Red Menace

by Lois Ruby

  I gotta get out of the house and flex some muscles or I’ll explode like a bomb. That’s creepy, since the Rosenberg’s are dying because of A-bomb secrets.

  A basketball has rolled down the driveway and is lodged in the wet gutter next to the FBI car. Milgrim and Kluski are listening to the countdown on their car radio. I toe the dripping ball up into my hands. My shots leave the rim shaking violently, hit or miss. This one for the judge who sentenced them. This shot for Truman, who denied clemency last year. One for Ike, who said no twice today. Another one for the Sing Sing guy who’ll be tripping the switch. I’m breathing like I’ve run a mile, panting, gasping for air between shots, then firing that ball like I could kill the goal. Kill it.

  I sense someone coming up behind me, but I don’t turn around because I’m planning to blindside whoever it is by ramming that ball at him until his guts spill. I hope it’s Milgrim. Kluski would be my second choice.

  But it’s Connor. “You’re missing three out of every four.”

  “So? Can you do better?” I jam the ball into his roll of fat. His arms close around it. He stretches, lines up, eyes the rim, positions his feet, toes the line, flexes his shooting arm, rolls his shoulders, dribbles three times, eyeballs the goal again, takes a deep breath, shoots—and falls short of the basket by a foot.

  “Out of practice,” Connor mutters.

  “Gimme the ball.” Suddenly I’m hot. It doesn’t matter where I stand, how far I am from the goal. I just keep hurling that ball up toward the basket like it’s magnetized, and every shot sinks, whoosh, without even banking off the backboard. That old adrenaline thing, I guess.

  I mutter, “You know what’s happening, probably right now?”

  “Julius and Ethel, yeah.”

  We don’t talk for a while. We dribble and shoot, him missing more than he sinks.

  Connor says, “Too bad about the Pirates finishing in last place in the league.”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “Okay, this. Where’s my head been since the whole commie thing started? I’m real sorry I’ve been such a jerk.”

  Slam against the backboard. Whoosh, practically ripping the net. “Jerk doesn’t cover it. And you know what? You’ve got no arm, so why did Coach play you at short? You’re sure no Phil Rizzuto.”

  “Wait. That’s hittin’ below the belt.” Connor intercepts the ball and bounces it, then hugs it to his chest. “It’s just the times, Marty, all that Cold War yak and everybody seeing red, you know?”

  “I don’t know. Anyway, we had lots of years before all this stuff started happening.”

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking. Remember the Kansas City road trip to see Mickey Mantle? You and me and my dad talking baseball two hundred miles each way?”

  I tuck the ball under my arm, wiping sweat on the shoulder of my T-shirt. “Get this straight, Connor. I wouldn’t even go to a dog fight with your father.”

  “Hey, whaddaya got against my old man?”

  I hear the telephone voice in my head again: Pack up quick and ride that Red Rail right out of town . . .

  “Nothin,’ Connor. Nothin’ I can prove.”

  “What’s that s’posed to mean?” He starts dribbling the ball in a tight circle. “He’s my only dad. What can I do? Your dad’s not such a bargain, either.”

  I snatch the ball away from him and kick it from foot to foot, like the Harlem Globetrotters. I want to say, Lay off my father, he’s a real decent guy, but I think about his question and before I know it, the words are out of my mouth. “Here’s what you can do. Turn out different.”

  Another impressive whoosh, this one for Michael Rosenberg.

  He waits a long time before answering. “I sort of get what you’re saying, Marty.”

  Whoosh, one for Robert Rosenberg.

  Connor says, “You hear about the Red Sox-Tigers game yesterday? World records, man. Seventh inning, Boston sends up twenty-three batters, and seventeen of ’em score runs. Sammy White gets three himself. Fourteen hits, and that rookie outfielder, Gene Stephens? He ends up the only American League guy to get three hits in the same inning. Red Sox trounce Detroit twenty-three to three.”

  “If it’s not the Yankees, and Mantle’s not playing, I’m not interested.” I’m not giving Connor a drop of satisfaction, although I’m pretty snowed by the stats on that game. I hurl the ball into Connor’s belly. “Shoot!” I growl through clenched teeth.

  He shoots and misses.

  I grab it on the rebound and dribble up and down the driveway like Luke used to do, and bag an amazing shot from this side of Milgrim and Kluski. Sends the rim boing-ing like it’s been knocked out in a fight. Kluski nearly falls out of the car admiring that maneuver.

  A few more shots. We’re both bagging them left and right.

  Then he goes and breaks the charm. “So, uh, about commencement next year. I’m thinking we oughta blow our bugles together, like we used to. Sounded dumb doing it alone this year.”

  “Nope, no more bugle-blowing for me, Connor. Luke and I had a big talk about it.”

  He shrugs his shoulders, trying to figure it out, but I’m not giving him any more clues. Too personal, the stuff Luke told me. Man, I still can’t believe he trusted me up on that tower. Was it thinking about his family, about Wendy, and about Carrie growing up without him, that gave Luke the courage to follow me down those zillion steps to face the stuff that’s haunting him? Man, if he could do that, anybody could.

  Something catches my eye, something shimmery in the window, backlit behind the checkered curtains. I make out the fireplug form of Bubbie and Mom and Dad flanking her. Bubbie has a handkerchief covering her hair. Her hands are cupped over two flickering candles. She gathers the flame toward her. Her lips and Mom’s move with the prayer.

  Nearly sundown here. It’s all over, there.

  Robby and Michael. Wonder what it feels like to go to sleep having parents, and wake up as the most famous orphans in America? I don’t ever want to know.

  Connor looks at his watch. “It’s done, isn’t it?”

  All I can do is nod.

  “I guess things change, huh?”

  Man, do they ever. I pass the ball to him with more style than vengeance, and when he rushes forward to catch it, his Pirates ball cap flies off and lands in a gutter puddle.

  “Aw, man!” he bellows, and I laugh till my stomach aches and I feel a little of the anger hissing out of me.

  Afterward, dripping with sweat, we turn on the hose for a drink, and he says, “Buddies?”

  “Not so quick.”

  “Maybe next week?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  Chapter 40

  Sunday, June 21

  So, if I were gonna write one of those old memos to Mantle, which you can bet I’m not, here’s what it would say:

  From the desk of

  IRWIN RAFNER, Ph.D.’s son Marty

  DATE: June 21, 1953

  TO: Mickey Mantle

  It’s done, Mick. All over Friday, by 8:17 Eastern. What’s left to talk about? Just baseball, I guess. So, it’s gonna be Yankees-Dodgers again, right? I gotta figure out a way to miss school so I can watch the Series on television. Hope it’ll go the full seven. I’m going to watch with Luke Everly. Maybe Connor’ll watch with us, too, since we’re sort of friends again. So, I’m planning to come down with elephantiasis or Guinea worm disease just in time for Game One. I’ve got from now till October to figure out how to catch it. Call me if you have any ideas. The FBI guys would be thrilled to hear your voice. They’re still out there.

  Your friend,

  MARTY

  Author’s Note

  Cold War—it’s an oxymoron, like jumbo shrimp and good grief. Yet it describes the intense post-World War II rivalry between two superpowers, the communist Soviet Union and the democratic/capitalist United States. No shots are fired between the two opposing nations, but salvos are lobbed in the form of accusations and atomic bomb threats.
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  So, what is capitalism? It’s a system based on private property, including private control of factories and businesses, aimed at the accumulation of wealth and goods. A capitalist system is controlled by a free, competitive market, not by the workers or the government. While capitalism often goes hand in hand with democracy, it tends to create a society of haves and have-nots, of poverty in the midst of plenty.

  Well, then, is a communistic society better? The original concept of communism is that all power, ownership, and production of goods should be in the hands of the people, the workers. Government would barely be needed. There would be no private ownership of land or goods, no class distinctions among people, and no haves and have-nots. The idea is, from each according to his ability, to each according to his needs. Though it sounds ideal, in practice communist governments have ripped power and freedom away from the people and have turned into repressive dictatorships, controlling every aspect of their citizens’ lives.

  In June 1950, a hot war flares when communist-supported North Korea attacks its southern neighbor, the Republic of Korea. America sends in troops to support the South Koreans, and by the time a truce is called three years later, 54,000 U.S. soldiers lie buried, and another 100,000 return wounded in body, mind, and spirit.

  At home, Americans rally to protect democracy by weeding out any hint of communist influence. What a perfect opportunity for Wisconsin’s Senator Joseph McCarthy to claim inside information on communists in the State Department, the CIA, universities, and the U.S. Army. FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover is already waging an anti-communist campaign, so these two become a dream team, as neither worries about trampling constitutional rights.

  Many Americans in the 1950s sympathize with communist or “leftist” ideals, which they believe echo the principals upon which this country was founded: liberty, equality, and justice for all. But McCarthy accuses anyone with communist sympathies of being part of a “Red Menace” bent on overthrowing the U.S. government.

  McCarthy’s crusade is a reign of terror that destroys lives. Americans are fired from jobs, alienated from their families, forced to spy on and betray friends, hounded by the FBI, hauled before congressional tribunals such as the House Un-American Activities Committee, and jailed for their political beliefs. Two are executed. Their children, called Red Diaper Babies, are taunted with cries such as “Commies! Go back to Russia! The only good Red’s a dead Red!”

  New legislation makes it illegal for anyone to write, print, teach, or display materials that advocate overthrowing the U.S. government, or to be a member of a group that produces such materials. Members of the Communist Party USA and members of any alleged communist front organization must register with the newly established Subversive Activities Control Board.

  President Truman issues an executive order that ushers in mandatory loyalty oaths. Proof of disloyalty to the United States is not necessary. Mere suspicion is enough to fire a government employee. Universities and businesses follow this example, often dismissing employees based on the flimsiest of allegations.

  Enter Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, a leftist-leaning couple who are accused of passing secret information about atomic bomb technology to the Soviets. The Rosenbergs are tried, convicted, and sentenced to death with scant evidence and false testimony.

  People around the world, including Pope Pius XII, protest this injustice. At home, Americans are divided. Many call the Rosenbergs innocent martyrs in the cause of political freedom. Others dub them traitors. In the midst of widespread fear and hysteria, there is no middle ground—no moderate position between proclaiming the Rosenbergs’ complete innocence, and insisting that the Rosenbergs are guilty of treason and deserve execution.

  Appeals wend through the courts for three years until all options are exhausted. On June 19, 1953, a month before the Korean War ends, first Julius Rosenberg, and then Ethel minutes later, are each strapped into the electric chair at Sing Sing. They leave behind two young sons, Michael and Robert.

  So . . . if these boys could lose their parents to the anti-communism hysteria, what stops the same thing from happening to any other child’s parents?

  Nothing.

  Transcripts of Russian documents and tapes released in 1995 yield evidence that Julius Rosenberg was indeed a Soviet agent who passed some information to the USSR. No evidence implicates Ethel Rosenberg. In fact, grand jury transcripts released in 2008 reveal that she was not involved in passing secrets to the Soviets. She was guilty of only two things: political idealism and loyalty to her husband, with whom she went to her death rather than betray him.

  What became of Joseph McCarthy? The Senate voted to censure—formally condemn—him for contempt and abuse of his position. He died in 1957, at age forty-nine.

  His name, and the term McCarthyism, outlive him in infamy, serving as a warning to people who cherish constitutional safeguards.

  Acknowledgments

  An insightful editor/collaborator is invaluable, and I deeply appreciate Amy Fitzgerald and the people at Lerner Publishing Group, who’ve given this book a healthy home. I am grateful to the many “Red Diaper Babies,” especially the Rosenberg/Meeropol family, for interviews, videos, and books about their lives during and since the McCarthy era. I lived this story as a child and have been writing it, in one way or another, all my life. I thank my sweet husband, Tom Ruby, for patiently enduring this obsession with me and for challenging me with just the right questions that I wasn’t always graceful about hearing. Many thanks, as well, to my three sons, David, Kenn, and Jeff, who drew me out to those miserably hot Kansas baseball fields summer after summer, and who constantly talked sports at our dinner table until baseball seeped its way into my pores. Evan, I’ll catch you on another book, but for this one, I want to acknowledge two of my grandsons, Jacob and Max, for giving me a glimpse into what being a twelve-year-old, Midwestern, sports-loving kid is all about.

  Topics for Discussion

  Why is the Rosenbergs’ case such a big deal for the country? Why does it feel especially important to Marty?

  Why does Marty write memos to Mickey Mantle? How does doing this help him deal with his problems throughout the novel?

  What problems do Marty’s parents have with Senator McCarthy and FBI director Hoover?

  Marty has to do bomb drills in school. What dangers do you and your classmates prepare for in school? How are they similar to or different from an atomic bomb attack?

  The Rafners are singled out by their neighbors because of their suspected communist sympathies. What do you think is the most upsetting thing someone does to Marty or his parents?

  Marty wonders, “Can you be a patriotic American and a communist at the same time?” What do you think? Now think of other words you could substitute for “communist.” What types of beliefs or backgrounds scare people today the way communism scared people in the 1950s?

  Why does Marty’s mom refuse to name other people who might be communists in order to get herself out of trouble?

  Why does Luke hate the bugle?

  Marty is frustrated with his mom for putting the family in danger and scared about the consequences of her actions. When does he decide he’s also proud of her, and why?

  Why does Luke go up to the top of the Tower? How does Marty convince him to come down?

  Why does Marty agree to go to the vigil for the Rosenbergs, even though he says, “It won’t change a thing”?

  Do you think Marty and Connor will become real friends again? Why or why not?

  About the Author

  Lois Ruby is a former librarian and the author of 20 books for young readers. She divides her time among family, community social action, research, writing, and visiting schools to energize young people about the ideas in books and the joys of reading. Lois lives in Albuquerque and shares her life with her psychologist husband, Dr. Tom Ruby, as well as their three sons and daughters-in-law and seven amazing grandchildren, who are scattered around the country.

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  Lois Ruby, Red Menace