Amy Lynn taps the kitchen door, then bursts in. “Guess what, Marty. I’m a pariah.”
“One of those killer fish? I don’t get it.”
“Everybody at school, even the teachers, think I’ve been dyed red since my father’s under suspicion. Anybody who dares to knock on our door can’t miss the FBI spies across the street.”
“They’ve been to my house, too.”
But Amy Lynn’s so steamed that she doesn’t hear. “Becky? Who used to be my best friend? Write her off. Okay, we’re at our lockers, and she’s peeking into mine, like she expects to see some communist propaganda taped to my back wall. Her shoulders sag when she sees it’s a poster of Rock Hudson.”
What, no picture of me?
“So, she says, ‘Um, I was wondering, Amy Lynn, you planning to stay on the cheerleader squad?’ and I tell her, naturally, why wouldn’t I? Becky’s squirming around and whispers, ‘What about other schools?’
“I slam my locker so hard that it flies open again and Rock Hudson falls off the wall. Thing is, she’s afraid when we go to Moundridge or Hesston for a game, that they’ll think our whole school’s turned red. Maybe friends should have to sign loyalty oaths.”
Now it dawns on me: pariah. It’s not a killer fish. It’s like when you’re the cheese standing alone.
“I’m getting the same cold shoulder from Connor and the other guys on the team.” Haven’t got the heart to admit to her, or anyone, that I’ve been kicked off the Pirates.
“It’s all so grossly unfair,” says Amy Lynn. “I am not one iota political. I couldn’t find the Soviet Union on a map if it was painted red and had flashing neon lights all around it! But then, Becky hits me with the blinding truth: ‘It’s just that, well, suspicion, it’s like measles. Nobody wants to catch it from, well, your father. What if he gives the feds my parents’ names?’ My jaw drops, and I can’t even think of a word of response.”
By now I’m reaching for the radio. Ever since Mom figured the house is bugged, if we want to discuss anything more important than an episode of Crusader Rabbit, we need the hi-fi blaring, or else we huddle in the bathroom where rushing water and flushing toilets muffle our voices.
“And here’s the worst part,” Amy Lynn says. “My father’s lawyer, Mr. Fein? He’s coaching Pop for his HUAC testimony. He actually is telling Pop to come up with a list of names—people he can call communists, to give the HUAC more to do and to get himself off the hook. Off the hook, what a terrible expression. It sounds like cow carcasses hanging in a meat locker.”
“It’s what they did to the Rosenbergs,” I say, nodding. “Not hanging them in a meat locker, but asking for names, which they wouldn’t give, even though Mrs. Rosenberg’s own brother testified against her to save his skin and his wife’s.”
“It’s all about loyalty, isn’t it? This whole circus.”
“And we’re the clowns.”
Amy Lynn begins washing the tower of dirty dishes (my job) and tosses me the towel while I tell her, “The latest is that the government promised Mrs. Rosenberg that they’d spare her life if she’d offer evidence against her husband. She said no. Said they were both innocent, so she had no evidence to give, even if she’d wanted to.”
“Oh, Marty, that is so beautiful. That restores my faith that love triumphs over all.”
“Yep.” Actually, it made me wonder what I would do to save my own neck. Hey, where did that expression come from? “Which do you think would be worse, Amy Lynn, dying in the electric chair, or hanging?”
“Ga-ROSS, Martin. How do you come up with such stuff?”
Here goes. “Those FBI guys, they came to our house and threatened my mom.”
This time she heard it. “They didn’t!”
“Yep. And they’re asking a bunch of questions. I haven’t told anyone but it feels like everyone knows, you know? Neighbors, teachers, even the guys on the baseball team.”
Amy Lynn links her soap-sudsy pinky through mine. Almost like holding a human hand. “Let’s face it, Martin Rafner, our parents are ruining our lives.”
♢
Mr. Sokolov, my bar mitzvah tutor, is visiting. He unsnaps his leather briefcase and takes out a twenty-pounder, a book that’s got gold pages and fancy red and gold and blue curlicues in the margins. Hebrew on the right column, English on the left. He points to the heading on the page: “Read.”
“Vayera. Hey, that’s my Torah portion!” Amazing, I recognize it.
“Excellent. Read.”
I’ve figured out that Mr. Sokolov loves a good, juicy discussion, and if I get him going, we’ll use up the whole hour in English instead my stumbling through the Hebrew. “So, I have a question. Here in Genesis 18, God threatens to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah because people there are evil, right? But Abraham has the guts to wheel and deal with God. Asks, would you spare the place for the sake of fifty innocent people? Sure, for fifty, God says. How about forty? Yeah, okay, for forty I won’t wipe out those two evil cities. For thirty? . . . And Abraham keeps bargaining with God until they get down to ten innocent people. Sold! Like it’s an auction.”
Mr. Sokolov gently closes the gold book. “Not exactly, but go on.
“So, doesn’t the Lie-Mongering, Red-Baiting Carnivore—”
“Who, Marty?”
“McCarthy.”
“Ah.” Mr. Sokolov nods.
“He thinks everybody’s guilty. Wouldn’t you think he’d spare the rest of us for the sake of, say, ten innocent non-commies?”
“I see where you’re going with this.”
“So?”
“Very clever.” Mr. Sokolov smiles and opens the book to Vayera again. “Read, please.”
No word from Milgrim and Kluski yet. Waiting.