Red Menace

by Lois Ruby

  Somehow we get through the night.

  Nobody wants breakfast; too nervous. Competition for the bathroom is deadly. Dad’s first, then me, and finally we turn the plumbing and mirror over to Mom. A long time passes, and tension’s thick enough to chip off in chunks like Fleet bubble gum.

  Dad and I sit next to each other on the folded-up couch like the wise monkeys, See-No-Evil and Hear-No-Evil, but we’re missing Speak-No-Evil. She’s still in the bathroom.

  My favorite nervous habit: I work a little hole in the upholstery and dig for stuffing like it’s gold. My hair is slicked back, and that stupid commercial jingle keeps racing through my mind: Brylcreem, a little dab’ll do ya. Use more, only if you dare. I’ve gooped on more than a dab, and my hair won’t move if a cyclone rips through the room.

  We jump about a yard when the phone brrrrrings. It’s Bubbie, still scrounging through the boxes in her basement, looking for the citizenship papers.

  “Anything?” Dad asks hopefully, and then his face sags. “We have to be at the hearing in thirty minutes. We’ll call you later, Sylvia. Afterward,” he promises.

  There’s nothing else to say, so we sit quietly in the two-man monkey row.

  Steam pours out when Mom opens the bathroom door, and when the steam clears, I can’t believe what I see: a real nice-looking lady in a skinny sky-blue suit and pointy high heels. La-di-da clothes like she said she wouldn’t want to be buried in.

  Surprise! She has legs, she has a waistline. Who’d have guessed? She also has fake rosy cheeks and lips coated with glossy red stuff, and her brownish-gray hair that usually hangs down her back in a braid is now swept up into a complicated bird’s nest.

  She twirls around like a model. “What do you think?”

  “Sheesh, Mom, you look like a female!”

  She bites open a bobby pin and plants it up under the nest on her head. Maybe she’s afraid her hair will try to escape. I wouldn’t blame it; it looks like it hurts, cruelly twisted up that way, like if you’re arm-wrestling and bend too far the wrong way.

  Dad swallows a couple of times. “You look gorgeous, Rosie, just stunning.” Man, I haven’t heard him call her Rosie in months. He sweeps her into his arms, waltzing her around the room, tripping over my feet and the floor lamp jutting out of a corner.

  It’s time. Gulp. Mom picks up her small train case.

  I stare at the case as if its locks might snap open and a saltwater-spitting iguana would come shooting out. “Is that what I think it’s for?”

  She nods. “Toothbrush, change of underwear, my poetry manuscript, lots of pens and ink. Just in case.”

  Just in case they take her right to jail from the SISS hearing.

  Chapter 28

  Wednesday, June 3

  The hearing is in a huge downtown hotel. Giant glass chandeliers hang from the ceiling. If one falls, it’ll be instant death. That’ll save us a lot of trouble.

  “Knock ’em dead, Mom.” I straighten the scarf around her neck, Dad kisses her cheek, and we send her off into battle with the U.S. Senate.

  It’s not easy for her to walk in those spiked heels. Still, when Mr. Quincy takes her arm, she marches right into that hearing room like a pitcher to his mound. The room is already crowded. A small herd of reporters sits up close, and a couple of photographers stand on tables to snap pictures from every weird angle. We’re stuck in a back row where Vic has reserved seats for us.

  Mom’s on her own now. The first hurdle is when they ask her to swear on a Bible.

  “. . . The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  She hesitates with her hand hovering over the book. Dad groans. We stop breathing in the echoey silence of the room until Mom lays her hand on the book and says, “I do.” It costs her a bundle of self-respect to take the senators’ oath, but she isn’t ready to rock the boat yet. She’s saving her best stuff for later.

  I try to listen to everything, but those senators are spouting words the way whales spout water through their blowholes. So I tune in and out, like when you’re doing homework and listening to a game on the radio, and the ump’s calling nothing but balls.

  Here’s some of what I catch, with Mom answering yes sir, no sir, and when she tries to say more, they cut her off.

  “You stated your name as Rosalie Rafner, correct? Mrs. Rafner, have you ever used an alias? No? Then would you explain who Rosalie Weitz is? Weitz is a Polish name, is it not?”

  We know where the guy’s going with this Polish stuff.

  “I earned my doctorate under my maiden name, Weitz, before I was married, Senator.”

  “Isn’t it true that you’re known around Hawthorne College as Professor Rafner, and not Professor Weitz?”

  “That is only for consistency, sir, as my husband and son carry the Rafner name.”

  “Ah, so you do use an alias.”

  You can see the senators keeping mental scorecards. That’s the way it goes, with them trying to catch her on their hooks. When they hit on the loyalty oath thing, Dad squeezes my hand until it feels like the fingers are gonna snap off and thud to the floor.

  “Mrs. Rafner, could you please state for the committee why you’ve stubbornly refused to sign a simple loyalty oath at the college that employs you?”

  She’s memorized a speech for this question. “Gentlemen, it is my contention that university loyalty oaths are objectionable on three separate grounds. First, they are contrary to academic freedom, restricting what one may think and teach. Second—”

  One of the senators butts in: “You teach at a Quaker college, correct? Quakers are known to oppose oaths, yet we don’t hear you objecting on religious grounds.”

  “I am not a Quaker, sir.”

  “What religion are you, Mrs. Rafner?”

  “With all due respect, sir, I believe that information is irrelevant. However, in the interest of cooperation, I’ll tell you that I am Jewish. Regardless, I support the Quaker belief that the integrity of a person’s word is good enough without swearing an oath.”

  “Yet you swore on the Bible,” one senator says with a smirk.

  “I did, yes. Otherwise we couldn’t have even begun these proceedings. My second objection—”

  “I believe you’ve made your objections quite clear already,” another senator says, puffing away on a cigar.

  “Sir, I have a point to make, if you please.” Before he can protest, Mom plows on. “My second contention is that loyalty oaths are contrary to the United States Constitution, which, as you well know, guarantees the liberties of freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, and the freedom to redress justifiable grievances against the government.”

  “Why’d she say that?” Vic whimpers.

  The chairman jumps on that statement. “May I assume, then, that you have grievances against the government of this country?”

  “No, sir, no more than any other patriotic citizen.”

  The pot boils. Mom calling herself patriotic must have ticked them off. “Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of a communist organization, or any organization dedicated to the violent overthrow of the United States government?”

  “Violent overthrow, never. Your thinking may differ from mine as to what defines a communist—”

  “Are you a member of a labor union?”

  “A college teachers’ union, yes, but I hardly think—”

  “Are you familiar with the Institute for Pacific Relations, known as the IPR?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “And are you aware that the IPR perpetrated the fall of China to the communists in 1949?”

  “No, sir, that is not within my range of knowledge.”

  “Mrs. Rafner, exactly what is within your range of knowledge regarding the IPR? More simply, what is your affiliation with that nefarious organization?”

  “Minimal. I merely translated a Chinese poem for one of the members.”

  “Ah! You speak Chinese!”

  “No native speaker would r
ecognize it as such. What I have is a modest reading knowledge from my college minor in Asian literature. Just enough to translate a simple poem.”

  “Are you aware that the IPR has been under investigation for more than a year, thus bringing your link with the organization into question?”

  “Respectfully, sir, the poem I translated was the lament of a fourteenth-century lovesick maiden. Hardly subversive material, Senator.”

  He turns a sharp corner. “We’ll make it simple for you, Mrs. Rafner. Are you now a member of a communist organization or a communist front organization? I remind you, you are under oath.”

  Quincy and Mom huddle. I suck in my breath, like I’m underwater with her, swimming in a barracuda-infested sea. If she says yes, she’ll be drawn into the undertow, but before she sinks, they’ll pump her for names of other people. If she says no, and they connect her with some group they claim is communist, she’ll be lunch for the barracudas, because they can nail her for perjury, which is lying under oath. Jail time. Even though she isn’t lying. No wonder people don’t want to take oaths.

  Mr. Quincy pushes his chair back and stands tall. “Senators, before my client answers further questions, she wants the record to show that she wishes to stand by a diminished Fifth Amendment.”

  “Diminished, sir?”

  “Yes, Senator. By that we mean, to the best of Mrs. Rafner’s knowledge and recollection, she will truthfully answer questions pertaining to herself, but will not answer questions pertaining to other people.”

  The senator is practically barking now. “May I remind you that there is no such thing as a diminished Fifth.”

  “Nevertheless,” Mr. Quincy says with a defeated sigh.

  Uh-oh, riptide time. It’s sink or swim now.

  Chapter 29

  Wednesday, June 3

  The chairman’s comments are getting more and more snide. “Allow me to rephrase the previous question for elegance, Mrs. Rafner. Are you currently a member of the Communist Party USA?”

  “Mr. Chairman, please let the record show that I ardently object to that question—”

  “Are you, or are you not?” He’s just about spitting into the mic now.

  “If you would let me finish my sentence, Senator, you would have your response.”

  “Which is what?”

  “I am not.”

  “Not what?”

  “I am not a member of the Communist Party USA.”

  Phew! She’s finally said it!

  Vic whispers, “Note the wording. She’s being very precise and specific.”

  The chairman’s no numbskull. “Are you a member of any other communist party, domestic or international.”

  “I am not.”’

  Okay, home free—but one look at Dad tells me the inning could end with Mom stuck on base.

  Now the senator’s breathing the words into the mic. “Have you ever been a member of a communist organization, domestic or international?”

  Mom hesitates so she can choose the right words, like a true poet.

  “Are you hedging? Are you refusing to answer the question?”

  “No, sir, I am neither hedging nor refusing, although I repeat, I object to this line of questioning as a constitutional violation. Nevertheless, my answer: The FBI has informed me that two groups with which I was briefly affiliated, perhaps ten years ago, are on the dubious list of communist front organizations, although I do not believe they merit that designation, nor was I engaged in any communist activity while—”

  The chairman flips through a stack of pages. “Might the groups you’re referring to be the Congress of American Women and the National Council of the Arts, Sciences, and Professions?”

  “Yes, Mr. Chairman. Both groups have no political motivations other than to promote professional standards and equity for—”

  Well, next they start asking if she knows a billion other people who’ve been members, and who they say also belong to commie organizations.

  After each name Mom says, “I respectfully decline to respond, according to my Fifth Amendment rights.”

  Name after name, respectfully decline, until the chairman growls, “Let the record show that Mrs. Rafner is a most unfriendly witness. Diminished Fifth, indeed.”

  Like Yogi Berra says, baseball is ninety per cent mental, the other half physical. Mom’s holding her own mentally. Barely touching First with her big toe, she’s ready to steal.

  Me, I’m not doing so well. With my feet propped on Mom’s train case, and the overhead fans whirling, and the flashbulbs firing, and Dad clutching my arm, I am sweating like a warthog. Is this how Robby and Michael Rosenberg felt when their parents were on the stand?

  Scared or not, my stomach’s growling. Sheesh, did the senators hear it? Because the chairman says, “Mrs. Rafner, we shall adjourn for lunch and reconvene in this room in ninety minutes. Promptly.” The gavel banging echoes through the room, and Mom stands up, wobbly on those pointy heels.

  “Mrs. Rafner! Dr. Weitz! Rosalie!” Reporters in the hall stick microphones in her face and call her by every name except Lassie to get her attention, but Quincy and Vic make sure nobody says a word as we’re herded out to Broadway.

  One Associated Press guy stops us in our tracks, though. “Did you hear the news from Sing Sing? The Supreme Court ruled against the Rosenbergs’ latest appeal for a stay of execution. Comment?”

  Mom tries not to react, but she mutters under her breath, “Now their only hope is an appeal to Eisenhower for clemency. Good God.”

  All the newsies scribble down that comment, of course.

  Things are looking grim for the home team. We hoof it back to the hotel coffee shop, first stopping for messages. Bubbie Sylvia called twice.

  “You’d better call back, Rosie. Maybe she has something.”

  Mom steps into the phone booth in the lobby. The rest of us, including the lawyers, cluster around the booth. A fistful of change jingles down the throat of the pay phone. It’s hard to read her face, and her hands are waving around like they always do when she talks to Bubbie—somewhere between a hug and a slug.

  She lets the phone dangle by the cord and pushes her way out of the booth. I rush in after her.

  “Bubbie?” I yell into the phone. “What’s going on?”

  “Oy, sweetheart, I’ve been through every inch of the storage locker, every carton, every drawer, every closet. I even went to my safe deposit box at First Federal. Nothing.”

  “How’s that possible? You remember the day, the certificate, the snapshot.”

  “Could I have thrown it out? By accident, of course. I don’t know what to do for my Rosalie. Tell me, what’s happening there, in the hearing?”

  “Mom’s holding her own, but they’re starting to turn the screws.”

  “Okay, sweetheart. Listen, I’ll just keep looking. Maybe there’s some spot I missed. So, you should go have lunch. A nice pickled tongue sandwich, maybe?”

  Not a chance. At the hotel coffee shop, lunch is grease with a hamburger patty coagulating in it, inside a soggy bun, and fries that must have been cooked last week.

  And now, the seventh inning stretch is over, and we’re back in the game. The chairman’s warmed up, pitching spitballs and sliders, and we’re about to find out if Mom can keep on slugging.

  Chapter 30

  Wednesday, June 3

  “Mrs. Rafner, in the matter of one Yossele Mendelev,” the chairman begins, “what is your recollection of his residency at Hawthorne College in Kansas?” He wrinkles up his nose as if Kansas smells like the armpit of the universe.

  “Dr. Mendelev spent a month at the College teaching master poetry classes,” Mom says into the mic.

  “In what language did he teach these classes?”

  “Not in Russian, if that’s what you’re getting at, Mr. Chairman. Dr. Mendelev’s English is quite intelligible.”

  One of the other senators leans into his microphone, and his first few words bounce off the walls till he reins in his voice.
“I see in our briefing that this Mendelev was a guest in your home for five full weeks, correct?

  “Yes, sir, we often provide home hospitality for visiting professors.” Hidden message: even the ones who aren’t from Russia.

  “And is it true, Mrs. Rafner, that this professor entertained American students in your home?”

  “American as well as international students. Hawthorne is a liberal arts college that attracts students from abroad because of our superb academic environment and generous endowment program.”

  Eyebrows go up at the mention of three no-no words: international and liberal, plus endowment, which sounds like free education, a commie idea. Dad shifts restlessly next to me.

  Another senator gets his licks in. “Are you aware, Mrs. Rafner, that Mr. Mendelev was a double agent, spying for both the Soviet Union and the United States?”

  Tactical error: Mom bursts out laughing.

  “You’re amused?”

  “Forgive me, sir, it’s just that Dr. Mendelev is one of the least political people I’ve known. He’s oblivious to borders, believing that poetry transcends national walls between people.”

  “She’s biting her own foot,” Dad whispers. “That’s a profoundly communistic idea, in their estimation.”

  Yeah, and now two of the senators sit back with self-satisfied grins, until the chairman says, “I notice that you use the present tense, Mrs. Rafner. Are you unaware that Mr. Mendelev met a firing squad, to his extreme disadvantage? Such is life and death in the Soviet Union, madam.”

  While Mom’s still reeling from this news, the committee pitches more questions at her. Did Mendelev talk about his life in Moscow? Did he try to convince Hawthorne students to visit the USSR? Did he have mysterious absences? Did he insinuate Russian foods into our household diet? On and on, with Quincy nodding his okay after every stupid question, until Mom is exhausted and blurts out, “Please allow me to summarize—”