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For Steven Malk
1
Every morning the students of Mr. Vargas’s class pledged allegiance to the flag. They stood behind their desks with their hands over their hearts and their eyes on the flag, and they said with one voice—I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
Among them was a boy named Jake McCauley, and he, too, stood behind his desk with his eyes on the flag and the palm of his hand pressed to his heart. His palm was always a little sweaty because the classroom was hot, even in the morning with all the shades down.
Jake McCauley was proud to be an American. He was proud of the flag and he was proud of liberty and he was proud of justice for all, but when he pledged allegiance, he would only pretend to say the words like the others. Instead, he would whisper to himself his own secret pledge. It went like this—I pledge to save my dad from the Russians and to bring him home so my dad and mom and I can be a regular family like we’re supposed to be in America.
* * *
This all happened a long time ago, in the year 1953, when the dads of some of Jake’s friends from Mr. Vargas’s class were fighting in the war in Korea. You could listen about that war on the radio and then talk about it at school with your friends. And Jake did, but his heart was not in it.
Here is why.
His dad still had not returned from the old war, the big one, the one with the Nazis. That war had ended a million years ago, or at least it felt like a million years to Jake. He had just turned twelve in December.
Why his dad did not return from that war was explained in the letter Jake’s mother kept in the drawer beside her bed. The letter was from the United States Air Force, and it said that Jake’s father went MIA, which meant missing in action. Missing in action did not mean Jake’s father had been killed, of course. It only meant that the air force did not know where he was.
Once, Jake heard a program on the radio about American GIs imprisoned by the Russians and forced to work in the mines above the Arctic Circle. GI stood for galvanized iron, from which some of the army stuff was made, but Jake believed that the American soldiers were called GIs because they were as strong as iron. His dad was surely as strong as iron, and he could surely survive working in the Russian mines until somebody would rescue him.
Jake wrote a letter to the radio station asking them who could help him rescue his dad. When nobody answered his letter, Jake knew that even if his mom had checked it for spelling, he could not have counted on the radio station for help. He could not count on anyone and would have to save his dad all by himself. He even had a plan for how he would do it.
2
“Class, I have inspiring news,” Mr. Vargas said when everyone sat down after the Pledge of Allegiance. “As we all know, our brave troops are fighting Communists in Korea, but we also have Communists here at home, in America. Mr. Hirsch, our principal, has proposed that once a week, the father of one of the students visit each classroom to share his method for fighting the threat of Communism. Today, Duane’s father, Major Armbruster—”
“What’s Communism, Mr. Vargas?” said Trudy Lamarre from the front row.
Jake elbowed his desk buddy, Duane Armbruster, whose dad was to visit them today, and peeped in his ear, imitating Trudy, “What’s Communism, Mr. Vargas?” Duane did not reply, and Jake shook his head, adding in his own voice, “Who is she kidding?”
“Who can tell us what Communism means, children?” said Mr. Vargas.
Jake’s hand shot into the air. “Ask me, sir! Ask me! I know!”
“Go ahead, McCauley.”
Jake sprung to his feet and, filling his lungs with air to shout, realized that he did not know the answer. Communism was bad all right—that was all you heard on the radio, or saw in the movies, or read about in comics—but he did not know how to explain it. He glanced at Duane, hoping for help, but Duane was looking away on purpose.
“It’s the Russians, sir,” Jake said. “They cooked it up.”
“Cooked what up?”
“Communism, sir.”
He felt his ears burning and knew that they were turning red. The Communist flag was red, and also red was a large chunk of the right hemisphere on the world map hanging beside the blackboard. The red on the map was Russia, where his father was locked up in the mines.
“What the Russians do, sir, is this,” Jake said. “If they catch an American GI, for example, they send him to dig for uranium in the top secret mines above the Arctic Circle. The Russians need uranium to make A-bombs so they can drop them on us, sir.”
He felt everyone gaping at him, waiting for what he would say next. He wanted to tell them that at this very moment his dad was digging for uranium in one of those mines, whacking at the permafrost with a pick in his hands while a Russian guard was aiming his machine gun at him, but the mocking eyes of his classmates stopped him.
He shrugged and said, “I heard it on the radio, sir.”
“Well.” Mr. Vargas sighed. “We can’t trust everything we hear on the radio, McCauley, can we now?”
“We can’t?” Jake said, astonished.
Mr. Vargas glanced up at him quickly, and Jake could have sworn that the teacher looked frightened.
“A good try, McCauley,” Mr. Vargas said, as if he were apologizing for something. “You can sit down now.”
Jake plunged into his chair and elbowed Duane again. “Don’t expect me to save your bum when it’s your turn, buddy.”
Duane did not look back at him and did not answer, and Jake peered at him out of the corner of his eye, confused by Duane’s odd behavior.
“Well, Trudy,” said Mr. Vargas, “perhaps I can explain.” He stepped closer to Trudy Lamarre’s desk, cleared his throat, and said quietly, “In theory, Trudy, Communism is a society in which everything is shared; there’s no private property.”
Jake’s hand shot up again.
“What is it now, McCauley?”
“Can you speak a little louder, sir?”
Mr. Vargas nodded and went on in the same hushed voice. “The homes and the farms and the factories belong to everybody equally. Nobody owns anything, but at the same time, everyone owns everything.”
Jake leaned into Duane. “Why the heck is he whispering?”
“In this way, Trudy,” Mr. Vargas continued quietly, “people can work for themselves and not for somebody else, you see?”
“No, sir,” said Trudy Lamarre. “I do not see. If I didn’t have something, I would work for it, but if I already had everything, why would I work?”
“You’d work your fanny off, no matter what!” Jake shouted, and when the classroom quaked with laughter, he looked around, smiling.
“McCauley!” said Mr. Vargas.
“What? She’s never even had an A minus,” Jake protested. Trudy Lamarre had beautiful red hair and eyes that made him stutter: deep, dark br
own eyes. Jake despised her.
“I wish you’d work a little harder, too, McCauley.”
Mr. Vargas flung a nervous glance at the door, as if worried that someone might barge in at any moment. “Well, you see, Trudy, the idea of Communism is … And it’s only an idea, you understand? The idea is that everyone works for the common good, and everyone gets paid for their contribution, but only as much as one needs, no more and no less, you see? Everyone’s equal.”
“And why is that bad?” said Trudy Lamarre.
Then there was a knock on the door. What happened next was so amazing that no one in the classroom even remembered to laugh. Instead of answering the door, Mr. Vargas darted to his desk and sat down, then changed his mind and sprung up and rushed to the door, then changed his mind again and wheeled toward the blackboard and snatched a piece of chalk and began writing: Today’s Topic: The Threat of Communism.
When the door cracked opened and the principal stuck his head in, Mr. Vargas glanced away from the blackboard and, clearly faking surprise, said to him, “Ah, Mr. Hirsch. We didn’t hear you knocking. Stand up, children. Major Armbruster is here.”
3
It was no secret that Jake held Duane’s father in the highest regard. Major Armbruster looked like a real American hero, and every time Jake had imagined his own father, he had always looked like the major—tall, broad-shouldered, and square-jawed.
“It’s your dad!” Jake whispered excitedly to Duane when Major Armbruster, clad in blue air force dress pressed and starched to perfection, briskly marched into the classroom and, extending his right hand for a handshake, headed straight for Mr. Vargas.
“You may sit down, children,” said Mr. Vargas, grimacing in pain from Major Armbruster’s mighty handshake.
The students crash-landed in their seats.
The major scoped the classroom, zeroed in on the desk that his son was sharing with Jake, and smiled in their direction. He had a beautiful smile, and his teeth were even and white. Everyone turned and gaped at Duane. Duane blushed, keeping his eyes glued to the lid of the desk before him.
“You are just in time, Major,” said Mr. Vargas. “Trudy here had a question about Communism. Would you care to explain to the children what it really means?”
“The very reason I’m here, sir,” Major Armbruster said in a voice as crisp as his air force dress. “Let me show you, young lady, what this Communism thing is all about.”
The major snapped up the chalk and began writing in square capitals, each letter exactly the height and the width of the one that came before it. Jake watched the major’s every move and, listening to the chalk knocking against the slate, whispered to himself word by word what the major was writing: “Communism—equals—destruction—of—the—American—way—of—life.”
Major Armbruster scanned the classroom to ensure that everyone had had a chance to read what he had written, then in one decisive sweep, erased of the American way of life. “Communism equals destruction,” he announced, screeched a line below the words, slammed the chalk down, and marched to the world map beside the blackboard.
“Here’s Russia,” he said, and stuck his finger into the large chunk of red. “See how it’s spreading in all directions? The Communist bosses in Moscow are planning to take over the world. If we let the Russians succeed, they’ll bring their Communism to America—a terrible, merciless destruction of our way of life.”
“What would they do, sir?” Trudy Lamarre said nervously.
“Glad you asked, young lady,” the major said. “What do we value most in America? Freedom. Truth. Justice for all. We are not afraid to think and talk as we please, correct? The first thing the Russians will do, they’ll take that away. You follow me?”
“Does everyone follow Duane’s father?” said Mr. Vargas.
“Freedom of speech, you say?” went on Major Armbruster, even though Trudy Lamarre had not said a word this time. “I guarantee you’d wish you never had it. There’ll be such spying and snooping and wiretapping going on that if you dare to whisper even one word against the Communists, you’d be arrested, imprisoned, killed!”
“Killed?” gasped Trudy Lamarre.
“Excuse me, Major,” Mr. Vargas said carefully. “What can each of us do to prevent such a terrible thing? You, personally, sir. What do you do? The children would like to know. Right, children?”
Major Armbruster flashed his beautiful smile in Duane’s direction. “Why not ask Armbruster Junior? Stand up, son, and tell your classmates what your daddy does in the United States Air Force.”
All in one motion, the entire classroom swung to look at Duane again, and once again he did not move. Jake leaned forward and twisted his neck to look into Duane’s face. What was wrong with him today? Did Duane not know how lucky he was? If Jake’s dad stood there for everyone to see, Jake would be so happy and proud, but Duane could not even look at his father.
“Duane?” prompted Mr. Vargas. “Would you like to tell us about your father’s contribution to the fight against the threat of Communism?”
Impatient, Jake kicked Duane’s foot under the desk. “Get up, bud, get up.”
Duane’s face broke out in red patches. He stirred, lumbered to his feet, and, awkward and slouched and a little chubby, stood without speaking.
“Say something, bud,” Jake whispered, but Duane, who would talk Jake’s ear off bragging about his father when he was alone with Jake, was struck dumb with the major present.
Jake noticed the major’s beautiful smile fading away, and Mr. Vargas’s face rumpling like he was ready to weep, and his classmates’ eyes shining as if they were about to burst out laughing, and even though he had promised not to save Duane’s bum when it was his turn, Jake punched his arm into the air and cried, “Ask me, sir! I know!”
“All right, Duane,” said Mr. Vargas. “You can sit down.”
Duane dropped into his chair, and before Mr. Vargas could object, Jake leapt to his feet. “United States Air Force Major Armbruster is the head of security at our air force base.” He drummed out the very words Duane had used boasting about his father that morning. “His mission is to protect American know-how from Russian spies.”
“Well, McCauley, Russian spies?” Mr. Vargas said with a skeptical smile. “In our city?”
“It’s no joke, sir,” snapped the major, narrowing his eyes at Mr. Vargas. “We have concrete evidence that Communist agents have infiltrated our air force.”
Mr. Vargas swallowed something in his throat and said, “Did they, now?”
“Yes, sir. As well as the army and the navy. Not to mention our government, entertainment, press, youth groups, and schools.”
“Schools?” said Mr. Vargas, turning whiter than chalk.
Major Armbruster looked at him severely. “Communists are everywhere.”
And then the bell rang for recess, and all at once, the classroom exploded with laughing and shrieking and scraping of chairs. The kids, forgetting about the threat of Communism, charged toward the door past their white-faced teacher and past the stone-faced major, and spilled into the hallway, happy and wild.
4
No one could ever beat Jake at speed. His and Duane’s desk stood by the window in the back of the room, nearly the farthest desk from the door, but Jake was always the first one to fly into the hallway at the sound of the bell.
Not this time. This time he stayed behind, watching Major Armbruster shake Mr. Vargas’s hand, then slap him on the shoulder and march out the door held open by the smiling principal.
When the door behind the major closed, Mr. Vargas said, “Phew,” and turned to the blackboard and wiped it clean, careful not to erase COMMUNISM = DESTRUCTION in the major’s steady capitals. Then Mr. Vargas returned to his desk, pulled out a chair, sat down, and began writing in his ledger.
Jake was the only one who remained in the classroom besides Mr. Vargas, and he sat quietly, listening to his teacher’s pen scrape lightly in the silence. Soon he grew bored and, leaning towa
rd the window near his desk, moved the shutters aside.
The window looked out onto the school’s parking lot, where at that very moment Major Armbruster turned away from the principal toward his motorcar. His motorcar was beautiful: a brand-new Cadillac in a blue finish with chrome-plated trim sparkling in the sun. The major sunk into the driver’s seat and closed the door. The principal rose on his toes, waving after the brake lights flashing briefly as the Cadillac swung out of the lot.
“What is it you want, McCauley?” came Mr. Vargas’s voice.
Jake dropped the shutters and spun around. “What?”
Mr. Vargas closed the ledger and put it in his briefcase and snapped the briefcase shut. “Is it about your homework?”
“No, sir.”
Mr. Vargas rose and took his hat off the hook on the wall and fit it on his head. “What is it about, then?”
Jake blinked at him. “Communism, sir.”
Mr. Vargas was on his way to the door, but the word Communism stopped him cold. “What about it?” he said cautiously.
“Well. It’s what you said about dads, sir.”
“What is it that I said, McCauley?”
“You said that dads would be coming every week like Duane’s dad did today? Talking about fighting the threat of Communism? The way they do it? That’s what you said, sir.”
“All right. I did say that. What’s wrong with that?”
“Well, sir. I was just wondering. Could my mom come?”
“Your mom?”
“Yes, sir. Tell everybody how she fights it? Communism, I mean.”
Mr. Vargas pinched his hat off and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He seemed relieved. “I’m sorry, Jake. I should have included mothers. Of course.” He looked at the hat in his hand and smiled a foolish kind of a smile that Jake did not like at all. “Especially your mother, McCauley. She’s always been a role model in our community. An upstanding citizen, your mother.” When he looked up at Jake’s face, his foolish smile instantly vanished. “I’ll tell you what, McCauley. I’ll write your mother a note inviting her to our classroom. Would that be good?”
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