by T Cooper
“A patriot,” Debbie answers quickly. “He was wounded in the South Pacific.”
“Well, hats off to him,” Dad says, offering us pretzels from the bag he’s taking into the rec room. “I served in Europe, myself. Spotted General Eisenhower once.”
“Oh, yes?” Debbie doesn’t look as impressed as my father expects.
“The future President of the United States.”
“If Stevenson doesn’t win,” Debbie answers quizzically.
“Stevenson, that Communist; he doesn’t have a chance against the General.”
Communism becomes a major preoccupation with me during the fall of 1952. In school we pray together to Mary to “turn Red Russia Blue.” At home, Dad follows the crusade of Senator McCarthy from Wisconsin. He was a Marine, like Dad, only an officer. Watching the news with our neighbors, I learn that American soldiers are fighting to save the tiny nation of Korea from Communism. That year South Korea has four different Prime Ministers. Clearly they need our help.
“Stevenson,” Dad says when Debbie leaves. “You think the neighbors are voting for Stevenson?”
Mom shrugs. “I doubt it seriously. Kathleen Sakov is a good Catholic. I see her and Debbie at mass every Sunday.
Of course she’s a little different. I mean, she went to some college in New York, and she drives. But she’s a good soul. Not a working mother or anything.”
Dad has lost interest, as he often does when Mom issues one of her neighborhood news bulletins.
We don’t have time for much bicycling once school begins. Soon the rains come. But Debbie introduces me to the Brownies, where we do fun projects and practice good citizenship. Often I find myself at her house after classes, doing homework together. Mrs. Sakov makes the best hot chocolate. They say “chawklet.”
My Seattle school had been a chore and a bore. Oh, I figured I’d do better than my parents, earn a high school diploma and find a job I liked. I fancied living on Queen Anne Hill in a little apartment, dating handsome boys for a few years before marrying and having children. Girl children. If surly Patrick was the alternative, I was sticking with girls.
But Debbie gets me involved in science projects and an essay contest. She says that if we stick with it, we can take college prep classes in high school and then …
“And then,” Mr. Sakov joins in, “the sky’s the limit.” Since he’s a teacher, he comes home earlier than my dad, about 4 o’clock each day. And he likes talking with us, says I have an interesting mind. “You could be a doctor, Alice, or a professor, or a Senator, or an artist.”
Debbie grins, waiting to hear her own fortune.
I remain politely silent.
“Seriously, Alice.”
He is reading my mind.
“You’re very good at geography and history. You should be thinking about college. It’s never too early.”
My face flushes with pride and excitement and a prickly sensation of family betrayal. Because of this last, lingering feeling, I announce, “My dad says Adlai Stevenson is a Communist.”
“Oh?” Mr. Sakov studies me.
Debbie walks into the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “More lemonade anyone?”
“I like Ike,” I say, then feel foolish.
“It’s important to be interested in the election,” he says in an edifying tone.
“Aren’t you going to vote for General Eisenhower?”
“General Eisenhower is a brave, smart man. So is Governor Stevenson.”
Governor. I’ve never heard him called Governor before. Is he making it up? I have a terrible feeling that I shouldn’t persist but feel compelled.
“Are you voting for him?”
“Well, Alice, we have a system of secret balloting in this democracy. But I believe in public discourse. Even dissent, among congenial neighbors.”
I want to retract the question. Want to return to college prep and being an artist or a doctor.
“Hello, anybody home?” Pretty, blond Mrs. Sakov opens the door. I wish I was that blond—almost platinum. Mom says my hair is a nice “honey color,” but Patrick calls it “dirty blond.”
Mrs. Sakov is carrying groceries in both arms.
Mr. Sakov goes to her aid.
Her aid and mine. But I know what he would have said. Dissent. He’s voting for Stevenson. Surely Mr. Sakov is confused.
On afternoons when the rains are mild, we walk home, over the hills, from school. I love the sharp scent of evergreens. So much more fun than sitting on that rattling bus being snubbed by the older kids and listening to the younger ones shriek.
Today I walk guardedly because I’m carrying the fifth grade rosary in the special sandalwood box blessed by our bishop. Tonight is “Pray Together, Stay Together” night at our house, part of the diocese campaign against divorce and Communism. Our primary intention—as in classroom prayers—is the conversion of Godless Russia. Sister Matthew suggests that tonight we also pray for victims of those terrible Mau Maus in Africa.
“So I think I have a crush,” Debbie startles me.
“Who, who?” I spin on my feet, almost dropping the sandalwood box. “Tim O’Rourke? Johnny Petrowski? Artie Romano?”
“You’re one-sixth right, sort of,” she grins.
“Come on.” She could have all three of them. This is one of the first times I envy her beauty and confidence. Usually I just bask in these traits, proud that Debbie Sakov has chosen me as her best friend.
“Well, at recess today, Bobby flirted with me.”
“Bobby? He didn’t.” I’ve never revealed my own crush on Artie Romano’s older brother.
“Did too.”
“How?”
“He said I should shake my ‘beautiful hair out of those terrible pigtails.’” She giggles, whisking her long loose tresses over the shoulders of her Holy Cross uniform sweater.
We are standing on the last hill. Someday I want to live up here, in one of these homes with pretty gardens and a view of Lake Washington.
“Oh, come on,” she’s embarrassed now. “We’re not going steady. Just talking to each other.”
One thing leads to another, I’ve heard my mother say often enough, and somehow this makes me think of the rosary.
She’s humming “Wheel of Fortune.”
“You took the rosary home last week, right? Did you get your whole family to pray together? I mean, I’m afraid we won’t be able to convince Patrick to join us tonight.”
“Oh, sure, Mom and I knelt in the living room. You know, we have that little wooden statue of the Blessed Virgin there. And we prayed the entire rosary aloud together.”
“What about your dad?”
She looks surprised. “Daddy’s Jewish. Didn’t you know that?”
I draw a long breath. “A mixed marriage,” I reply stupidly. Mixed marriages, like near occasions of sin, are to be avoided whenever possible.
“Mommy said it’s good for one’s education, being exposed to different traditions.”
I wish it were storming and we were sitting on the bus, conversation impossible because of the screaming first-graders. I quicken my steps, but this last part of the route is endless.
At home, I’m relieved to find Mom alone in the kitchen, musing over the ingredients of a tuna noodle casserole.
“Can we talk?” I plop down onto a shiny yellow dinette chair and sip a glass of ice water.
“Are you worried about something again, dear?”
Already she’s making it trivial. Maybe I should consult the priest. No, I need an answer now.
She turns down the oven, takes my hand across the Formica table. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
At moments like this, I feel safe, for I know that it’s possible to be sane and loving and good.
“Well, I’m worried about Mr. Sakov.” I slump back in the narrow chair.
“Is he unwell?”
“About his soul,” I whisper.
She regards me closely.
“I just heard from Debbie, o
n our walk, and it was such a surprise, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Slow down, dear.” She speaks with exaggerated calm.
“Debbie tells me he’s a, a, a non-Catholic.” There, I’ve said it.
The refrigerator stops humming.
Mom takes a long sip of my water. “I guessed as much. Since I don’t see him at church. Of course, your father doesn’t come every Sunday. But Mr. Sakov is a different kind of man.”
If only she knew how different.
I can’t hold it in any longer. “Will he go to hell, Mom? Will he go straight to hell?”
“Oh, Alice dear.” She’s standing beside me now, tucking my apprehensive face toward her wide hip. “God loves many kinds of people. From what Patrick says about his lectures on Lincoln, their lively discussions, and from what you say about your nice conversations next door, I know Mr. Sakov is a very good person. I can’t imagine God would send him to hell.”
I take a deep breath. I’m not sure she’s ready for this. “Debbie told me … Debbie said that …”
“Yes, dear?”
“Debbie says Mr. Sakov is Jewish.”
“So?”
“Well, he’s not even a Christian.”
“Alice, love, there are many fine Jews in the world. Did you know, for instance, that Benjamin Disraeli, the British Prime Minister, was Jewish?”
I sometimes worry about my mother’s wits. “But Britain is a Christian country.”
“Britain is a democratic country.”
I sigh, thinking about her pile of history and cooking magazines. “Just like this one … at the moment.”
“But Sister says we must pray to turn Red Russia blue. I’ve brought home the class rosary tonight. Isn’t Mr. Sakov more important than some faraway stranger in Moscow?”
“Mr. Sakov is a smart, ethical man who lives with a devout wife and daughter. I don’t think he needs to be our personal mission.”
I don’t tell her Debbie’s mother says it’s good for her education being exposed to different traditions.
The lawn signs start to sprout in mid-October. Mostly patriotic ones for General Eisenhower. Some cheerful I Like Ike! placards. Only two people in the neighborhood plant posters with dreary pictures of the horse-faced Stevenson. I hold my breath for a week, but the Sakovs’s lawn remains clear. Dad says when we go trick-or-treating, at the end of the month, placards will help us know which houses to avoid. I bet Communists give out hard candy.
Now that the World Series is over—the stupid Yankees won again—my dad has a new favorite pastime: Bishop Fulton J. Sheehan’s Holy Hour. And while Mom doesn’t completely approve of priests appearing on television, she thinks it’s good for my father to get his religion in any form. Bishop Sheehan doesn’t come right out and condemn Stevenson, but he is very concerned about Communists. That Catholic Senator from Wisconsin is one of his biggest fans.
“Dad.” I turn from the TV screen to my father stretched out in his recliner, wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts. “Is Senator higher than Governor?”
“Doesn’t work like that, hon. Senators are in Washington and Governors run states. Why do you ask? Planning on running for office?”
Unlike Mr. Sakov, he’s joking.
“No, I was wondering about Senator McCarthy. If Governor Stevenson can run for President, couldn’t Senator Mc-Carthy?”
“You’ve got a good head on you. Wish your brother was that alert. Sure, Alice, he would make a fine choice someday. Why don’t you write him a letter?”
This time, I can tell, he is serious.
“You just mail it to him in Washington, D.C.”
That night I write the letter in my room and do all my homework there. I don’t feel like going over to the Sakovs’s after dinner.
Mom invites Debbie over for my birthday dinner. I can’t have a real party because I don’t know enough girls yet. But Mom has baked my favorite lemon cake. She says that after dinner Debbie and I can have a mini slumber party in my room and has let me move the Victrola upstairs.
Debbie’s present is beautifully wrapped in silver foil with a blue satin ribbon. Too small to be a record. Too heavy for jewelry.
I’ve run out of guesses.
“A brick?” Patrick suggests.
Debbie giggles.
I pull a face.
Actually, Patrick has broken down and bought me a nice horn for my bike. Mom and Dad have come through with some cute clothes. So no matter what Debbie has brought, I’ll be in a good mood.
She says she’s saving the gift for later at our slumber party.
Patrick looks disappointed, in spite of himself.
“Oh, I hope you like it,” she says breathlessly, watching me scrupulously unwrap the silver foil. Mom has taught me to save good paper.
“Dad gave me one last year and I absolutely love it.”
The mention of Mr. Sakov, the Jewish Communist Stevenson-supporter, breaks my mood only momentarily. Her card is adorable, signed, Love, Debbie, xxxx.
Oh my, it’s better than a record or a necklace. I could never have imagined something as splendid as this gorgeous red leather diary with a gold lock and special key. I stare at the present, feeling at once grown up and transgressive and, well, artistic.
“You don’t like it?” she whispers anxiously. “I can take it back to The Bon, get you something—”
“No, no, no. It’s perfect. Thank you, Debbie.” I kiss her reddened cheek. “Thank you!”
She covers her embarrassed pleasure by talking hectically. “It’s good for writing down wishes and worries, you know, the sort of thing you can’t really talk to another person about, at least not yet. And I have to admit, I’ve spent a number of pages on Bobby Romano.”
Wishes and worries. Debbie never seems afraid of anything. I want to be more like Debbie.
We spend the perfect evening listening to Frankie Lane and drinking too much Pepsi and gossiping and eating popcorn, Fritos, and Oreos. Debbie has some interesting news about Bobby Romano, and I’m glad to tell her Larry Boudreau winked at me that morning.
Mom has made up the guest cot with an extra-fluffy comforter, not really necessary in October, but cozy.
Just as I’m sailing off to sleep, Debbie says, “Will you be my blood sister?”
I sit up in the darkened room. “You mean cut my hand and mix blood with you?” I hope she’s teasing.
“No, something more mature than that. Promise to be each other’s confidantes. You know, a sister you can tell absolutely everything without being judged or gossiped about. Like real, grown-up friends.”
I am moved, glad she can’t see my tears. Yet another level of loneliness excavated.
“Of course,” I reply, then speed ahead. “Let’s start now, by telling a secret.”
“Tonight?”
“Short secrets, then.”
“I can’t think of anything just now.” She yawns.
“Well, you could ask me something,” I persist, wondering if I have anything to tell or ask.
“Okay, your brother Patrick. He seems kind of mean or something. What’s he mad at?”
And without a second thought, I surrender the big family secret to my best friend: “Patrick got arrested in Seattle last year—unfairly, he says—when his stupid friends broke into a gas station.” The main reason we’ve come to the suburbs is to help Patrick start over. The move has been for me what Mom would call “a blessing in disguise.” Otherwise I wouldn’t have met Debbie, who is the smartest, liveliest friend I’ve ever had.
“Oh, wow,” Debbie gasps. “I had no idea. I just thought he had heartburn or something. Did he go to jail?”
“Of course not. He was let off because it was a first offense and he wasn’t directly involved. Dad had to promise to ‘rein him in.’”
“I see.”
“But you won’t tell, right? You promised that’s the whole deal. Blood sisters, confidences, and—”
“Whoa, Nellie, don’t worry so much. I’d never tell.
People make mistakes. They repent. That’s what confession is for. Mum’s the word.”
“So I get to ask you something.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” She sounds sleepy. “I had more in mind that we would come to each other with private concerns, things that bothered us or excited us. But we’ve started this way. Go on.”
I can’t help myself. “Your dad. Is he, a, well, a Communist?”
Debbie laughs. “No, I can’t imagine …”
I heard the hesitation. “But …”
“But he did go to Moscow once.”
I inhale sharply, silently, I hope.
“He taught English there for two years. A foreign-aid kind of thing. His grandparents came from there. It was his way of sharing. International solidarity, I think he said. But that was a long time ago. Before I was born.”
“Oh,” I nod.
After a few moments, Debbie suggests, “We should get some sleep. Happy birthday, blood sister.”
“Thanks, Debbie. Sweet dreams.”
Moscow. Solidarity. Jewish. Stevenson. It’s all swirling through my brain.
I can hear her sleeping, the gentle, innocent inhale and exhale of the Communist’s unsuspecting daughter.
This is how things begin, I read in Mom’s Catholic Digest. They move into your neighborhood. Infiltrate your schools. Poor Patrick: first he’s framed by his dopey friends and now he’s learning Communism in high school. Poor Debbie and Mrs. Sakov. Surely they can’t know. Kneeling in their living room praying for democracy while a Communist sits at their Danish Modern dinner table correcting history papers.
“Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. And if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Over and over, I quietly recite the Hail Mary, the Our Father, the Glory Be. “I pray the Lord my soul to keep.” Nothing brings tranquility or sleepiness.
Hours later, endlessly wakeful hours, I slip out of bed with my diary and head for the kitchen. A small slice of cake and a large glass of milk should send me off to dreamland.
Seated at the dining room table, I feel better after one bite. Count your blessings, Mom always says, and I do. A decent family. A best friend. A blood sister. It’s good for writing down wishes and worries, you know, the sort of thing you can’t really talk to another person about, at least not yet.