“Naturally enough, Malone sang ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ in front of his employers—and said he’d do anything required to clear his name. They called their corporate attorney, Bradford Ames. He met Malone—and they talked things through. Ames then went to some guy on the committee—and did a bit of bartering. Which is how things work at HUAC. If the witness isn’t hostile, the number of names—and the actual names themselves—are agreed beforehand between the committee and the witness’s attorney. Malone offered to name the same guy who named him. That wasn’t enough for the committee. So he also offered to name three other people he knew on the committee. But the committee said, “No sale”—as the guy who named Malone had also named those names as well.
‘You’ve got to give them one new name,” Ames told him. “Just one. Afterward you tell them it was all a youthful mistake, and how you love America more than Kate Smith, blah, blah, blah. Then they’ll exonerate you.”
“So that’s when Malone said, ‘Eric Smythe.’ Naturally, Ames knew the name immediately—’cause he too watched Marty Manning. He told Malone that he thought the committee would be satisfied with that name. Because Eric Smythe was a relatively big fish.
“A week later, Malone went down to Washington and testified in front of HUAC. It was an executive session—which meant that it was all behind closed doors, and not for the public record. So I suppose Malone thought that no one would ever know.
“But lawyers always talk.”
“I’m sorry,” Jack said when I first told him about Eric being named. “I am so goddamn sorry . . . Tell him if there’s anything . . . anything . . . I can do . . .”
I remember leaning over to kiss him, and saying: “You’re a good man.”
I saw him after Eric’s death standing in that god-awful room at the Ansonia, looking down at the bloodstain, then sobbing into my shoulder. Once again, he said, “I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry . . .” Once again, I was so touched by his sense of emotional solidarity, of shared grief. He was crying for Eric, for me—for the tragedy of it all, I remember thinking later.
But now, it turns out it was guilt that was making him cry. Guilt and shame and remorse and . . .
I swallowed hard. My hands tightened into fists. Not only did he betray us . . . he cried about it.
“Did the committee exonerate Malone?” I asked.
Malone. Not Jack. He would never be Jack again. He’d now be Malone. The man who destroyed my brother.
“Of course,” Joel Eberts said. “He was cleared completely. According to Marty, Steele and Sherwood was so pleased with the way he handled everything with HUAC, they slipped him a bonus.”
“You know, you really don’t have to be doing this,” I’d said after he’d insisted on paying to have Eric’s belongings moved, and for the paint job at the Ansonia.
“Hiring a couple of painters for two days isn’t exactly going to break the bank,” he’d said. “Anyway, I had a bit of a bonus windfall. Out of nowhere I was handed a commission check for over eight hundred dollars. It’s Steele and Sherwood’s way of saying thank you . . .”
For naming names. For saving your own skin. For decimating Eric’s life. For killing any love or trust between us. For ruining everything. All that for eight hundred dollars. At today’s exchange rates, would that be the equivalent of thirty pieces of silver?
“So Malone doesn’t have a clue that anyone knows he fingered Eric?” I asked.
“I doubt it. Sara, I said it once, I’ll say it again: you don’t know how bad I feel about this . . .”
“Why should you feel guilty?” I said, standing up. “I thank you.”
“For what?”
“For telling me the truth. It couldn’t have been an easy decision. But it was the right one.”
“What are you going to do about this, Sara?”
“There is nothing to do,” I said. “It’s done.”
I left his office. I stepped out into the street. I took two steps, then reached out for a nearby lamppost and held it tightly. No, I didn’t break down. Or let out a scream of anguish. Instead, a second wave of shock ran through me. I gulped for air. My stomach heaved. I bent over and was sick in the street.
I retched until there was nothing left to retch. My body was drenched in sweat. I managed to right myself up. I found a tissue in my jacket pocket, and used it to dab my mouth. Then I worked up the strength to raise my right hand and hail a cab home.
When I reached my apartment, I walked into the living room, and sat down in an armchair. I stayed seated for what only seemed like minutes. When I glanced at my watch, however, I realized that more than an hour had gone by. The shock was still so penetrating that I wasn’t conscious of time. Instead, I felt glazed, hollow—to the point where standard emotional responses seemed futile. I just sat there, blankly. Not knowing what to do.
Another hour went by. Then I heard a key in the lock. Jack walked in. He was fresh from a road trip, with a suitcase in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.
“Hey there!” he said, putting down his suitcase and approaching me. I stared down at the floor. I suddenly couldn’t stand the idea of looking at him. Instantly, he sensed that something was very wrong.
“Sara, darling . . . ,” he said.
I said nothing. He leaned over and tried to touch me. I shrugged him off. He now looked alarmed.
“What’s happened?” he whispered, crouching down beside me.
“I want you to leave, Jack. Leave and never come back.”
He dropped the flowers. “I don’t understand,” he said, his voice now barely a whisper.
“Yes you do,” I said, standing up. “Now go.”
“Sara, please,” he said. As I turned toward the bedroom, he put his hand on my shoulder. I turned on him.
“Never, never touch me again.”
“Why are you . . .”
“Why? Why? You know why, Jack. You just thought I would never find out.”
His face crumpled. He sat down on the sofa. He put his face in his hands. He didn’t say anything for a very long time.
“Can I explain?” he finally asked.
“No. Because nothing you say matters anymore.”
“Sara, my love . . .”
“No terms of endearment. No explanations. No rationalizations. We have nothing to say to each other anymore.”
“You’ve got to hear me out.”
“No. I don’t. There’s the door. Use it.”
“Who told you?”
“Joel Eberts. He knew someone who knew the guy who represented you when you went in front of the committee. Joel said that—according to his lawyer friend—you put up no resistance. You sang on the spot.”
“I had no choice. None.”
“Everyone has a choice. You made yours. Now you have to live with it.”
“They had me in a corner, Sara. I was going to lose . . .”
“What? Your job? Your income? Your professional standing?”
“I have a kid. I have to pay the rent. I have to put food on the table.”
“Everyone has to do that. Eric had to do that.”
“Look, the last thing I wanted to do was hurt your brother.”
“But you still gave his name to the FBI and the House Un-American Activities Committee.”
“I thought . . .”
“What? That the Feds would let him off with a warning?”
“Someone gave them my name. They insisted I give them names.”
“You could have said no.”
“Don’t you think I wanted to?”
“But you didn’t.”
“There was no way out. If I refused to give names, I’d lose my job. But then someone else would come along and name the people I named.”
“But that would have been someone else, not you.”
“I had to put my responsibilities first . . .”
“Responsibilities to whom, Jack?”
“To Dorothy and Charlie.”
“But not to me?
Or to my completely innocent brother? Or were we simply expendable?”
“You know I don’t think that.”
“I don’t know you anymore.”
“Don’t say that, Sara.”
“Why not? It’s the truth. You’ve destroyed everything.”
My voice remained somehow controlled. Jack buried his head deeper in his hands. He fell silent again. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded diminished, small.
“Please try to understand: they insisted, demanded, that I give them a name. Believe me, I tried to explain that I had never been a Communist; that I had joined that anti-Fascist committee when I was a kid of eighteen, and only because I believed it was making a principled stand against Hitler, Mussolini, and Franco. The FBI guys said they understood that. Just as they also knew that I had served my country in the war—and hadn’t dabbled in politics since then. As far as they were concerned, I was a ‘good American’ who’d made a small youthful mistake. Other people who were on that committee had also made mistakes—and in a demonstration of their patriotism, they had given the names of those who were associated with this group at the time, or had once had Communist sympathies.
“‘They’re probably as innocent as you are,’ one of the Fed guys told me. ‘But you must understand: we are investigating a vast conspiracy which poses a threat to national security. We simply need to discover who is at the heart of the conspiracy. Which is why we need names. By giving us information not only are you doing a service to your country; you are also eliminating yourself from our investigations. But by refusing to assist us, the cloud of suspicion still hovers over you. Face fact, anyone who’s been a Communist in the past is going to get found out. So you might as well make a clean breast of everything . . . while you still can.’”
Jack paused again. He lifted his head up, attempting to look me in the eye. But I turned away.
“Their argument had a ruthless logic to it. Someone had named me. I would prove my innocence by naming someone else. They, in turn, would prove their innocence by naming someone else. Everyone was betraying each other. But the thing about this betrayal was—no one had a choice.”
“Yes, they did,” I said, suddenly angry. “The Hollywood Ten had a choice—they all went to jail. Arthur Miller had a choice: he refused to name names. My brother had a choice . . . and he lost his life.”
Jack’s head went back into his hands.
“I tried to give them just the names of the other people on the committee. ‘That’s not good enough,’ they told me. ‘We already know everyone who was with you back then. What we need is someone else.’ I told them I didn’t know any other Communists. They wouldn’t buy that. ‘Everyone knows a one-time Commie.’ I said I hated the idea of hurting someone else. ‘You’re hurting nobody,’ they told me. ‘As long as he owns up to his past and agrees to cooperate with us, no harm will come to him.’ Again, I tried to convince them that the only Communists I knew were on that committee, and that was over a decade ago. But they were adamant. I had to give them one new name. Otherwise . . .
“So, I had a problem. I had to give them an ex-Communist. But I didn’t know any ex-Communists.”
“Except my brother.”
“I was desperate. But the way I put it to the Feds, I told them: ‘Look, the only guy I know who may have a connection with the Party quit so long ago, it’s irrelevant.’ They said, ‘Then he can exonerate himself, just like you’re about to do.’”
“So, that’s when you gave them Eric’s name.”
“Sara, darling . . . given his high-profile status in the television business, he was bound to get rumbled for his political past sooner or later. Surely you can see that.”
“Oh yes—I do see that. And, quite frankly, ever since all this god-awful blacklisting business started, I knew that, eventually, Eric’s very brief flirtation with the Party would catch up with him. What I did not expect was that the man I once loved would turn out to be the snitch, the Judas.”
Long pause.
“Once loved?” he asked.
“Yes. Once. No more.”
He looked up at me, devastated.
“Never for a moment did I want to harm him,” he said. “And I figured that, like everybody else, he’d also play the game.”
“Fortunately, Eric had something called a conscience.”
“You don’t think I don’t have a conscience?” he said, now on his feet, his voice loud with edgy despair. “You don’t think I haven’t been haunted by what happened to Eric?”
“You played along so brilliantly after he was fired, didn’t you? You should have been an actor. You were so utterly sympathetic and supportive. You couldn’t do enough for the guy.”
“That wasn’t playing along. That was . . .”
“I know. Guilt and anguish and penitential shame. You’re the perfect Catholic. I bet you even went to confession after you betrayed him.”
“I never, never expected him to fall apart . . .”
“So that made it all right to name him?”
“Please try to understand . . .”
“There is nothing to understand . . .”
“I didn’t mean harm.”
“But you did harm.”
“I just didn’t know . . .”
I stared at him.
“What did you just say?” I asked quietly.
He took a short intake of breath.
“I said, ‘I didn’t know’.”
“Ich habe nichts davon gewußt,” I said.
“What?”
“Ich habe nichts davon gewußt. I didn’t know.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
“Yes, you do. Dachau, nineteen forty-five. You were with the Army battalion that liberated the camp. Ike ordered that all the townspeople be marched through the barracks and crematoria, so they could see the horror that had been perpetrated in their names. And there was this one fat, well-dressed banker who broke down and kept telling you . . . Ich habe nichts davon gewußt . . . Ich habe nichts davon gewußt. Remember?”
He nodded.
“That did happen, didn’t it?” I asked. “Or is it just another of your lies?”
“No,” he said, “it did happen.”
“Ich habe nichts davon gewußt. You told me that story on my first evening with you. I was already in love with you before you told it to me. Afterward—” I gulped hard “—afterward, I thought you were the most remarkable man I had ever met. Wasn’t I a fool? Especially given your little disappearing act. I should have known better. But you had my heart, you shit . . .”
“You still have my heart, Sara . . .”
“Liar.”
“It’s the truth.”
“If that was the truth, you would have never named Eric. But you thought you could get away with it. You thought I’d never find out.”
He started to weep. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Apology not accepted. You and Eric were my entire world. Now that’s gone.”
“Darling, I’m still here.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Sara, please, I beg you . . .”
“Get out.”
“Don’t do this.”
“Get out.”
He staggered toward me, his arms open. “I love you,” he said.
“Don’t you dare say that word.”
“I love you.”
“Out now!”
“I . . .”
He tried to hold me. I screamed at him to go away. Then I began to hit him. I slapped him around the face and the head. He put up no resistance, no defense. Suddenly, I too was crying. Weeping uncontrollably. My blows were ineffectual. I collapsed to the floor, bawling my eyes out. Once again, he tried to reach for me. This time, I used my right fist and caught him in the mouth. He reeled backward, colliding with an end table. It fell over, smashing a lamp to the ground. He followed it, landing on his knees. My crying jerked to a halt. We stared at each other, wide-eyed. He touched his lips. They were bleeding.
He stood up and staggered into the bathroom. I couldn’t move. A minute went by. He came out, holding a handkerchief against his mouth. It was reddened with blood. He said nothing. I started getting to my feet. He proffered his free hand to help me. I declined it. I went into the kitchen. I found a dish towel. I took out a block of ice from the icebox. I put it into the sink and used an ice pick to chip away at it. I wrapped a baseball-sized chunk of ice in the dish towel, and returned to the living room.
“Here,” I said, handing it to him. “This will keep the swelling down.”
He took it and put it to his mouth.
“I want you to leave now, Jack.”
“All right,” he mumbled.
“I’ll pack up your things tomorrow. I’ll leave a message at your office, telling you when I’m not here, so you can collect them.”
“Let’s talk tomorrow . . .”
“No.”
“Sara . . .”
“Never call me again.”
“Sara . . .”
“Give me your keys for here.”
“Let’s wait until tomorrow before . . .”
“The keys!” I said, my voice loud again. With reluctance, he fished out his key ring, unfastened the top clasp, and took off two keys. Then he dumped them into my outstretched hand.
“Now let yourself out,” I said, and walked into the bedroom, locking the door behind me.
I fell on to the bed. Jack rapped on the door several times, begging to be let in. I pulled a pillow over my head to block out his voice. Eventually, after a few minutes, the banging stopped.
“I’ll call you later,” he said through the door. “Please try to forgive me.”
I didn’t reply. I simply pulled the pillow tighter around my head.
I remained on the bed after I heard the front door close. My anguish was soon replaced by a numb clarity. There would be no forgiveness, no absolution. What Jack had done was so grievous—such a complete breach of trust—that I could never excuse it. He had betrayed Eric. He had betrayed me. Yes, I understood the reasons why he named my brother. Yes, I understood the pressures he was under. But I still couldn’t pardon him. Though you might be able to forgive stupidity or lack of thought, it’s impossible to condone a cynical, calculated action. All right, it might have only been a matter of time before Eric was accused by somebody of having former Communist sympathies. But how could I ever sleep again next to the man who made the accusation? That’s what so astonished me about Jack’s decision—his inability to fathom the fact that the moment he pointed the finger at my brother, he killed our life together. He knew just how inseparable Eric and I were. He knew that he was the only family I had left. He was, I always sensed, silently jealous of our devotion to each other. Is that why he undermined everything? Or was there a deeper, even more disturbing truth lurking behind his action: Jack Malone was a moral coward. A man who refused to face the music—and who, when presented with a critical choice, would always grab the expedient, self-serving option. He couldn’t face writing me after discovering that Dorothy was pregnant. Years later, when he accidentally barged back into my life, he pleaded with me to understand the shame that made him vanish for so long. Fool that I was, I eventually bought his excuse, his passionate apologies. By letting him back into my life, I began the process that eventually led to my brother’s death.
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 48
