Suspect Red

by L. M. Elliott

  “You mean that nutty textbook commissioner in Indiana who’s mounted a national campaign against Robin Hood?”

  Richard shrugged.

  Natalia pointed at him with her cigarette holder. “You know what I love most about college?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Learning how to think for myself. And recognizing manure when I smell it.” She dipped into the pile of jackets and held up his blue peacoat. “This yours?”

  He nodded.

  She tucked Robin Hood inside it. “Just give it back to Vladi after you’re done. Come on!” Natalia jumped off her bed. “Let’s go give him some relief. He’s manning the record player for the party.”

  Richard followed, his mind as much a jumble of conflicting thoughts as the tangle of coats in her room. Think like a G-man, he told himself. See and analyze the meaning behind people’s behaviors, just like his dad had said. Richard knew McCarthy and Hoover would label a lot of what Natalia said as being subversive. Big-time. They’d probably brand Natalia a Red or a pinko. Heck, they might even be right. Natalia definitely seemed kind of overfond of that Russian illustrator and his book’s themes.

  But he liked her. And Richard was really excited about having a copy of Robin Hood again. The trick would be smuggling it home.

  Downstairs was a Babel of conversation. Adults were massed in little groups, laughing, chatting, and debating in snippets of Czech and English, sipping cocktails, glasses clinking, bracelets jangling merrily. Through emerald silks and vermilion satin dresses Natalia passed, the sole black-clad figure, like a defiant exclamation point.

  Richard followed, catching small ripples of talk as he wiggled his way through elbows. A conversation between two bow-tied, bespectacled men caught on him like fishhooks.

  “I swear, I found steam marks on all my letters. Did you have to take a lie detector test, too?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “It is very disturbing. I didn’t take the Fifth on any of the questions, but with the ones about my lifestyle, I sort of felt like telling them to go to hell.”

  “Yeah, I’m with you. I’m sick of all the loyalty oaths. The constant questioning since Ike’s beefed-up executive order. I swear I’d resign, except I’d be shackled with that stigma if I did. Anyone who leaves the State Department these days is just assumed to be a closet Red. Or a gossip you can’t trust. Or a lush. Or Hoover’s pet fear—a homosexual. You can’t get a job anywhere.”

  Letters with steam marks? Lie detector tests? Taking the Fifth? Richard stopped to eavesdrop, pretending to warm his hands by the fireplace.

  “Maybe it’ll get better with the midterm elections,” one of the men said hopefully.

  “Unlikely,” his friend answered. “Not as long as Nixon is VP. I think you were posted over in Scandinavia when he ran for Senate, but the guy basically won on Red-baiting. He was up against Congresswoman Helen Gahagan Douglas. You know, the old Hollywood actress?”

  His companion nodded. “She was a New Dealer, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, and a good, gutsy liberal, even if she is a woman. She opposed the Internal Security Act and was against funding HUAC’s hearings. So, you can imagine it was pretty easy for Nixon to paint her as ‘the Pink Lady.’ He actually dared to say that a vote for her was a vote for Stalin. But the most egregious thing”—the man lowered his voice before continuing—“were the penny postcards that his volunteers mailed to every voter right before Election Day, when there wasn’t time for the congresswoman to refute the message.”

  His companion shook his head and asked, “Postcards?”

  The man smirked. “They read, ‘Vote for Our Helen for Senator. We Are With Her One Hundred Percent.’ And they signed it: the Communist League of Negro Women. It was totally fake. No such group existed.”

  His companion exhaled. “Well, that would do her in on two fronts, wouldn’t it? What a dirty trick.”

  Richard frowned. He was unused to hearing that kind of criticism of elected officials. His dad basically worshipped President Eisenhower because of his Steady Eddie leadership during World War II. And if the congresswoman was against tightening things up for the sake of national security, then maybe she was a pinko. Like everyone said: if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, then it’s gotta be a duck. But Richard had to admit the postcards didn’t sound ethical at all.

  The conversation gave Richard some of the same weird mishmash of thoughts as his exchange with Natalia had. Is this how people who had been friends with the Rosenbergs had felt? Had they ever had sneaking suspicions that they now wished they’d followed up on? How would Agent Philbrick interpret what Richard had just overheard?

  Richard scanned the crowd for Don. His dad would know what to think. He spotted Vladimir instead, wading through the crowd toward him.

  “There you are, man. I’ve been looking for you!” Vladimir punched Richard’s shoulder. “Natalia’s given me a break from the music. I’m heading to the dining room. I want some of Mom’s vánočka before it’s all gone.”

  “Her what?” asked Richard.

  “Apple strudel.”

  Then why not just call it by its American name, thought Richard with a little bit of irritation. All this Czech stuff could give people the wrong idea about his friend. Couldn’t Vladimir’s family see that?

  “Come on.” Vladimir grinned and grabbed Richard’s collar to pull him through the crowd with him. “It’s a Czech Christmas tradition. Mom says that when she was a little girl, her family would feed a piece to the cows on Christmas Eve to make sure there’d be lots of milk all year. And if we eat a piece at Christmas, it’s supposed to bring us good friends in the New Year.”

  In the dining room, Richard was happily stuffing himself with the honey-glazed apple bread when Vladimir elbowed him. “Our old men sure seem serious.” He nodded toward the corner, where his father and Don were talking.

  The dads stood in front of that exhibit poster Richard had noticed the day Vladimir moved in. In the brightly lit, cheerful Christmas decorations, the artwork’s thick black outlines and dark purples and blues, the people’s downcast looks, seemed even more sorrowful. A strange piece of art to put in a dining room, he thought. But then again, so much of the stuff hanging on the walls of Vladimir’s house seemed odd to him—speckles of primary colors or enormous flowers stretched to the edge of the frame. Nothing like the tame pastel landscapes decorating his house.

  This was one of the few times Richard had actually seen Vladimir’s father. Mr. White was always working late, it seemed. He was tall and willowy, an almost frail man, with unusually long, dark eyelashes and a round, animated face. His hair bobbed in short, dark curls as he talked, gesturing enthusiastically, spilling his martini on himself. Don, on the other hand, seemed to be at attention, straight, broad-shouldered in his typical FBI dark blue suit and starched white shirt. He held a Royal Crown Cola bottle.

  “What’s with your dad?” Vladimir asked.

  “Nothing. He’s just listening to yours.” But Richard recognized that look on Don’s face. He was making mental notes. To outsiders, Don might appear stern in these moments, but really, he was standing post, keeping watch, absorbing information.

  “Humph.” Vladimir started toward their fathers. “Let’s go see what they’re talking about.”

  Don greeted them. “Hi, son. Good to see you, Vladimir. Wonderful party your folks are throwing! Your dad was just telling me about your time in Prague.”

  “Cut short all too soon, I fear, because of the Communist coup,” said Mr. White. “We did love it there, didn’t we, son? I was just bragging about your mother and her involvement with this exhibit.” He pointed to the poster.

  “Did you tell him what an idiot that congressman was?” Vladimir asked.

  Don cocked his head in surprise at Vladimir. Richard knew that expression, too. If it had been Richard, Don would have warned him to watch his mouth. Disrespecting people who served the country was pretty verboten in Don’s rule book.

  Mr. White laugh
ed. “No, no, son. This is Christmas, after all. A time of peace.”

  “Come on, Dad. You always tell me to call a spade a spade.”

  Mr. White put his arm over Vladimir’s shoulders and gave Don and Richard a diplomat-perfect, inscrutable smile. “It was just a sad set of circumstances. The State Department had gathered the art of many important American artists, like Georgia O’Keeffe and Edward Hopper. We sent the exhibit to Eastern Europe as a way of combating Soviet influence. To show the artistic freedom allowed here in America, in democracy. It was quite a success. Eighteen thousand people came to the show in Prague alone. My wife was very involved in helping to spread the word and then explaining the philosophies and techniques of the exhibited artists to Prague’s news reporters. She knows several of the painters personally.”

  He sighed. “But back home, some conservative radio commentators and congressmen decided that the art was…hmmm…Well, their words were dark and depressing. They felt the paintings didn’t adequately portray our happy American opportunities, and in that regard actually forwarded Communism. So the exhibit was recalled.” He cleared his throat. “Tell me, Don, have you ever traveled to Czechoslovakia? Prague is exquisite, like Paris.”

  But Teresa had appeared by her husband’s side as he talked, and she interrupted before Don could answer. “Such a tragedy. Complete foolishness. The exhibit was working! The Czech people were much impressed, especially by the honest presentation of the common man’s struggles. Look at this piece by Gwathmey, for instance.” She pointed to the poster. “It’s called Worksong. The Soviets would never allow such an expressive and moving depiction of sadness and fatigue.” She paused, gazing at it. “There is such dignity in these faces. Can you believe that congressman, the one from Michigan—oh, what was his name? Dondero, that’s right. Dondero called this beautiful, soulful painting grotesque. He claimed that”—she made little quotation marks in the air—“‘Expressionism aims to destroy by aping the primitive and insane.’ To destroy? Aping? Insane? I mean, really.” She laughed with derision and ended, “How…provincial.”

  “Yes, darling, a disappointment, certainly.” Mr. White looked at Don with obvious discomfort and caution. “But that’s in the past. Recalibrating our efforts is the diplomat’s job. Now, Richard, what are you doing over the holidays?”

  Startled by the sudden non sequitur shift to him, Richard stammered slightly. “I…I…I…I’m not sure. See some movies. Read.”

  “You should come with us to New York!” Vladimir exclaimed. “We’re going up after New Year’s Eve to see that play I told you about. The one Mom’s friend wrote. Ever seen a play on Broadway?”

  Richard shook his head.

  “Oh, then come, my dear,” Teresa said. “It will be such fun to have you. Vladimir wants to climb to the crown of the Statue of Liberty again, and I really am not interested in dealing with that rickety spiral staircase. It’s terrifying! You can go with him instead and save me. Yes?”

  “Can I, Dad?” Richard asked, half expecting Don to defer to Abigail. She always made the family’s holiday plans. But instead, Don immediately gave permission. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

  On the way home, Don pulled Richard toward him on the sidewalk as Ginny skipped ahead with Abigail and Mrs. Emerson. Fortunately for Richard, Don didn’t take the arm that braced the copy of Robin Hood tucked inside his coat.

  “Hey, Rich, you might have been right to feel your antennae go up about Teresa’s phone conversation. For starters, I know all about that art exhibit. There was a pretty big stink about how hungry and oppressed the people depicted in those paintings looked—like they were victims of our American way of life. It ruffled a lot of feathers. Half those artists emigrated here from Eastern Europe or Russia or are on our FBI watch lists. Including that guy Gwathmey.

  “Do me a favor, son. Keep an eye out when you’re up there in New York City. Think like a G-man. If you notice something odd, remember it. Nice family and all. I genuinely like them. But I’m not so sure about some of their friends.”

  “THAT looks interesting.” Richard sat next to Vladimir on a train for New York City. Vladimir was reading a book titled Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury.

  “It is! Mom gave it to me for Christmas. I’m almost finished. I can lend it to you when I’m done.”

  Richard squinted at the figure on the cover. The man’s head was bowed, his arm was held up to shield his face, and his suit was burning. Maybe the weirdest thing was the guy seemed to be a bunch of newspapers folded and twisted into the figure of a man. “He’s made of paper.”

  “Yeah, good eye, daddy-o.” Vladimir’s vocabulary had gotten hipper the instant they sat down on the train. “It’s like a symbol for the whole book.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s this dystopia.” Vladimir sat up and got increasingly animated as he described the plot. “Books are totally against the law. Firemen don’t put out fires, they start them. They burn any books that are found. Four hundred fifty-one is the temperature that paper ignites. The main guy, Montag, is a fireman, a true believer in the government. He goes on raids to destroy any books in the name of public happiness. But he meets this freethinking teenage girl who makes him start questioning his job. He actually starts smuggling away books from the houses he’s burning down to read them himself and…well…I don’t want to spoil the ending.” He smiled. “I sure would like to meet the author. Do you remember that line in The Catcher in the Rye, about authors feeling like friends?”

  “Yes!” Richard brightened. “It’s one of my favorite quotes.” He added without thinking, “I wrote it down.” Realizing he’d admitted something he could be teased for by a lot of guys, Richard looked sideways at Vladimir with some trepidation.

  “No way! You do that, too?” Vladimir nodded. “I’ve got scraps of paper all over my room with quotes on them. Half the time, though, I forget which book it came from.” He laughed at himself. “But I’m not going to forget Bradbury’s stuff. To write a story condemning book burning and weasels turning over friends to the government—right now, with everything McCarthy and his henchmen are doing? He’s got a lot of chutzpah.”

  Richard cocked his head quizzically, and Vladimir immediately translated, “Cheekiness. Sass. You know, in-your-face. To write this when that kook McCarthy has everyone on the run. Wow.”

  Richard caught his breath and fought the urge to look over his shoulder. If a classic like Robin Hood could get him and his father in trouble with Mr. Hoover, what could a book like that cause?

  He ran his hand over the Merry Men on his own book. Richard had snuck Natalia’s copy of Robin Hood into his suitcase, knowing he could finish it safely in Vladimir’s company. But he suddenly felt really queasy. He stood up abruptly, dropping his book with a bounce onto his seat.

  “Bathroom,” he muttered to Vladimir and hurried down the aisle, fighting the lurch and sway of the train rushing north along the tracks.

  He doused his face with cold water and took a towel from the porter watching him. He felt a lot better. Motion sickness, he told himself, from reading on a moving train.

  But Richard was about to be hit by another wave of nausea. He’d tucked some of his song lyrics into Robin Hood, planning to work on them when no one was looking. When he got back to his seat, Vladimir was reading them.

  “What the hell, man!” Richard snatched the papers away.

  “Whoa, sorry, Rich!” Vladimir held up his hands. “They fell out when you dropped your book. I just picked them up before they slid to the back of the car. I couldn’t help reading it when I realized it was poetry.”

  “Lyrics,” Richard blurted. He crossed his arms and spread his feet against the swing of the train in a bring-it attitude, braced for ridicule.

  “Lyrics? A closet songwriter. Wow. I didn’t know you had it in you! You’re like Holden’s brother, writing poetry in his baseball mitt.” Vladimir lowered his voice. “Seriously, your stuff is killer, Rich. Real troubadour material. Any doll is
going to be on cloud nine listening to this. I really like the part when you say that…mmm…hand that back to me for a sec.”

  Richard hesitated. That particular song was about Dottie. About dancing with her at McCarthy’s wedding. But he hadn’t named her. A good thing, since she and Vladimir were practically going steady these days. Well, thankfully, Richard hadn’t brought along the heartbroken verses about her loving someone else. Vladimir might figure things out from those.

  “Come on.” Vladimir gestured impatiently. “Maybe I can write the music for it. We can be like Ira and George Gershwin.” Vladimir started singing, “’S wonderful! ’S marvelous, you should care for me…Oh, oh, or Someone to waaaatch over meeeee…Or, or…I got rhythm, I got music, I got my gal, who could ask for anything more.”

  Richard couldn’t help but grin.

  “Hand it over,” Vladimir said again.

  Richard held his breath and gave the page to him. Vladimir half sang, half read them:

  “Strawberry blond all in my eyeeees,

  It is youuuu I’ve got on my minnnnd,

  With your red lipstick and sweet perfummme,

  You’ve got this fella all in a swooooon,

  Let me hold you in a dance so we’re a pair,

  Then you can be mine and I can smell your haiiiir….”

  Vladimir paused. “Honest, Rich, these are swell.” He read again, then looked out the window at warehouses and telephone poles and wires whizzing by. After a few moments, he said, “I’m thinking of Sinatra’s recording of ‘I’ve Got a Crush on You.’ You know how it’s almost a duet between the trumpet player and Frankie? We could do that. I could write the music to your words and play the saxophone, and you could sing.”

  “I can’t sing!”

  “Sure you can. I can keep the range narrow so you don’t have to work your voice through too much. And think about it. Frankie isn’t that stellar a singer.”