“VITEJTE!”

Teresa threw open her front door, spilling warm light, Christmas music, and the sweet scent of a blazing fireplace into the cold December night.

“Veselé Vánoce!” a bundled-up couple responded cheerily. They were just ahead of Richard and his family, who were coming up the walk with Mrs. Emerson in tow.

“Merry Christmas!” Don shouted, waving his gloved hand after Teresa kissed the cheeks of the couple ahead of them in the doorway.

“Welcome!” Teresa called back. She gestured at them to hurry in. “Please, please come! It is so cold tonight.” She smiled brightly.

“Humph. No maid to answer the door,” Mrs. Emerson murmured and elbowed Abigail. “Odd for a holiday open house, don’t you think?”

But before Abigail could reply, Teresa embraced her and pulled their group through the front door. “Do let me help you.” Teresa held the shoulders of Abigail’s swing coat so she could slip out of the heavy material, static electricity popping. “Natalia will put it upstairs.”

Vladimir’s sister was already piled to her chin with coats and struggling to keep them from cascading to the ground.

“Goodness, let Richard help! He can carry ours!” Abigail nodded for Richard to extend his arms. She plopped her coat on him, followed by Ginny’s, Don’s, and Mrs. Emerson’s.

As Richard staggered along behind Natalia toward the staircase, he heard Mrs. Emerson say to Teresa, “My dear, I have the names of wonderful help you might like to employ next time. There’s a Negro gentleman who butlers at the White House occasionally. He’ll be able to guide you in proper protocol. There is a way of doing things here in the nation’s capital, you know.”

Natalia rolled her eyes dramatically. “Is everyone in Washington such a white snob?” She didn’t even bother to whisper.

“What?” Richard startled.

“Come on, really? You don’t see it? She’s probably one of those bourgeoisie who think anyone who is friends with a Black person or believes Blacks should have equal schooling is a Red. What a bunch of fascists!” She waddled up the steps with her mountain of wraps to unceremoniously dump them on her bed. It was already piled high with bright red-and-green scarves and mink or wool coats glittering with pins of Christmas trees and angels made of jewels. From that jumble wafted up a muddle of perfumes. There would be quite a fishing expedition at the end of the party to sort out individual coats. But following her lead, Richard threw his family’s into the mess.

Natalia was assessing him when he turned. “You’re Vladi’s friend, aren’t you?” She extended her hand to shake his. “Glad to meet you. I felt awful deserting him so soon after we moved here. This sure isn’t London or New York, so I was glad he had a friend right away.” She flopped onto the pile of coats, pulled out a long black straw-like holder from her bedside table, and tucked a cigarette into it.

Richard felt himself gaping at her as she crossed her legs and bobbed her top foot up and down. She wore a tight black sweater and straight black slacks ending above the ankles, wide gold cuff bracelets and gold hoop earrings—like something straight out of Hollywood magazines. Her face really was almost identical to Teresa’s—with keen smoke-gray eyes under thick, arched brows. He forcefully snapped himself out of his stare by asking, “You go to UCLA, right?”

“Uh-hmmm.” She nodded, chewing lightly on the holder without lighting the cigarette.

“Do you like it?”

“Loooooove it,” she sang.

“Home for Christmas?”

“And Hanukkah. It’s the only part of her Jewish background Mother celebrates. Seems kind of hypocritical to me, but…” She smiled mischievously and shrugged. “It means more presents for me and Vladi!”

Richard had no idea what to say to that, it sounded so cynical. He changed the subject. “Ahhh…What are you studying?”

She laughed. “The question to ask a girl when you get to college is ‘What is your major?’ That’s the icebreaker. I need to remember to tell Vladi that.” She smiled at him. “I am going to major in art. I am an artist.”

“Oh, like your mom?”

She nodded. “But I am actually going to make my living at it. Mother’s never been able to do anything other than be a hobbyist. Father has dragged her so many different places. At least she’s got a real studio here on the porch. It’s nice. She has a lot of her own art hanging down there. You should go look. Someone should.” She shrugged, still gnawing on the holder.

“I will, then.” Richard nodded. “What do you paint?”

“Everything!” She laughed lightly. “But mainly I want to illustrate children’s books. Like these.” Natalia swam over the coats to the other side of the bed to haul up a stack of picture books off the floor.

First, she held up Finders Keepers, a bright red book with two orangey-red dogs and a bone on its cover. She leafed through its pages to show Richard the drawings. “They are so simple and bold. Like graphic design, almost. Aren’t they great?”

Richard thought they looked kind of goofy, like cartoons he could draw, but he nodded. “Yeah, they’re swell.”

“It just won the Caldecott Medal for illustration. But some librarians in the Midwest are claiming the book is subversive. I mean, really! The dogs are just figuring out how to share a bone between them. But these women claim”—Natalia flipped to a page that had a big black dog trying to take the bone away from the two little red dogs—“that the white spots on the black dog resemble the outlines of the United States, Great Britain, Germany, Taiwan, and Japan. They claim the picture is suggesting imperialism, that we and our capitalist allies are trying to bully Communist-leaning countries.” She made a face. “I think those librarians must have been smoking some tea.”

Richard squinted at the picture.

When he didn’t say anything, Natalia dropped that book and picked up The Two Reds by the same author and illustrator. That cover featured a red cat and a redheaded boy in front of a city skyline.

Richard did do a double take on that one. If nothing else, the title seemed pretty questionable. But Natalia didn’t seem to notice his expression. “This one won a Caldecott Honor while we were still living in New York. It’s such great modern illustration. A clerk at that marvelous FAO Schwarz on Central Park—You know the store?” she interrupted herself.

Richard didn’t. He’d only been to New York City a couple of times to visit a great-aunt. She always took him to the Met to see the ancient Greek and Roman statuary—which he loved, actually. He shook his head.

“No?” Natalia seemed stunned. “Well, anyway, he’s a friend of ours. He planned a whole window display of the books. But Maurice told us that the store owner nixed his idea because he thought the title was provocative—subversive—and because the illustrator, Nicolas Mordvinoff, is a Russian émigré. And probably Jewish. You’d think after the carnage of World War II that here in the United States we’d have some sense and not be so afraid of people thinking or worshipping differently. But thanks to Senator Low-Blow Joe, the Red Scare has also become about Jews and Blacks.” Natalia shook her head. “What a bunch of fascists.”

Richard did think the idea that the dog’s spots were maps of countries was pretty stupid. But he kind of wondered about a writer who’d name a book The Two Reds. Still, he could tell Natalia wouldn’t much appreciate his opinion. Talking to her felt like standing on a cliff and surveying an exciting, uncharted wilderness. He didn’t want to ruin it. “What else do you have there?” he asked.

“Oh, these illustrations are totally different. Old-school gorgeous.” On top of the coats, she laid out Robinson Crusoe, The Last of the Mohicans, and Kidnapped—all with similarly styled lush, detailed scenes on their covers. “The illustrations are by N. C. Wyeth.” Natalia stretched back over the bed and fished out two other books from underneath it. “These two are my favorite: Treasure Island and Robin Hood.”

“Robin Hood!” Richard couldn’t help exclaiming and reaching for it. He ran his hand lovingly over the cover. He had really wanted to finish reading this story. He remembered some of the illustrations inside—Robin meeting Maid Marian, Robin knocking down a villain with a quarterstaff, Robin’s Merry Men hiding behind trees, their arrows drawn along taut bows. All the scenes had set his own imagination flying.

Reluctantly, he handed the book back to Natalia.

“You can borrow it if you want,” she said.

Richard shook his head. “Can’t. My mom said—” He stopped himself from criticizing Abigail publicly—a big no-no with Don. Besides, he could sense Natalia might make fun of his mom, and he wasn’t sure that he’d like that. So he shifted gears. “People are pulling it from libraries because they think it promotes Communist ideals.”

“You mean that nutty textbook commissioner in Indiana who’s mounted a national campaign against Robin Hood?”

Richard shrugged.

Natalia pointed at him with her cigarette holder. “You know what I love most about college?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Learning how to think for myself. And recognizing manure when I smell it.” She dipped into the pile of jackets and held up his blue peacoat. “This yours?”

He nodded.

She tucked Robin Hood inside it. “Just give it back to Vladi after you’re done. Come on!” Natalia jumped off her bed. “Let’s go give him some relief. He’s manning the record player for the party.”

Richard followed, his mind as much a jumble of conflicting thoughts as the tangle of coats in her room. Think like a G-man, he told himself. See and analyze the meaning behind people’s behaviors, just like his dad had said. Richard knew McCarthy and Hoover would label a lot of what Natalia said as being subversive. Big-time. They’d probably brand Natalia a Red or a pinko. Heck, they might even be right. Natalia definitely seemed kind of overfond of that Russian illustrator and his book’s themes.

But he liked her. And Richard was really excited about having a copy of Robin Hood again. The trick would be smuggling it home.

Downstairs was a Babel of conversation. Adults were massed in little groups, laughing, chatting, and debating in snippets of Czech and English, sipping cocktails, glasses clinking, bracelets jangling merrily. Through emerald silks and vermilion satin dresses Natalia passed, the sole black-clad figure, like a defiant exclamation point.

Richard followed, catching small ripples of talk as he wiggled his way through elbows. A conversation between two bow-tied, bespectacled men caught on him like fishhooks.

“I swear, I found steam marks on all my letters. Did you have to take a lie detector test, too?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“It is very disturbing. I didn’t take the Fifth on any of the questions, but with the ones about my lifestyle, I sort of felt like telling them to go to hell.”

“Yeah, I’m with you. I’m sick of all the loyalty oaths. The constant questioning since Ike’s beefed-up executive order. I swear I’d resign, except I’d be shackled with that stigma if I did. Anyone who leaves the State Department these days is just assumed to be a closet Red. Or a gossip you can’t trust. Or a lush. Or Hoover’s pet fear—a homosexual. You can’t get a job anywhere.”

Letters with steam marks? Lie detector tests? Taking the Fifth? Richard stopped to eavesdrop, pretending to warm his hands by the fireplace.

“Maybe it’ll get better with the midterm elections,” one of the men said hopefully.

“Unlikely,” his friend answered. “Not as long as Nixon is VP. I think you were posted over in Scandinavia when he ran for Senate, but the guy basically won on Red-baiting. He was up against Congresswoman Helen Gahagan Douglas. You know, the old Hollywood actress?”

His companion nodded. “She was a New Dealer, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, and a good, gutsy liberal, even if she is a woman. She opposed the Internal Security Act and was against funding HUAC’s hearings. So, you can imagine it was pretty easy for Nixon to paint her as ‘the Pink Lady.’ He actually dared to say that a vote for her was a vote for Stalin. But the most egregious thing”—the man lowered his voice before continuing—“were the penny postcards that his volunteers mailed to every voter right before Election Day, when there wasn’t time for the congresswoman to refute the message.”

His companion shook his head and asked, “Postcards?”

The man smirked. “They read, ‘Vote for Our Helen for Senator. We Are With Her One Hundred Percent.’ And they signed it: the Communist League of Negro Women. It was totally fake. No such group existed.”

His companion exhaled. “Well, that would do her in on two fronts, wouldn’t it? What a dirty trick.”

Richard frowned. He was unused to hearing that kind of criticism of elected officials. His dad basically worshipped President Eisenhower because of his Steady Eddie leadership during World War II. And if the congresswoman was against tightening things up for the sake of national security, then maybe she was a pinko. Like everyone said: if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, then it’s gotta be a duck. But Richard had to admit the postcards didn’t sound ethical at all.

The conversation gave Richard some of the same weird mishmash of thoughts as his exchange with Natalia had. Is this how people who had been friends with the Rosenbergs had felt? Had they ever had sneaking suspicions that they now wished they’d followed up on? How would Agent Philbrick interpret what Richard had just overheard?

Richard scanned the crowd for Don. His dad would know what to think. He spotted Vladimir instead, wading through the crowd toward him.

“There you are, man. I’ve been looking for you!” Vladimir punched Richard’s shoulder. “Natalia’s given me a break from the music. I’m heading to the dining room. I want some of Mom’s vánočka before it’s all gone.”

“Her what?” asked Richard.

“Apple strudel.”

Then why not just call it by its American name, thought Richard with a little bit of irritation. All this Czech stuff could give people the wrong idea about his friend. Couldn’t Vladimir’s family see that?

“Come on.” Vladimir grinned and grabbed Richard’s collar to pull him through the crowd with him. “It’s a Czech Christmas tradition. Mom says that when she was a little girl, her family would feed a piece to the cows on Christmas Eve to make sure there’d be lots of milk all year. And if we eat a piece at Christmas, it’s supposed to bring us good friends in the New Year.”

In the dining room, Richard was happily stuffing himself with the honey-glazed apple bread when Vladimir elbowed him. “Our old men sure seem serious.” He nodded toward the corner, where his father and Don were talking.

The dads stood in front of that exhibit poster Richard had noticed the day Vladimir moved in. In the brightly lit, cheerful Christmas decorations, the artwork’s thick black outlines and dark purples and blues, the people’s downcast looks, seemed even more sorrowful. A strange piece of art to put in a dining room, he thought. But then again, so much of the stuff hanging on the walls of Vladimir’s house seemed odd to him—speckles of primary colors or enormous flowers stretched to the edge of the frame. Nothing like the tame pastel landscapes decorating his house.

This was one of the few times Richard had actually seen Vladimir’s father. Mr. White was always working late, it seemed. He was tall and willowy, an almost frail man, with unusually long, dark eyelashes and a round, animated face. His hair bobbed in short, dark curls as he talked, gesturing enthusiastically, spilling his martini on himself. Don, on the other hand, seemed to be at attention, straight, broad-shouldered in his typical FBI dark blue suit and starched white shirt. He held a Royal Crown Cola bottle.

“What’s with your dad?” Vladimir asked.

“Nothing. He’s just listening to yours.” But Richard recognized that look on Don’s face. He was making mental notes. To outsiders, Don might appear stern in these moments, but really, he was standing post, keeping watch, absorbing information.

“Humph.” Vladimir started toward their fathers. “Let’s go see what they’re talking about.”

Don greeted them. “Hi, son. Good to see you, Vladimir. Wonderful party your folks are throwing! Your dad was just telling me about your time in Prague.”

“Cut short all too soon, I fear, because of the Communist coup,” said Mr. White. “We did love it there, didn’t we, son? I was just bragging about your mother and her involvement with this exhibit.” He pointed to the poster.

“Did you tell him what an idiot that congressman was?” Vladimir asked.

Don cocked his head in surprise at Vladimir. Richard knew that expression, too. If it had been Richard, Don would have warned him to watch his mouth. Disrespecting people who served the country was pretty verboten in Don’s rule book.

Mr. White laughed. “No, no, son. This is Christmas, after all. A time of peace.”

“Come on, Dad. You always tell me to call a spade a spade.”

Mr. White put his arm over Vladimir’s shoulders and gave Don and Richard a diplomat-perfect, inscrutable smile. “It was just a sad set of circumstances. The State Department had gathered the art of many important American artists, like Georgia O’Keeffe and Edward Hopper. We sent the exhibit to Eastern Europe as a way of combating Soviet influence. To show the artistic freedom allowed here in America, in democracy. It was quite a success. Eighteen thousand people came to the show in Prague alone. My wife was very involved in helping to spread the word and then explaining the philosophies and techniques of the exhibited artists to Prague’s news reporters. She knows several of the painters personally.”

He sighed. “But back home, some conservative radio commentators and congressmen decided that the art was…hmmm…Well, their words were dark and depressing. They felt the paintings didn’t adequately portray our happy American opportunities, and in that regard actually forwarded Communism. So the exhibit was recalled.” He cleared his throat. “Tell me, Don, have you ever traveled to Czechoslovakia? Prague is exquisite, like Paris.”

But Teresa had appeared by her husband’s side as he talked, and she interrupted before Don could answer. “Such a tragedy. Complete foolishness. The exhibit was working! The Czech people were much impressed, especially by the honest presentation of the common man’s struggles. Look at this piece by Gwathmey, for instance.” She pointed to the poster. “It’s called Worksong. The Soviets would never allow such an expressive and moving depiction of sadness and fatigue.” She paused, gazing at it. “There is such dignity in these faces. Can you believe that congressman, the one from Michigan—oh, what was his name? Dondero, that’s right. Dondero called this beautiful, soulful painting grotesque. He claimed that”—she made little quotation marks in the air—“‘Expressionism aims to destroy by aping the primitive and insane.’ To destroy? Aping? Insane? I mean, really.” She laughed with derision and ended, “How…provincial.”

“Yes, darling, a disappointment, certainly.” Mr. White looked at Don with obvious discomfort and caution. “But that’s in the past. Recalibrating our efforts is the diplomat’s job. Now, Richard, what are you doing over the holidays?”

Startled by the sudden non sequitur shift to him, Richard stammered slightly. “I…I…I…I’m not sure. See some movies. Read.”

“You should come with us to New York!” Vladimir exclaimed. “We’re going up after New Year’s Eve to see that play I told you about. The one Mom’s friend wrote. Ever seen a play on Broadway?”

Richard shook his head.

“Oh, then come, my dear,” Teresa said. “It will be such fun to have you. Vladimir wants to climb to the crown of the Statue of Liberty again, and I really am not interested in dealing with that rickety spiral staircase. It’s terrifying! You can go with him instead and save me. Yes?”

“Can I, Dad?” Richard asked, half expecting Don to defer to Abigail. She always made the family’s holiday plans. But instead, Don immediately gave permission. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

On the way home, Don pulled Richard toward him on the sidewalk as Ginny skipped ahead with Abigail and Mrs. Emerson. Fortunately for Richard, Don didn’t take the arm that braced the copy of Robin Hood tucked inside his coat.

“Hey, Rich, you might have been right to feel your antennae go up about Teresa’s phone conversation. For starters, I know all about that art exhibit. There was a pretty big stink about how hungry and oppressed the people depicted in those paintings looked—like they were victims of our American way of life. It ruffled a lot of feathers. Half those artists emigrated here from Eastern Europe or Russia or are on our FBI watch lists. Including that guy Gwathmey.

“Do me a favor, son. Keep an eye out when you’re up there in New York City. Think like a G-man. If you notice something odd, remember it. Nice family and all. I genuinely like them. But I’m not so sure about some of their friends.”