Silas Timberman

by Howard Fast

  “Robert Allen,” he replied, his little eyes veiled with excitement.

  Allen came over to the witness table, carrying his briefcase with him. All alone and without a lawyer—a brave man, a forthright man.

  “Look not to others but to yourself.”

  D’Marcy said, “Will you raise your right hand, please, Mr. Allen? In this matter now in hearing before the committee, do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  “I do.”

  “What is your full name, please?” Dave Cann asked.

  “Robert D. Allen.”

  “Allen? A-l-l-e-n?”

  “That is right.”

  “And you are currently employed as a member of the faculty of Clemington University?”

  “I am.”

  “As a professor?”

  “As a teacher, an instructor.”

  “In other words, I would not address you as Professor Allen?”

  “Oh, no—not yet, anyway,” he replied with boyish modesty and sincerity.

  “Mr. Allen,” Cann said, “how exactly does the position of instructor differ from that of professor?”

  “I suppose it varies from school to school, and each school practices some latitude in making its own rules. At Clemington, a doctorate is mandatory even for an assistant professorship. I mean a Ph.D., a doctor of philosophy. Of course, you can have a doctorate and still not hold a professorship—the school has the right to confer that.”

  “It means more pay?”

  “Oh, yes—more pay, more honor, and tenure, of course. If one begins a career at Clemington, one starts as a student-instructor, in other words, graduate work and a certain amount of teaching combined. I am a full instructor, which means a faculty member working under a professor and using him as a control upon my work.”

  “And which professor do you work with, Mr. Allen?”

  “Professor Timberman.”

  “How long have you been employed at Clemington as a faculty member, Mr. Allen?”

  “This is my fourth year, my seventh semester. But I did some teaching a year previous to that, while doing graduate work.”

  “And what subject do you teach?”

  “American literature—mostly modern.”

  “You are also a graduate of Clemington University, aren’t you?”

  “I am—yes, sir.”

  “When you were a student at Clemington, did you ever have Professor Timberman as a teacher?”

  “I did.”

  “Professor Amsterdam?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I will mention some other names. Lawrence Kaplin, Leon Federman, Alec Brady and Hartman Spencer. Did you ever have any of these people as teachers?”

  “Only one of them, Professor Kaplin.”

  “Then you knew both Professor Kaplin and Professor Timberman as a student?”

  “I did.”

  “And when Professor Timberman was your teacher, did you notice any attempts to indoctrinate students in his teaching?”

  “Sir?”

  “Let me rephrase it. Did you feel that Professor Timberman’s method of teaching was an American method?”

  “Well, sir—the last class I took with him was in 1941. He was highly critical of the Nazis at that time. He constantly emphasized the incompatibility of Nazism and literature.”

  “Do you recall him being equally critical of communism or of the Soviet Union?”

  “No, sir. I cannot recall any criticism on either of these questions. In fact, I remember his praising several Russian books.”

  “Do you recall the names of those books?” Brannigan cut in suddenly.

  “No, sir. But there were a number of American books he urged upon his students—books by writers poorly thought of today but then in more vogue. They were books deeply critical of American life and American standards. Professor Timberman’s attitude was always a very critical attitude. He never tired of finding things wrong with the American way of life.”

  “Can you name those books?” Brannigan pressed him.

  “Some of them, yes. An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser, Babbitt and Elmer Gantry by Sinclair Lewis, and Martin Eden and The Iron Heel by Jack London. There were others.”

  Brannigan picked up the line of questioning. “Theodore Dreiser was a member of the Communist Party, as I recall. Did Professor Timberman ever point out that fact to his students?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And Babbitt and Elmer Gantry, these are both books which preach the hatred of business men and free enterprise, aren’t they, Mr. Allen?”

  “To some extent. Babbitt pokes fun at a real estate man and Elmer Gantry is an attack on the church.”

  “Sinclair Lewis was also a communist, wasn’t he?”

  “Not publicly, sir, so far as I know. He may have been.”

  “And Jack London was a communist, I understand, and made no secret of it—which is more than you can say of a lot of people today. Aren’t both of these books you mention dedicated to the overthrow of the government by force and violence?”

  “The Iron Heel is, yes, sir, but in Martin Eden, it’s a matter of innuendo.”

  “You mean he doesn’t come right out and say it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And do you recall Professor Timberman ever warning his students as to the nature and intent of these books he advised them to read and study?”

  “No, sir. I do not.”

  “And during that time, did you ever suspect Professor Timberman of communist tendencies?”

  “I did, sir.”

  Until this point, Silas had listened with great detachment, his mind moving forward in lightning-like leaps and bounds, making adjustments quickly and automatically—but never connecting himself with the handsome young man who was giving testimony. A stranger was giving testimony, and he only half heard it. It was ridiculous, it was childish, it was pointless, it was foolish—it was lies and half-lies and quarter-lies. He had never used The Iron Heel in one of his classes; as a matter of fact, he had not read it since his teens, and he had always considered Martin Eden a rather mawkish and adolescent piece of work. Knowing the difficulty in assigned reading, he would usually recommend Sister Carrie and then perhaps The Financier for the study of Dreiser—almost never An American Tragedy, although he did recall telling Bob Allen, only a few weeks ago, how highly he considered the book. Reason clawing at his mind demanded that he divorce himself from what sat at the witness table; logic separated him from recognition. No matter how quickly his mind moved to new adjustments, the fact remained that he had lived forty years of his life in one world, and he could not abandon it immediately for this one. If he had gone to bed one night next to all the familiar warmth and comfort of Myra, and then had awakened the next morning in the Arizona desert, he would have been hard put to adjust to the fact. He was hard put now.

  But when this question was asked and answered, he rose to his feet without realizing that he was doing so, only to be dragged back to his chair by MacAllister and Brady.

  “Easy, now, easy, lad,” said MacAllister, and Silas heard Edna Crawford whisper, “Poor Silas.”

  “Poor Silas,” echoed and re-echoed in his mind. “Poor Silas.” But Brannigan was a man working, without time for pity, and he worked well. “When was it,” he demanded, “that you first suspected Professor Timberman of communist tendencies?”

  “When I noticed how consistently he slanted his teaching. Always against the rich: Always ridiculing people of position. He ennobled the poor in a manner that had no relationship to reality.”

  “You wouldn’t consider this a general practice in the English Department at Clemington, would you, Mr. Allen?”

  “No, sir—I don’t think so. It is true that Professor Kaplin showed bias against the British nobility, but he dealt with the Middle Ages.”

  “Would you say that made it easier for him to conceal his position than it was for Professor Timberman?”


  “Possibly—”

  Silas glanced at Lawrence Kaplin, whose face was white and drawn, and twitching at the same time with little giggles; and he had, for the first time, a sense of the tragedy that was taking place in the lives of the other six. For himself, he had never really considered it to be a tragedy. It was a blow, a dreadful blow, but not a killing one; it shook him in mid-stream, turned him off the course of his life, and laid upon him the burden of finding a new course and a new life. But he had never really entertained doubts that he could make a new life. He had Myra alongside of him; he was fairly young, strong, and in good health. He had come from a line of men who had worked with their hands, and it did not defeat him to face the fact that he too would probably have to work with his hands again.

  But what of Kaplin, what of old Ike Amsterdam, what of the others? What was tearing inside of Lawrence Kaplin now—at this moment?

  “You said that Professor Timberman forced his students to study books that advocated overthrow of the government by force and violence. Did you ever hear Professor Timberman advocate this line of action himself?” Brannigan asked softly, gently.

  “I did,” just as softly, apologetically—forgive me the knife before I plunge it into your belly. Try to understand the grief of the murderer.

  “Would you describe the occasion?”

  “It was at Professor Timberman’s home during 1947. We—”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Allen. Would you state the names of all those present?”

  “Yes. Professor Timberman, his wife, Professor Amsterdam, Professor Kaplin and Professor Federman—and myself, of course.”

  “Was it a social occasion or a meeting?”

  “Well, it’s very difficult to draw a line of demarcation, sir. At a university, the best cover for a meeting is to prepare it as a social occasion. Let us say a bridge game—”

  That Silas and Myra did not play bridge was of no significance now—no part of the boiling anger of Silas’ thoughts.

  “Then you could describe it as a meeting?”

  “Yes, sir. I think you could.” A note of permanent regret and sorrow had now entered Bob Allen’s voice. No one could help but understand how difficult this was for him, how agonizing. Whatever the suffering of one, Silas Timberman, it was plain that Robert Allen suffered equally or more.

  “And what went on at that meeting?”

  “Professor Timberman spoke of the need to build an organization at Clemington which would be prepared, at the proper time, to move to take over the administration of the university—an act which would be coordinated with a much larger action throughout the country. He asked me—”

  Silas was on his feet, raging, “Lies! Lies! I tell you, he lies in his teeth!”

  His friends pulled him down before the marshals could reach him. “You make it no better,” MacAllister pleaded. “It’s bad, Silas, but you make it no better. For Christ’s sake, listen—listen, I tell you! Your life is going to depend on what he says. You can’t stop him. Listen to him.”

  “Mr. Allen, is Professor Timberman a member of the Communist Party?”

  “He is.”

  (Listen to him. Listen to every word. You are going to a new school, the school of Brannigan …)

  “In other words, Mr. Allen, a decision was arrived at to use Mark Twain to discredit the school administration—particularly to discredit Professor Edward Lundfest, who already had moved to block Professors Kaplin and Timberman?”

  “That is correct.”

  “On the basis that Mark Twain’s place in the hearts of Americans was too secure to be shaken?”

  “Yes, sir. They considered him an impregnable ally.”

  (Listen to him, then. This is Bob Allen, Sue Allen’s husband, a young, delightful couple. Try to understand why he is doing this. Others have done it, and still others will do it. Listen, as MacAllister says. You wasted your life in the Humanities. You should have been studying disease, as a scientist does. Ike Amsterdam is a scientist. Look at him. He is not shocked. He is quite calm, and amused. Evidently, Bob Allen is no stranger to him …)

  “It was usually Professor Brady who argued for the petition. He had a lot to do with it.”

  “Then it was Professor Brady who supervised the circulation of the peace petition?”

  “It was.”

  “In your opinion, Mr. Allen, was Professor Brady interested in peace when he undertook this action?”

  “In my opinion, he was not. His only interest was to help rob us of our greatest weapon against communist tyranny, the atom bomb.”

  “Do you have any specific information to support such an opinion?”

  “I do. In discussing it with me, both he and Professor Timberman stressed the fact that if enough signatures were gotten to the petition, it would make the use of the atomic weapon impossible.”

  (Look at Brady and remain silent. Brady is also silent, a figure in contemplation. Brady is a historian. The whole world of man parades in his contemplation. Brady is silent, contemplative, and curious—and interested, immensely interested …)

  “In other words, Professor Timberman charged you to remain aloof from civil defense?”

  “That is right.”

  “Were any witnesses present at this time?”

  “Professor Kaplin was present.”

  “And did Professor Kaplin agree with Professor Timberman?”

  “He expressed a tactical disagreement. He thought this was not the issue to come to grips with President Cabot on. He felt that since most Americans are unquestionably loyal, they could not be rallied against civil defense—”

  (Kaplin has aged twenty years. Where does Kaplin go from here? Has he saved enough money to live on for a while, if he lives very frugally? What a strange thought—to be thinking about money now, Silas! How much money have you saved? At least, you are lucky not to be a Jew. Or are you? Consider Federman. They say every penny he saves goes to pay doctor bills. If you have to understand Bob Allen, then you also have to understand Federman. Federman is a scientist. The proper study of mankind is man—or something of that sort. Federman and Brady are both intrigued; they don’t want to miss a word. And even Hartman Spencer has the attitude of a man observing a particularly interesting experiment. You wouldn’t have thought that of Hartman, so very much the gentleman. They kept offering him headmasterships at preparatory schools. Not now. No more headmasterships offered to Hartman Spencer …)

  “And this meeting on campus, you say, was the work of the communist cell operating directly?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have named the men on subpoena here from Clemington. Is Miss Edna Crawford also a part of this cell?”

  “She is,” answered Bob Allen, very regretfully.

  (Edna Crawford too. Miss Edna Crawford, an old spinster. There was always a legend, a lover dead in this war or that war—something to explain a very handsome woman who continues to be a spinster. Curious to recall that Edna Crawford had once remarked that she always voted Republican because she just didn’t like the antics of Democrats. Probably there was never any lover dead in any war; women don’t remain spinsters for reasons like that. Suppose you were to stand up now and cry, “Not Edna—anyone else, but not Edna. When you do it to Edna, a world ends, a world crumbles to pieces, and there is no putting it back together again. Don’t you understand? Can’t you understand that?” But you are past the ability to stand up and shout such things. Look at Ednaa instead. Miss Crawford has not ended. Stiff as a ramrod, her blue eyes are burning with hatred and anger. Then what happens when you begin this kind, of thing, when you do this kind of thing to such a person? What happens then?)

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Monday: December 3, 1950

  THE STONE

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE STONE

  Silas made his sixteenth telephone call by actual count. This time it was Steve Cavanaugh, who liked to fancy himself the Mencken of Indiana, and who had written a nationally famous little book that h
ad unexpectedly become a best seller. The book was called, Images: How to Make Them and Break Them. Silas encircled Cavanaugh’s name with a pencil and then asked the operator for the number. Cavanaugh himself answered the phone.

  “Hello, Cavanough,” Silas said. “This is Timberman—Silas Timberman.”

  There was that gaping silence that Silas knew so well by now. “Oh, yes—yes, of course. How are you?”

  “Good enough,” Silas said. “Cavanaugh, I’m calling about something a few of us feel very deeply, the question of what is happening to this college. Brady and Amsterdam and I thought that if forty or fifty of the faculty could sit down and talk about this, we might come up with something. Or maybe not. But we feel we’ve got nothing to lose by trying—” He could almost hear Cavanaugh saying to himself, Of course, you’ve got nothing to lose, you poor bastard!

  “Yes—quite so. I suppose it should be done. But you have no idea how up to my ears I am, Silas. Correcting papers, two extra seminars, I couldn’t think of it for another two weeks. I mean, I couldn’t find an evening, Silas. I mean, you know how I feel about this kind of thing. I’ve stayed out of politics, but this kind of thing—”

  “I know,” Silas said. He hung up the phone. The next name on the list was Joel Seever, and Silas sat and regarded the telephone with a fine mixture of hostility and distaste. Geraldine came into his study and saw him sitting there, and suddenly became anxious and over-protective, and wanted to know did he have a headache, or wasn’t he feeling well? It made Silas smile. “Come over here, Gerry,” he said. “How about giving me a hug and a kiss—just special, because I love you so much.” He picked her up on his lap and held her there in his embrace, and she said.

  “You’re different.”

  “How?”