termed ‘un-American in character.’ Today we group its purpose under the broader label of ‘subversive.’ The purpose of such investigations is to frame appropriate legislation for the protection of the people of the United States.
“The evidence has been presented to you. You are not to be swayed by emotional considerations. The question of the guilt or innocence of the defendant rests upon one single issue: namely, was the question asked of her pertinent to the appropriate function of the House committee? Should you find that to be the case, you have no choice but to bring in a verdict of guilty as charged.”
***
Soaking in her tub at the hotel, Barbara decided that no civilization that provides an unlimited supply of hot water can be all bad. I am now a condemned criminal, she thought, yet I don’t feel very much different. In fact, I feel relieved that this stupid mockery of a trial is over with.
It had taken the jury all of twenty minutes to come to a unanimous decision that the defendant was guilty as charged. Then Boyd Kimmelman had taken her back to the hotel while Baxter remained to talk to the judge in his chambers.
“I want a bath,” she said to Kimmelman, “and then I want to change my clothes because I feel dirty and uncomfortable and nasty. Suppose we meet in the dining room at seven.”
“Barbara,” Kimmelman said, “I feel rotten. I let you down. I feel stupid and useless, but most of all I feel that I let you down.”
“Boyd, I am being very serious now. I think you’re one hell of a lawyer. When you summed up, I wanted to crawl into a hole, I was so embarrassed by your description of me. I hope you realize that not one word of it is true. Nevertheless, I appreciated its rhetorical quality. You know, daddy used to tell a story about a lodge meeting, a memorial to one of the members who had died. The speaker went into an emotional description of the suffering and misery of the deceased member to the point that everyone in the audience was in tears except for one man, who sat unmoved and stony-faced. A lodge member sitting next to him asked whether the speaker’s account was not moving enough to wring tears from a stone. ‘Oh, yes indeed,’ said the stony-faced man, ‘but I’m not a member of the lodge.’ You see, Boyd, none of them is a member of the lodge—not the judge, not the jury, not Mr. Crombie. We’ve had our day in court, and a part of me is rather satisfied. I’ll join an interesting group of writers whose books have led them into a prison cell.”
“For heaven’s sake, Barbara, you are not in a prison cell yet. And you won’t be if I have anything to say about it.”
“You’re a dear.” He was just short enough for her to lean forward and kiss him on the forehead. “Now I want my bath.”
Before she got into the tub, she called home. It was three o’clock in the afternoon in San Francisco, and Jean had just returned from the park with Sam.
“How are you, Bobby?” Jean wanted to know.
“Just fine. What about you and my son?”
“Your son is in fine fettle. I am exhausted. Child raising is for the young. But we had fun. How is that stupid trial going?”
“It’s over. I’m guilty.”
“Oh, no, Bobby.”
“Now don’t get upset. For the moment, nothing is going to happen. I haven’t even been sentenced yet, and even if they do sentence me to jail, Harvey says that the appeals can take anywhere from a year to three years. So I won’t be going to the pokey for a while.”
“How can you joke about it?”
“Mother, how can I be serious about it? I felt like Alice being tried by the king and queen of hearts. Harvey was provoked with me because I kept giggling. He and Boyd were great. They really are good lawyers, and they are so miserable now.”
“Darling, when will you be home?”
“Tomorrow, I hope. But then I have to find out when the judge decides to sentence me. I’ll keep in touch with you. And please don’t worry about me.”
Jean’s notion of Washington inclined toward the social side, and she had persuaded Barbara to include a short black chiffon evening dress. Barbara put it on now, with black high-heeled evening shoes and sheer black stockings. Her lack of despondency pleased her; she applied make-up carefully and lightly and piled her hair on top of her head. When she appeared in the dining room, only twenty minutes late, both Baxter and Kimmelman rose and stared at her.
“It’s no occasion for mourning,” she assured them. “We are bloody but unbowed, and very hungry.”
“You’re beautiful,” Kimmelman said.
“How very nice of you, Boyd. I don’t know about you two, but I want a large, cold martini.” Then she added, “There’ll be no talk of law and order and courtrooms until we’ve finished our drinks.”
It was after the drinks and after they had ordered dinner that Baxter told her of his talk with Judge Meadows. “I pointed out that California was a long distance away and that it made no sense for the government to shuttle us back and forth. He agreed to sentence you tomorrow morning.”
“How thoughtful of him!”
“What was his attitude?” Kimmelman asked. “I mean, how did he appear? Friendly?”
“Very cold, I’m afraid. He doesn’t like us—either because we’re from California or because he thinks we are all redder than a rose.”
“Oh, Harvey, not you,” Barbara said. “Anyone who’d think you were a radical is dense.”
“I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or not.”
“Did you talk to him?” Kimmelman insisted. “Did you at least build Barbara’s character?”
“I tried. He annoys easily. He told me that it was improper for me even to suggest that I might influence him.”
“If you cut him, he’d bleed ice water.”
“Or vinegar,” Barbara said. “Please don’t worry. Whatever will be will be.”
“The thing to remember tomorrow,” Baxter said, “is that it’s only the beginning. We’ll take this to the Appellate Division, and if they don’t reverse him there, we go to the Supreme Court. I think his whole charge was in error.”
“What is the best I can hope for?” Barbara asked.
“A suspended sentence and a stiff fine.”
“And the worst?”
“God only knows,” Baxter said. “A week ago I would have said that no sane judge would give you a prison term.”
“The Hollywood people got prison terms.”
“Yes, I know.”
At ten o’clock the following morning, Baxter, Kimmelman, and Barbara sat in the court, alone except for two attendants. They waited for fifteen minutes before Judge Meadows entered.
“All rise!” the bailiff called.
Meadows seated himself and stared at Barbara. Then he glanced at the black man, who lifted this morning’s iceberg while the judge wet his mouth with ice water. “At a moment like this,” Meadows said, “one thinks of contrition. I don’t regard you as an ordinary criminal, Mrs. Cohen, but as a product of these difficult times. I have taken into consideration that you are a mother and a widow, and therefore, before I pronounce sentence, I am going to ask you whether you will express a willingness to purge the contempt. You can do this by appearing before the House Committee on Un-American Activities and answering whatever questions they feel necessary to ask. Will you agree to do this?”
“No, I’m afraid
not,” Barbara said.
“Then you leave me no choice. I sentence you to pay a fine of five hundred dollars and to serve six months in a prison to be designated by the federal Department of Correction. Your attorneys have already filed for an appeal, so the court will allow your present status of bail to continue until the results of such appeal are determined.”
PART FIVE
Punishment
Sitting in the park with her father, Barbara watched Sam circle around and back and forth on his tricycle. Tall for his age, well knit and competent, he handled his small machine with ease and grace.
“How old is he now?” Dan asked. “I lose track.”
“Two years, nine months. He’ll be three in December.” She looked at her father curiously. “Daddy, do you mind this? I mean just sitting here in the park?”
“Mind it? What’s to mind?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It just seems peculiar, Dan Lavette sitting in the park with nothing to do.”
“You’re not telling me to take off?”
“Daddy!” She took his hand. “I love having you here. I love having you with me. Have you ever tried a conversation with sparrows? Or sea gulls? The sea gulls are better. And I’m bored to tears with reading. I’ve just finished The Seven Story Mountain, Merton’s book, and it would be so nice to be religious if I could only work up some enthusiasm for it. Now I’m into the Kinsey report, and it’s just dull, dull.”
“The Kinsey report? What on earth for?”
“I suppose it’s a substitute for sex.”
“What in hell good is a substitute? Why don’t you go out, Bobby, meet people? Jesus, you’re young and beautiful, and no Lavette was ever cut out to be a monk or a nun. We’re a horny tribe.”
“I love you.”
“It’s a year and a half since Bernie died. How long can you mourn?”
“I’m not mourning, daddy. Mourning is guilt, and I have no guilt about Bernie. I have sorrow when I think of what could have been if he had only been willing to accept his life and live it.”