Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

  “I don’t think it’s academic,” Frances said coldly. “Not at all academic. Who said I was a Communist?”

  “Did you ever hear of a magazine called Blueprint?”

  “Yes,” Frances said. “A lying, Fascist sheet.”

  Archer sighed, displeased with the quick slogan. “I don’t know,” he said mildly. “I rarely read it.”

  “Take my word for it,” Frances said. “And just because a dirty little rag makes an accusation like that, I’m scheduled for the axe?”

  “That was the idea,” Archer said. “Actually, you won’t be hurt. The piece isn’t coming out for several weeks—and since you’re going into a play, and you won’t be on the program any more—they probably won’t print anything about you.”

  “Isn’t that a fortunate coincidence,” Frances said bitingly, “for everyone? Did they mention anybody else?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “I’d rather not say. At the moment.”

  “Are you going to fire them?” Frances demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Archer said, walking back and forth in front of the bookcase. “The office wants to.”

  “Are the others conveniently going into plays, too?” Frances asked. “Or would that be too much to ask?”

  “No.” Archer began to be annoyed with the girl, because her tone was accusing him, making a villain out of him. “I don’t imagine they are.”

  “Did you come up here just to tell me I was being thrown out?” Frances demanded. Her voice was harsh and sounded almost masculine now. “You were willing to climb four flights of stairs, with your aging heart, just to pass the good word onto me?”

  “That’s a little unfair,” Archer said, conscious that the girl was trying to hurt him.

  “Then why did you come up here?”

  “I wanted to talk to you,” he said uncertainly. “I wanted to see what I could do.”

  “Well,” Frances said, “what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Archer said softly. “I thought maybe you could help me.”

  “I don’t think so,” Frances said. “You’re not angry enough.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

  “You’re accepting it already.”

  “Now, Frances …”

  “With regret,” she said loudly. The skin over her forehead seemed to be stretched tighter than ever and her face was very hard. “You’re a nice man, so you’re sorry—a little—but I can see you’re ready to do what they ask you to do.”

  “Well,” Archer said, controlling himself, “I think that closes the meeting for today. I’ll go now. If you want to talk to me reasonably some time, give me a ring.” He started for his coat.

  Frances watched him silently for a moment, until he had picked up his coat. “Put it down,” she said. “You might as well hear what I have to say.” She picked up a cigarette and lit it, with quick, nervous movements, her hands shaking a little, while Archer carefully put his coat back on the chair. Her fingers, he noticed, were stained by nicotine. He walked slowly over to the narrow chair and sat down again, once more feeling his hips being cramped by the hard sides.

  “First of all,” Frances said, blowing a great deal of smoke straight ahead of her and breaking the match in her fingers, “what do you think about me? Do you think I’m a Communist?”

  “Well,” Archer said carefully, “I really don’t know you very well, do I? Outside the studio, I don’t see you more than five six times a year. And …”

  “Don’t hedge,” Frances said flatly. “You think I’m one, don’t you?”

  “The truth is, Frances,” Archer said, “you do belong to a lot organizations, and you’re quite outspoken …”

  “If somehow you were forced to say, one way or another, what you thought,” Frances went on, attacking him, “you’d say I was a Communist.”

  Archer thought for a long moment. “Yes, darling,” he said.

  “Well,” she said, “you’re right. I am a Communist.”

  She stared at Archer. There was a kind of harsh, religious triumph in her face.

  “I’m proud of it,” Frances said. She doused her cigarette in an ash tray with jabbing, excessive strength. “I’m not ashamed. I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve ever done.”

  Archer was not really listening to her. Now I know about her, he thought, she’s told me herself. What do I do about it? What do I do about it if later on I am asked about her? What if I’m asked under oath?

  “If it didn’t help the bastards so much,” Frances was saying bitterly, “I’d take an advertisement tomorrow in the New York Times and announce it to the whole world. What do you think being a Communist means?” she demanded accusingly. “Do you really think I’ve been plotting to kidnap the President and overthrow the Government? Do you think I’ve been going around picking out churches to burn down when the great day comes? Do you believe that I’ve been drawing up plans for the nationalization of women?”

  “Now, Frances,” Archer said reprovingly.

  “I don’t know,” Frances said. “I don’t know what you believe. I don’t know what anybody believes these days. The way the newspapers talk, you’d think we’re all spending our time putting together atom bombs to blow up the water system next week.”

  “You know I don’t believe that.”

  “I give you three months,” Frances said. “Three more months of being exposed to the poison you take in every day and you’ll believe everything they want you to believe.”

  Archer sighed. She sounds like a placard, he thought, in a May Day parade. In two minutes she’s rejected any notion that I might behave with sense or in good faith.

  “I don’t know what I’ll think in three months,” he said. “Maybe you ought to wait and see before you make any charges.”

  “Nobody’s hesitated to make charges about me,” she said wildly. Her fingers were jumping as she took another cigarette. “And they’re using you. You’re their ringer man. You’re their respectable front, waving your conscience, going around and doing their dirty work for them, turning people out to starve because they have an opinion or two.”

  “Wait a minute,” Archer said, stung. “You’re putting up a big fuss and you’re making it sound as though there was a gigantic conspiracy against you. Actually, nobody’s stopping you from working. You’re getting a big part in a play, at a damn good salary, no doubt, and if you’re any good you’ll be a big success in it and make a lot of money …”

  “And if the play flops,” Frances interrupted, “and I have to go back to radio? What happens then? And even if I’m a success, and I get smeared, who’ll hire me for another play?”

  “Plenty of people. Nobody’s said a word about the theatre yet and you know it. For all I know there are three regiments of Communists on Broadway today, and if they’re right for a part, they get hired. And no questions asked.”

  “That’s today,” Frances said. “Don’t be naive about what’s happening. If they get away with it on radio, how long after that do you think the theatre’ll be left alone? They’re smart, they’re picking off the easy ones first. All you serious, intellectual fellows think the movies and the radio aren’t very important—jokes—you don’t care what happens to them. So you let them get away with it. You think they’ll stop. They won’t stop. They’ve got the habit now and they see they can get away with it. They’ll keep on going until they have every word that’s written or printed or spoken censored in advance and sterile as hospital gauze.”

  Archer sighed. “Frances, darling,” he said, “I didn’t come up here to get into a political debate. I’m not a politician, but even so, I can’t help feeling that a Communist is the last one in the world to make speeches about freedom of expression.”

  “Ah,” Frances said bitterly, “the poison’s got you already. We don’t have to wait three months.”

  “Don’t insult me, darling,” Archer said, feeling that he really ought to leave, tha
t nothing was going to be decided here in this room with this nervous and fanatical girl. “Maybe I’m wrong, but from everything I’ve heard about Communism and everything I’ve heard about Russia—and no matter what good things might be found in the doctrine—freedom of opinion is not included. Don’t you realize that to a reasonable person when you ask to be defended on those grounds it sounds like the utmost cynicism?”

  “No,” Frances said stonily. “Not at all. You don’t know anything about it. You’re completely confused.”

  “Every time I’ve had an argument with a Communist in the last fifteen years,” Archer said gently, “he’s always wound up by telling me I’m confused.”

  “Well, you are. You’re lazy and you don’t investigate for yourself and you believe all the lies they tell you.”

  Archer nodded agreeably. “I probably am lazy,” he said. “And until now I haven’t even been really interested.”

  “You’d better get interested fast, brother,” Frances said harshly. “You haven’t got much more time before they wipe you out. You’re the one they’re really after—not me. There aren’t enough Communists in this country to make one good swallow for a Congressional Committee. But there are millions like you, thinking you’re independent, liberal, working for your living. First they have to get you ready to fight Russia, and after that, if you’re still alive, they’ve got to leave you so scared you’ll never dare to open your mouth when they take over.”

  “When who takes over, Frances?” Archer asked patiently.

  “The Fascists,” Frances said promptly. “It’s the same pattern as Germany. They’re even using the same war cries. And they’re splitting up the opposition the same way. The Red scare, the Red scare, and you wake up one morning and the police are knocking your door down to take you to a concentration camp because three years before you were overheard to say you didn’t like the Fuehrer’s moustache. You used to be a history teacher.” Frances’ voice rose mockingly, “You ought to crack a book now and then, even though you’re out of the field for the moment.”

  The trouble with all pat, standard, well-worn arguments, Archer thought, is that there is always a great deal of truth in them.

  “Do you want to know why I became a Communist?” Frances asked. Her voice was low again and personal and her face had lost some of its rigid tension.

  “If you want to tell me,” Archer said,

  “I want to tell you,” she said. She stood up suddenly and walked over to the window and looked out. Outlined against the sunny curtains she looked slender and gilded. “Doesn’t it strike you as queer that a girl like me went bad? My family’s got a lot of money, I went to the best schools, I’m pretty and men have always chased after me as though I was giving it away free, so I don’t have to go to meetings for that reason.” She chuckled harshly. “I had a happy childhood, Doctor,” she said mockingly, “and everybody thinks I’m just wonderful and I’m so rich I have a second mink for rainy days and in general I’m as merry as a lark. Why can’t I be like the other girls? The only thing they have to be afraid of if they’re investigated is that their husbands will find out that they paid sixty dollars for a hat or had a slight Lesbian affair when their old school chum from Vassar came up to the country last summer.” She turned and faced Archer. “That’s a synagogue across the street,” she said, “When I’m bored, I stand at the window and see if I can pick out the Jews at seventy yards.” She laughed, at her own joke, the laugh shrill, gasping, slightly out of control.

  Archer moved uneasily in his chair. Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten in this deep with this girl, he thought. You never can be sure what she’s going to do.

  “To continue, Doctor,” she said, staring at Archer with her eyes half-closed, sensing that she had made him uncomfortable and amusing herself by increasing his discomfort, “sex is not the trouble, although it says in the books that dissatisfied women are susceptible to curious aberrations. I’m not frigid, Doctor, I assure you, and my orgasms are in charming condition. If you really must have it for your diagnosis, I will write down the score on this little slip of paper and you can put it in your notebook when I’ve gone.”

  I came up here to talk about her politics, Archer thought resentfully; now look where we are. You always sink deeper than you want to go; everybody always answers more fully than you desire; you are forever infinitely implicated after you have asked the first, irrevocable question. The trouble is that people always regard themselves as wholes, and they never can extricate the one aspect of themselves that you are interested in for special examination. The mind is swamped by the abundance of over-available fact. Ask a veteran where he lost his leg and by the time you’re answered you have a history of a division, a detailed account of several campaigns, a judgment on his commanding officers and an elegy of the men who fell around him. Ask a woman a question on any subject concerning herself and she starts at the root of the matter—sex.

  “I’m listening, Frances.” Archer spoke gravely, in an attempt to get the girl away from the mocking, derisive self-revelation.

  “I picked up Communism on my trip abroad,” Frances said, her voice still joking and harsh. “In the Red Cross.” She came over to Archer and stood above him, her hands on her hips and her legs spread wide. “Are you surprised?”

  “I give the Red Cross fifty dollars each year at Christmas,” Archer said. “I don’t know what they do with it.”

  “I was stationed at a B-17 base in England,” Frances said. “I served doughnuts and wrote letters home to the parents of the dead. I thought I was very patriotic and adventurous and the uniform looked good on me. I teased the men at dances, but I was wholesome as an apple, and slept by myself at night. One boy, he was a bombardier, told me he used to go and make love to an English girl in town after he danced with me, and close his eyes and pretend it was me in bed with him. I told him it wasn’t wholesome; that was a big word of mine in the winter of 1944, but he was flying over Bremerhaven and Schweinfurt and he had his mind on other things. Then I met an older man, a squadron leader, he must have been twenty-six, and I stopped being so wholesome.”

  Archer moved uncomfortably. He felt that Frances was standing too close to him to be talking about things like that.

  “He was from California,” Frances went on, looking over Archer’s head. “One of those big sunny boys they grow out there. He was quiet and cheerful and dependable. The men in his squadron loved him—and I enlisted in the squadron, privately.” She paused and peered uncertainly at Archer as though she didn’t quite remember who he was or what he was doing in her room. She turned abruptly and sat down on the sofa, her hands between her knees, pulling her skirt in tight lines.

  “When you give up being a virgin at the age of twenty-three,” Frances said, “it seems like an enormous date on the calendar, and maybe you attach more importance than you should to the man …”

  Twenty-three, Archer thought, in 1944. That makes her twenty-nine now. I didn’t realize she was that old.

  “Though I don’t think so,” Frances said, as though she were arguing with herself. “He was brave, he was careful, he took care of his men as though they were precious. Not precious only as soldiers. Precious as human beings. He took care of me. We were going to get married and live in Santa Barbara if he came out alive.” She shrugged. “I’m going to say something funny,” she said. “I’m going to use a funny word. He was a saint. Are you going to laugh?”

  “No,” Archer said. “I’m not going to laugh.”

  “I don’t think it’s only because he’s dead now that I say that. I felt all this when I saw him every night. After missions and when we went down to London on leave. London …” She stopped and looked blindly away, as though she were remembering what the streets looked like and the ruins and what it felt like to come out of a restaurant in the blackout holding onto a dead boy’s arm. “He was religious,” Frances went on finally, her voice sounding empty and strained. “His father was a minister and he himself had considered, for
awhile … So he thought about a lot of things that the other boys didn’t seem to bother about. They all seemed to be thinking only about getting home alive or finding a girl or getting promoted or not cracking up when things got tough. Maybe I’m unfair to them. I guess they thought about other things, too, only they never happened to tell me. Hank had a … a grave turn of mind. He wasn’t solemn, but he wasn’t a kid any more, and he took the war very seriously, and he had a habit of questioning himself.”

  Hank, Archer thought. What a name for a saint. Saint Hank.

  “I guess he had a lot of time to ask questions, coming back on those long missions,” Frances said, “after the bombs were dropped, after watching his friends go down, sitting there on oxygen, with the co-pilot at the controls, and the wounded lying on the floor of the plane waiting for the morphine to take effect. He kept asking himself what it was all for. Whether it was worth it. What the result would be. What it would be like after it was over. Whether it would happen all over again. He was a freak in the Eighth Air Force. He really began to feel that he was fighting for peace, equality, justice. Those words.” Frances grinned crookedly. “The son of a minister, and from California besides, they grow them queer. And somewhere along the line, he got the notion that that’s what the Communists stood for. Back in college, he’d had a couple of friends in the Party and they’d been very good about Mexicans and Chinese and Jews and Negroes and a living wage for apricot-pickers and things like that. Then, to prove they weren’t kidding, they went off and got themselves killed in Spain. And he felt they’d been right about that, too. They’d warned everybody about that and nobody had listened and it had turned out just the way they predicted. So, aside from everything else, he felt they were smarter than everybody else, that they had the inside track on that information, too.”

  “That was in 1944,” Archer said gently. “Do you think he’d still feel the same way today?”

  Frances shrugged. “All I know is that he told me that the day after he got out of uniform, he was going to look up the nearest Party headquarters and join up. Should I tell you his name so you can drop him from something, too?”