by Joseph Kanon
“And can you tell us what you did next? Did you join a firm or hang out your own shingle or what?”
“I came to Washington to work for the Government.”
“That would be, let’s see-1934. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Of course, jobs were tight then, so I guess government work was pretty popular,” Welles said, suddenly folksy and reminiscent. “Kinda the patriotic thing to do in 1934. Yes, sir, they used to say the Harvard Law School ran a regular bus service down here right after graduation.” This play to the gallery had the expected effect, and Welles, smiling slyly, waited for the laughter to subside. Then he looked back at Nick’s father. “But you didn’t come right away, did you?”
Nick’s father looked at him blankly, saying nothing.
“Mr Kotlar, is it not a fact that after Harvard Law School you offered your services to the United Mine Workers union during their illegal strike?”
“It was not an illegal strike.”
“Just answer the question,” Welles shot back. “Did you work for the UMW?”
“Yes.”
“And how much were you paid for this work?”
“It was unpaid.”
“Unpaid. Free, you mean. Well now, I’m just a country lawyer-I didn’t go to the Harvard Law School. They usually work for free up there? Or just the labor agitators?”
He rushed on, not waiting for Nick’s father to reply. “The Party often ask you to do union work, Mr Kotlar?”
“No,” his father said quietly.
“No.” Welles paused. “They had other plans for you. Washington plans. Seems a shame, considering. The strike went pretty well from their point of view, wouldn’t you say?”
“I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t working for the Communist Party.”
“No. Just the miners. Out of the goodness of your heart. What made them so special, I wonder. To work free of charge.”
Nick’s father waited, drawing the room to his side of the table, then let his lips form the hint of a smile. “My father was a coal miner. He asked me to help. I didn’t think I could refuse.”
There was a slight pause and then the room buzzed. Welles, visibly surprised and annoyed, covered the microphone with his hand and turned to an aide. The other members of the committee began to talk too, as if by looking away Welles had given them all a brief recess. When he turned back to the mike, the room grew still, expectant.
“I’m sure the members of the committee all appreciate a son’s devotion, Mr Kotlar,” he said, reaching again for sarcasm. But the momentum had gone. Nick wasn’t sure what had happened, but his father was sitting up straighter, no longer letting his shoulders hunch in self-protection. “Perhaps they’d also appreciate hearing that you didn’t confine yourself to legal services in that strike. It says here that the picket line at the Trousdale Colliery got pretty violent. You were arrested, were you not?”
“No. There was a scuffle with the company guards, that’s all. No arrests.”
“Mr Kotlar, we’re not talking about a speeding ticket here. Do you deny there was a violent incident in which you took part?”
“I don’t deny there was a fight. I deny I took part in it.”
“Oh? What were you doing?”
“I was trying to stay out of the way.”
Now there was real laughter, a wave that passed through the room, gathering force until it spilled onto Welles’s table, breaking as it hit his angry face.
“Mr Kotlar,” he said loudly, “I think I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough impertinence. This committee is charged with the serious business-the very serious business — of investigating Communist activities in this country. I’ve had enough of your Harvard Law School evasions. And I think the American people have had enough of high-handed boys who use their tax dollars while they sell this country down the river. You go ahead and laugh. But that was no scuffle, and you are no loyal American. When I look at your testimony start to finish, I see nothing less than an attempt to deceive this committee and this great country. Well, we’re not going to be deceived. This committee is here to look at un-American activities. In your case, I think the people of this country are going to be grateful we did.”
“Congressman,” Nick’s father said, his voice tight with scorn, “the only un-American activity I’ve seen is taking place right here in this committee room. I hope the people see that too.”
Another clip, the announcer’s voice more excited now. “But the sparring match drew to a close as Congressman Welles zeroed in on the sensational Cochrane testimony.” The clip must have been from another day, because his father was wearing a different suit, the gray double-breasted one Nick’s mother said made him look heavier.
“Mr Kotlar, Rosemary Cochrane testified that on several occasions she received government documents from you in her role as a courier for a Russian undercover operation.” The Congressman paused. “Do you recall that testimony?”
“Vividly.”
“And you denied these charges. In fact, you denied ever having met her, is that correct?”
“To the best of my knowledge, I have never met her.”
“To the best of your knowledge?”
“I am trying to be precise. I may have encountered her without my knowing it. Certainly I have no memory of having done so.”
“Is that your way of saying no?” Welles said. “Do I have to remind you that you’re under oath?”
Nick’s father managed a wry smile. “No, you don’t have to remind me.”
“Mr Kotlar, have you ever shopped at Garfinkel’s department store?”
For a moment Nick’s father looked blank. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Have you ever shopped at Garfinkel’s department store? The big store down on 14th Street. You’re familiar with Garfinkel’s?”
“Yes. I suppose so.”
“Shirts? Ever buy shirts there?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember. Now how could that be?”
“My wife usually does the shopping.”
The camera moved to take in Nick’s mother, sitting rigidly at the edge of the row behind, her eyes blinking in the unfamiliar light.
Nick felt Nora squirm beside him. “That’s it,” she whispered urgently. “We’re going.”
“No, when it’s over,” Nick said firmly, not moving his head. “I want to see.”
Congressman Welles was talking again. “But I suppose once in a while you find time in your busy schedule to shop for yourself?”
“Yes.”
“And you never bought shirts from Miss Cochrane?”
“Was she the salesgirl? I don’t remember.”
“She remembers you, Mr Kotlar. She remembers receiving envelopes from you during these little shopping trips. Does that refresh your memory?”
“She is mistaken.”
“She even remembers your size. Fifteen and a half, thirty-three. Can you at least remember that for the committee? That your size?”
His father smiled. “I prefer a thirty-five,” he said. “A longer sleeve.”
“A longer sleeve,” Welles repeated sarcastically. “Maybe you’re still growing. You’d better watch your nose then. They say it gets longer every time you tell a lie.”
“I’m watching yours too, Congressman.”
More laughter, and this time Nick got the joke. He remembered Pinocchio, the sick feeling in his stomach when the boy went to Donkey Island and couldn’t get back. He felt it now again, that dread, being scared while everyone around him was having a good time. But his father didn’t look scared. His smooth, lean face was calm, as if he knew it was all just a movie.
“And so this week’s round ends in a draw,” the announcer was saying, “as both sides retire to their corners to come back to fight another day.”
But it wasn’t a boxing match, it was a trial, and Welles was the only fighter who came back in the last clip, surrounded by hand-held microphones on the windy Capitol st
eps.
“I don’t think there can be a doubt in anyone’s mind that this country is under attack,” he said, his face grave, looking straight at the camera. “These people are using lies and tricks the same way their comrades overseas are using tanks and machine guns to undermine the free world. We saw it in the Hiss case and we’re seeing it again here. Walter Kotlar is a Communist and he’s going to lose his shirt-no matter what size he says it is.”
Then all at once the screen brightened, flooded with Florida sun as the newsreel switched to water-skiing formations in Cypress Gardens. Nick blinked in the light. A man and woman in bathing suits were receiving crowns. After a rooster crowed to end the newsreel, the screen went dark. Nick watched the curtain close, then open again to start the feature, but he was no longer paying attention to any of it. Nora laughed at some of the movie, but Nick was thinking about the newsreel and missed the point of the jokes and then had to pretend to laugh when everyone else did. He could still see Welles’s wide linebacker’s face, eyes peering out as if he thought he could make you squirm just by looking hard enough. He was like one of those guys who kept poking you in the chest until you had to fight. But every time Nick’s father hit back, he’d get madder. He’d never stop now. The newsreel must be a few days old. Nick wondered what had happened since.
After the movie, on the street, Nora was uneasy. “Don’t tell your mother. She wouldn’t like it.”
“I won’t.”
“He’s a wicked man, the Senator.”
“He’s not a senator.”
“Well, whatever he is.” She sighed, then brightened. “Still, I’ll say this for your father. He gave as good as he got.”
Nick looked up at her. “No, he didn’t,” he said.
Nick could see the Capitol dome from his window if he craned his head to the left, but when he lay in the bed, facing straight ahead, everything disappeared except the tree branches, thin and brittle now in the cold. In the faint light from the street they quivered when the wind shook them, too stiff to bend. Downstairs the dinner party was still going on. Nick could hear the voices rising up through the floorboards, his mother’s occasional laugh. Earlier she had been nervous, her red fingernails brushing over ashtrays as she rearranged things on tables, moving the flower vase twice before it seemed right. Then the doorbell, Nick helping with the coats in the hall, the cocktails and the clink of ice cubes, his polite farewells as they finally went in to dinner, his mother’s promise to be up later as she touched his cheek goodnight, the air around her warm with smoke and perfume. He had listened on the stairs for a while, straining to make out words in the familiar hum, then come up to bed, lying here watching the branches and waiting. She always looked in while the coffee was being served. But it was his father who came. Nick saw the shadow first against the window, then turned to see him standing in the doorway, taller than he’d been in the newsreel.
“Nicku, you still up?”
“Uh-huh. Where’s Mom?”
His father came over and sat on the edge of the bed, moving the covers up under Nick’s chin. Nick caught the faint whiff of aftershave. “She and Father Tim are going over old times again. You know what that’s like.”
Nick smiled. “They’re not even old.”
“Well, they used to be younger. Anyway, your mother enjoys it. Father Tim’s good for her that way.”
“Does he hear her confession?”
“Tim?” His father laughed. “I don’t think Tim has time for church business. He’s what we call a dinner priest-here’s a story and pass the port.”
“Nora says you don’t like priests. She says you’re anticlerical,” Nick said, trying out the word.
“She’d better watch out or I’ll get anti-Nora.”
“So why does he come here, if you’re-”
“Well, he doesn’t come for me. He and your mother go back a long way. Since they were your age. To tell you the truth, I think he was sweet on her.”
“Dad. He’s a priest.”
“Lucky for us, huh?” his father said, gently brushing the hair off Nick’s forehead. “How about some sleep?”
“When Grandma talks to you sometimes, what language is that?”
“Czech. You know that.”
“Like when you say Nicku?”
“Uh-huh. If you put a u on the end of a name, it’s a way of showing affection. Sort of a Nick-name.”
“Dad.”
“Why do you ask?”
“You told the man you didn’t speak Czech.”
“What man?” he said, his hand stopping on Nick’s forehead.
“The man at the hearing. I saw you in a newsreel today.”
“You did, huh?” But Nick could tell his father was stalling, not sure what to say. “What did you think?”
“ Do you speak it?”
Nick’s father sat up. “Not in the way he meant. A few words. Half the time I don’t know what Grandma’s saying. Why? Did you think I wasn’t telling the truth?”
Nick shrugged. “No.” He paused. “Why did he want to know that, anyway?”
“He wanted to make people think I was foreign. Some people don’t like foreigners. They’re afraid, I guess. But let’s not worry about it, okay? It’s just politics. It’s his way of running for office, that’s all.”
“I hope he loses.”
His father smiled. “So do I, Nick. Maybe we’ll get Father Tim to send up a few prayers, what do you say? If we can get him out the door. Now, how about some sleep?” But he stayed on the bed, looking at Nick. “Does it bother you, all this business?”
“Why did that woman say she knew you if she didn’t?”
“I don’t know, Nick,” his father said, slumping a little so the light caught the shiny waves of his hair. “I don’t know. Maybe she thought she did. Maybe she met me someplace and decided she didn’t like me for some reason. Maybe she’s crazy-you know, the way people make things up? Like when you’re afraid of the dark-you think there’s someone there even when there isn’t. Well, everybody’s afraid of the dark now. So they keep seeing things.”
“Grownups aren’t afraid of the dark.”
“It’s an expression. I mean afraid in general. They’re afraid of all kinds of things, so they keep seeing bogeymen everywhere. I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense, Nick. Maybe you can’t explain a bogeyman-he’s just there.”
“Communists, you mean.”
His father nodded. “That’s who it is now. Maybe next week it’ll be something else.”
Nick said nothing, thinking.
“Not much help, is it?” his father said. “I don’t have an explanation, Nick.”
“Are they going to stop?”
“They can’t-not yet.” His voice had begun to drift, away from Nick to some private conversation. “Sometimes I think it was the war. We got into the habit of having enemies. That’s a hard habit to break. After a while, you don’t know any other way to think. And one day it’s over and they turn on all the lights again and expect things to go back to the way they were, but nobody knows how to stop. They’re used to it. They have to get new enemies. It’s the way things make sense to them.”
“For always?” Nick said.
His question brought his father back. “No,” he said, “things change. That’s why we need people like you,” he added, his voice lighter now. He pulled up the covers again. “Who weren’t there. Who don’t even remember it. It’ll be different for you. What’s going on now-” His voice lifted, like a verbal wave of the hand. “You’ll forget that too. It’ll just be history.” He paused. “Just a bad dream.”
“It’s not a dream now,” Nick said quietly. “I saw it.”
His father looked at him, stalling again. “No,” he said, “not now.” Then he tapped Nick’s forehead with his finger. “You’re a pragmatist, Nick. That’s what you are.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, someone who keeps his eye on the ball. Feet on the ground. You know. Not like someone else we know,
huh?” he said, pointing to himself.
“Mom says I’m like you. Aren’t you a pragmatist?” Nick said, getting it right.
“Sure. Not as good as you, though. You’ll have to help me out, okay? Keep me on my toes.”
Nick nodded, but he knew, with the same dread he’d felt in the movies, there was nothing he could do to help. His father was just trying to make him feel better-a different land of lie, like pretending he wasn’t worried, pretending it was all going to go away.
“That’s the thing about history anyway,” his father said. “You still have to live through it. Before you know how it’s going to come out. So you keep me on my toes. Of course, to do that you have to grow, and to do that — ”
“I know. Sleep. But Dad-”
“Ssh. No more. We’ll talk tomorrow. It’s supposed to snow, you know. I’ll bet it’s already snowing up at the cabin. Wind blowing it all over the place. Swoosh.” His father leaned over and made a wind sound in his ear, tickling him and making him burrow deeper under the covers. It was their old game, from when he was little. “Here it comes, down the chimney.” He made another wind sound. “But we don’t care, do we? We’ll just stay warm and cozy.” His father always said that.
“Snug as a bug in a rug,” Nick said, as he always did.
“That’s right,” his father said softly. “Snug as a bug in a rug.”
“Dad? If it snows, will you have to go to the hearing?”
His father smiled. “I think Mr Welles would insist. No snow days for him.”
“Don’t go,” Nick said, his voice suddenly urgent. “He’s trying to get you. I saw him.”
“Ssh. Don’t worry, he won’t. He’s only a bogeyman, and they never get anybody. We make them up, remember?” he said playfully. Then, seeing Nick’s solemn face, he nodded. “I know. I’ll be careful. This one’s really there.” He stood up, smoothing the covers. “He made himself up, I guess. Some world, isn’t it? All he used to be was a dumb cluck from Oklahoma.”
“Walter?” his mother said from the doorway. “Larry’s here. Nick, are you still up?”
“We’ve been going over my defense strategy,” Nick’s father said. “We’re hoping for a snow day.”
