Red Love

by David Evanier

  Duboff quoted Dolly’s testimony before the grand jury two weeks after Solly had been arrested. She had been asked, “Did you ever talk with your brother about his espionage activities?” Dolly had replied then: “I decline to answer on the grounds that this might tend to incriminate me.”

  Duboff said now, “Did you give that testimony at that time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was that the truth?”

  “Was what the truth? That I answered the question that way?” Dolly said.

  “That you answered that to disclose whether you had talked with your brother about espionage would tend to incriminate you?”

  “I don’t remember what reason I may or may not have had at that time to give that reply.”

  “Was it an untruthful reason?”

  “No.”

  “And today you feel you can answer that question and that there is nothing incriminating about it?”

  “Correct.”

  “But at the time, when testifying before the grand jury, you felt it might tend to be incriminating?”

  “I suppose I had some reason for feeling that way.”

  “What might that reason be?”

  “I really couldn’t surmise at this time.”

  Dolly was asked by Duboff about another grand jury question: “Did you discuss this case with your brother Hershie?” She had refused to answer on the same grounds.

  “Was that question asked and did you give that answer?”

  “I did.”

  “Was it true?”

  “Yes, because my brother was under arrest.”

  “But how would that tend to incriminate you, if you’re innocent?”

  “It wouldn’t necessarily. But it might have, and as long as I felt there might be some possibility of my being incriminated, I had the right to use the privilege.”

  Dolly had invoked the same privilege before the grand jury when asked these questions:

  “What is your middle name?”

  “When did you consult with an attorney for the first time?”

  “Did you invite your brother and his wife to your home for dinner?”

  “Have you ever met Sid Smorg?”

  “Do you know if your husband is working for the Soviet Union?”

  When Dolly was asked if she had loved her brother, she said yes, she had loved Hershie deeply.

  The jury believed that this was true.

  Hy Briské circled around the one witness the Rubells could muster, the little lady wearing sneakers, brown ankle socks, a red cap, and a button on her jacket that said Shoot First!—Manya Poffnick.

  “What is your profession, Mrs. Poffnick?” Briské asked her.

  “I am an activist all over,” she replied. “I am also a cafeteria worker.”

  “And what, Mrs. Poffnick, can you tell us of the Rubells?”

  “I know the Rubells as good progressive people; they would never hurt a soul. I can tell you Sol Rubell fulfilled his thimble quota many times over. I saw them selling subscriptions for the Morgen Freiheit hours before they were arrested.”

  “And do you know Maury Ballinzweig?”

  “I know him too well,” Manya said.

  “Could you explain your meaning?”

  “Forget him. To me he’s not a human being. But he’s innocent. He thinks he’s got four balls.”

  “Could you tell us about the espionage activities of Solomon and Dolores Rubell?”

  “Dolly Rubell would give her last dime to a person in need. Solly too. They were ordinary working people who wanted to help the workers. That’s the only crime they were guilty of.”

  “Mrs. Poffnick,” Briské said, “according to the Daily Worker you are a widow.”

  “I was married in 1929 and he died in 1932. Peculiarly enough, his name was also Poffnick. He was a dressmaker. A very nice human being.”

  “And you have one living son?” Briské asked.

  “I have no children,” Manya said.

  “You have no children? But Mrs. Poffnick, according to the Daily Worker of June 5, 1951, you spoke at an antiwar rally at Randalls Stadium and you said, quote, I had two sons. One was in the Second World War, and was killed. And you want me to lose the second one in Korea? Like hell! I don’t want my son or anyone else’s to be lost in Korea. For whom? For what? We have no business there. Before this war, I never even heard of Korea, for Christ’s sake, unquote. Did you make that statement?”

  “Sure,” Manya said. “It’s the truth. We have no business in Korea.”

  “But you have no sons.”

  “What the hell’s wrong with that? I told a little lie.”

  Manya Poffnick was excused.

  Hy Briské was chatting with Judge Goldman on the phone from Goldman’s table at Lindy’s.

  “I’ve been praying, Hy,” Judge Goldman said. “I have to give them the chair, don’t you think?”

  “What is this shit on my plate?” Hy screamed, tossing a plate backward over his head. “Excuse me, My Honor, I certainly wasn’t talking to you.”

  Someone had placed a leaflet on Hy’s plate claiming that Dolly and Solly were innocent.

  “In answer to your question, My Honor: sure.”

  The Rubells were sentenced to death. The judge said their crime would “live in infamy.” Maury Ballinzweig received twenty years.

  The Daily Worker wrote about the Rubells for the first time. “Fascists are overjoyed,” it wrote, “that a simple little Jewish-American mom and dad may be murdered in the interests of the war-makers and Jew-haters.” The Committee to Resurrect the Rubells went into action. They collected on every street corner.

  At Sing Sing, Solly had a tooth extracted. Then he had the flu. His mother visited him. Solly was held up by two guards.

  “What kind of animals am I dealing with here?” Henky Rubin screamed at the sentencing.

  “What kind do you want?” Hy asked.

  What Can We Do to Help?

  Would a noose do?

  —G. L.

  The Party’s Committee to Resurrect the Rubells met that morning. Their guest, Ziggy Weissberger, bore instructions from closest friends. His words would be correct.

  Trusted, solid, Ziggy sat in a swirl of smoke and dust on the ninth floor of 35 East 12th Street.

  “Comrades, I come before you from the first land of socialism; from Paris, where peace is on the front burner; from the docks of London and Algiers. Everywhere I was asked, What is wrong with you Americans? Why do you want war? And I promised them that there was a vanguard party here that would soon make America a word of sweetness again on humanity’s lips. America, I said, despite all the evidence to the contrary, is still in the ranks of humanity.

  “And everywhere the working class is sizzling. At a peace conference in Paris I saw a springtide of peace burst out like flame. It had taken hold of the cities, the villages, the farthermost mountaintops; it hissed through the factories and mines. A handsome Parisian, his face gleaming, told me: ‘It’s beyond anything we ever dreamed. The people have taken it out of our hands.’

  “Thus we see capitalism’s deep crisis. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men cannot save it. Even as the Socialists stab the working class in the back, there is one party that fights unyieldingly for it. Our Party.

  “We do not sit in our ivory towers and ponder; we don’t write poetry in chapels, kiss our tzitzith, weep like the rabbis. No, comrades, our voices are deep, not high; our ideology is thick, not thin; we see the shore, not the waves; the brick, not the mortar; the heat, not the oven; the tit, not the bra; the ocean, not the pond; the rope, not the thread; the forest, not the trees; the cunt, not the panty; the gorgeous tree of Communism, not the fig leaf of socialism; the sky, not the ceiling; the stars—yes the stars, comrades—not the bars. There will be no bars on our vision, comrades, and if necessary, there will be no vision on our bars. We’ll hurl the dirt over our graves and roll over with joyous laughter if we must!

  “And so I come to the Ru
bells. Everywhere I was asked about them, that plucky couple whose courage has amazed and delighted peace-loving people everywhere. This couple will never die, comrades, as surely as they will soon not be amongst us anymore. Why are the Rubells being singled out by the mad war-dogs of fascism? Because they became the focus of the entire world’s hatred of Washington’s war policies and its attempts to McCarthyize America in the image of the swastika. Because they were for peace and would not give the Jew haters and the war plotters what they wanted, they are in the death house today.

  “For fighting to defeat America’s war drive, Eisenhower’s power-hungry lust, they have been targeted to die. The Rubells reached the masses and struck deep chords of understanding within them.

  “For this they will die, and soon.

  “What can we do to help?

  “By dying, the Rubells will live forever. People are tired of Sacco and Vanzetti. The Committee is flourishing. It informs the world of America’s fascist drive to dominate the world. Dolly and Solly Rubell, of revered memory, will be powerful symbols for us. Antifascist heroes. Victims of anti-Semitism. Dutiful and loyal, they sacrificed themselves for our cause. It brings tears to my eyes to remember them.

  “Even though we are eager to save their lives, let us examine the dialectical realities. Dolly and Solly worked very hard. They have many friends in many places. Once their lips are sealed, there are unlikely to be any more indictments.

  “The vilest suspicions about the Party are fed by this case: that we receive Moscow gold, that the Party is under the thumb of the Soviet Union, that in effect we are its American branch. But the way things look now, Dolly and Solly will not say the wrong thing.

  “Solly Rubell has always looked better with his eyes closed; this is a fact.

  “And so, comrades, let us light candles of remembrance, let’s do what we can. But if perchance we lose Dolly and Solly, they will be vindicated by history and live forever anyway. Any questions?”

  Johnny “Apple Seed” Beaver, the People’s folk singer, sat in the front row in his lumberjack shirt, overalls, holding his corncob pipe and guitar. His freckled face was grinning as always. “Hey there Comrade Ziggy, I reckon we got our work cut out for us. I’m just a poor guitar picker. Let me see if I understand the Party position correctly. Lots of love… .”

  “Love is the key motif,” Ziggy said. “Praying, stroking, hugging, marching, meowing, pleading, sobbing—that should do it.”

  “What about the children?”

  “The children are terrific photo opportunities. Keep them in short pants forever. Public trust fund, that sort of thing. We will raise millions.”

  Molly Leash, people’s poet, moved to tears, stood up and recited:

  “Passing Lord and Taylor today

  Sumptuous window display

  Dolly, Dolly, Dolly Rubell

  What’s that lousy shmatte you’re wearing

  In your lonely prison cell?”

  V.H. Spellman inquired about party slogans and chants. Suggestions included, “Vindicate the Rubells,” “The Rubells—Antifascist Heroes,” and “Don’t get Bluebells—Release the Rubells.” Spellman suddenly said, “Aren’t we going to do anything to really save them?”

  A stream of tears poured down Weissberger’s cheeks. “Comrades, I speak to you filled with disgust, self-loathing, and a bubbling joyfulness. I am a Communist. I eat shit. I am proud to eat shit. ‘It takes a tough man to make a tender chicken’—Stalin, 1939.

  “This is an objective situation. Personally I loved Dolly and Solly. I would sit and eat kasha with them forever. I am doing exactly what they would do in my place. They are with us, and would approve of what we are planning. (It might make them a little uncomfortable, in this particular case.) Objectively, their usefulness and vitality are directly proportionate to their state of breathing or not breathing. They would be in favor of doing whatever would strengthen the international vanguard, the relationship of forces. Can we do any less?”

  The meeting was adjourned.

  The Autobiography of Hy Briské

  Freedom’s frisky advocate.

  —G. L.

  My anus may rhyme with heinous, but I’m still the sharp lad I was at three in my father’s Tammany chambers.

  I will take to my grave the things I was right about: world Communism and the Rubell case. The memory of proudly sitting beside Joe McCarthy as he ripped into a silent witness: “Got some pussy stuck in your throat? Would you share it with us?”

  And the first glimpse of the boy across the room at a Chinese restaurant in Washington. I told the waiter to bring him an egg roll on me. Only later did I learn that the dark brooding stranger was a Manila houseboy working in the White House.

  When I discovered that Fifi Dorsay knew more about the Communist menace than anyone I ever met, and that he cared about it, I knew I had to have him by my side. You should have heard him talk about the Communists: “They’re horrible! Their food is unclean! They smell!” I knew in my guts this man was the expert the committee needed to ferret out subversives.

  When Eisenhower refused to discuss it, I confess I went bananas. “I’m really getting sore, Dwight David,” I said. “He’s cleaning your bathtubs, for God’s sake, when he should be beautifully decked out, in shades, in the sun, oiled and perfumed, reading and writing and giving dictation!” I screamed, but to no avail.

  I got stares and blank looks. It was then I realized there was creeping subversion within the White House gates, probably aided and abetted by pinkos and lulubelles. I couldn’t sleep nights. I was hot and flushed. There was no relief.

  Thus the genesis of the altercation that broke Joe McCarthy’s spirit.

  “Give me Fifi,” I told Eisenhower over a dish or two of ice cream one afternoon, “and you can do whatever the fuck you want.”

  “The man can hardly read or write,” he said.

  “Let me worry about that, bub,” I replied. “I’ll dot his i’s and cross his t’s for him. What about Fifi’s book, Reflections on Comunism?” (Fifi deliberately misspelled it to tease me.)

  “What book? It’s three pages.”

  I read aloud from it:

  Comunism is shit. It bothers me, it’s so bad.

  They don’t take baths, they don’t believe in God.

  Most of them are liars and Democrats.

  I ventured to point out that simplicity could be bliss.

  “Anyway, the army’s going to draft him,” he said.

  This was too much. “I’ve really had it up to here with you,” I shouted. My ice cream dish overturned as I stood up. “When I get headaches like this, it’s ridiculous. You’ve ruined my day.”

  “Look, Hy, you’re taking this too hard. Why don’t you take a vacation?”

  “I would have loved to. How can I now? You’ve spoiled everything, you nitwit,” I shouted.

  “I’m the president—”

  “Just cut the shit, Dwight. Frankly, I think the whole operation stinks.”

  “What? What operation? What are you—”

  “The so-called White House. Your administration. I want to find out what’s going on.”

  “Are you calling me a Communist?”

  “This is making me nauseous. I’m not gratified. Who else can I speak to about this?”

  “No one. I’m the president!”

  “I’m gonna tap the pope on this one.”

  “Hy—Hy.”

  “This just isn’t good enough. I want a real man.”

  “For a guy who’s done responsible work on the Rubell case and seems to understand the Commies, your behavior about this houseboy is simply incomprehensible,” the president said.

  “Cut this vague shit,” I demanded. “Give me Fifi and all is forgiven. Otherwise I’m going to make your days miserable. I’ll make you crawl through mud. I’ll make you sorry you were born.”

  Perhaps in retrospect I should have softened my language. But I knew what Fifi could contribute to the fight against subversion.


  The rest of those events are history: the investigations and hearings I conducted with Joe. Some say I took Joe down with me. But that’s obviously ridiculous. Joe went down. I am here.

  Joe wanted to be loved. I regarded the hatred of me as a cool ocean spray.

  One of Joe’s fans, Gus Avery, would greet me by asking: “How are all the dirty Jews?” Ordinarily a remark like that would raise my hackles. But this was a dedicated anti-Communist whose concern was the disturbing number of Jews in the Communist Party. “Dirty as ever,” I would reply. He loved that. He was a heavy hitter from Detroit, chairman of the “Hail America Committee.” Gus always wore a yarmulke when he sat on the dais at my “Patriotic Jews Against Subversion” dinners. In fact, many of Joe’s followers were very intense in their love of country and their hatred of Communism. Like Joe, they were often earthy types who liked to take their shoes and socks off at my “Patriotic Jews” events, occasionally even their pants. Once, at the end of an America Lovefest evening, Joe, Gus, and a bunch of other shakers and movers on the dais—Cardinal Lefebre of Detroit and Art O’Malley of Chicago and Danny Toto of Toronto and Mario Calabrese of the Bronx—gaily tossed used American-flag condoms (dripping ones—can you believe it?) over my head across the stage at each other. But Art’s toast—”Hy is one Jew we can trust”—was right as rain, and things were copacetic.

  Joe is long gone. Howard Mayfield is gone. It was Howard who wished Dolly and Solly a happy electrocution in his column. In the mid-seventies Howard awoke one morning to find that all his engraved gold cuff links (“Mr. Broadway”) were gone. He wandered down Broadway, where the curlicue neon lights had danced in celebration when the Rubells were cooled. Hubert’s Flea Circus had turned into a fellatio shop whose prize attraction were wolfhounds. Lindy’s was now Extasy Fantasy. Howard wandered in that morning, and there was a row of girls in booths with windows. Windows were raised and customers got quick feels for a dollar; two dollars for tit sucking and cunt lapping. Then they ran into bathrooms and gargled. Near the site of the Paramount where Sinatra had sung, a video theater the size of a dime played “I Spit on Your Grave.”