The chairman’s comments are getting more and more snide. “Allow me to rephrase the previous question for elegance, Mrs. Rafner. Are you currently a member of the Communist Party USA?”
“Mr. Chairman, please let the record show that I ardently object to that question—”
“Are you, or are you not?” He’s just about spitting into the mic now.
“If you would let me finish my sentence, Senator, you would have your response.”
“Which is what?”
“I am not.”
“Not what?”
“I am not a member of the Communist Party USA.”
Phew! She’s finally said it!
Vic whispers, “Note the wording. She’s being very precise and specific.”
The chairman’s no numbskull. “Are you a member of any other communist party, domestic or international.”
“I am not.”’
Okay, home free—but one look at Dad tells me the inning could end with Mom stuck on base.
Now the senator’s breathing the words into the mic. “Have you ever been a member of a communist organization, domestic or international?”
Mom hesitates so she can choose the right words, like a true poet.
“Are you hedging? Are you refusing to answer the question?”
“No, sir, I am neither hedging nor refusing, although I repeat, I object to this line of questioning as a constitutional violation. Nevertheless, my answer: The FBI has informed me that two groups with which I was briefly affiliated, perhaps ten years ago, are on the dubious list of communist front organizations, although I do not believe they merit that designation, nor was I engaged in any communist activity while—”
The chairman flips through a stack of pages. “Might the groups you’re referring to be the Congress of American Women and the National Council of the Arts, Sciences, and Professions?”
“Yes, Mr. Chairman. Both groups have no political motivations other than to promote professional standards and equity for—”
Well, next they start asking if she knows a billion other people who’ve been members, and who they say also belong to commie organizations.
After each name Mom says, “I respectfully decline to respond, according to my Fifth Amendment rights.”
Name after name, respectfully decline, until the chairman growls, “Let the record show that Mrs. Rafner is a most unfriendly witness. Diminished Fifth, indeed.”
Like Yogi Berra says, baseball is ninety per cent mental, the other half physical. Mom’s holding her own mentally. Barely touching First with her big toe, she’s ready to steal.
Me, I’m not doing so well. With my feet propped on Mom’s train case, and the overhead fans whirling, and the flashbulbs firing, and Dad clutching my arm, I am sweating like a warthog. Is this how Robby and Michael Rosenberg felt when their parents were on the stand?
Scared or not, my stomach’s growling. Sheesh, did the senators hear it? Because the chairman says, “Mrs. Rafner, we shall adjourn for lunch and reconvene in this room in ninety minutes. Promptly.” The gavel banging echoes through the room, and Mom stands up, wobbly on those pointy heels.
“Mrs. Rafner! Dr. Weitz! Rosalie!” Reporters in the hall stick microphones in her face and call her by every name except Lassie to get her attention, but Quincy and Vic make sure nobody says a word as we’re herded out to Broadway.
One Associated Press guy stops us in our tracks, though. “Did you hear the news from Sing Sing? The Supreme Court ruled against the Rosenbergs’ latest appeal for a stay of execution. Comment?”
Mom tries not to react, but she mutters under her breath, “Now their only hope is an appeal to Eisenhower for clemency. Good God.”
All the newsies scribble down that comment, of course.
Things are looking grim for the home team. We hoof it back to the hotel coffee shop, first stopping for messages. Bubbie Sylvia called twice.
“You’d better call back, Rosie. Maybe she has something.”
Mom steps into the phone booth in the lobby. The rest of us, including the lawyers, cluster around the booth. A fistful of change jingles down the throat of the pay phone. It’s hard to read her face, and her hands are waving around like they always do when she talks to Bubbie—somewhere between a hug and a slug.
She lets the phone dangle by the cord and pushes her way out of the booth. I rush in after her.
“Bubbie?” I yell into the phone. “What’s going on?”
“Oy, sweetheart, I’ve been through every inch of the storage locker, every carton, every drawer, every closet. I even went to my safe deposit box at First Federal. Nothing.”
“How’s that possible? You remember the day, the certificate, the snapshot.”
“Could I have thrown it out? By accident, of course. I don’t know what to do for my Rosalie. Tell me, what’s happening there, in the hearing?”
“Mom’s holding her own, but they’re starting to turn the screws.”
“Okay, sweetheart. Listen, I’ll just keep looking. Maybe there’s some spot I missed. So, you should go have lunch. A nice pickled tongue sandwich, maybe?”
Not a chance. At the hotel coffee shop, lunch is grease with a hamburger patty coagulating in it, inside a soggy bun, and fries that must have been cooked last week.
And now, the seventh inning stretch is over, and we’re back in the game. The chairman’s warmed up, pitching spitballs and sliders, and we’re about to find out if Mom can keep on slugging.