look.
81
He was all business. Out came the notebook and pencil. He flipped pages and looked up at Dad. “Mr.
Morse, I really appreciate this chance to talk with you. I saw the McCarthy committee hearing on television when you pleaded the First—”
“I know taking a plea is a legal phrase,” Dad said, “but I vastly prefer saying that I asserted my First Amendment rights.”
Paul nodded. “Point taken, sir.”
I settled back into the softness of the couch. Times like this I like Dad’s pedantry. Correct away, Pops!
“Do you consider yourself a ‘political prisoner’?” Paul asked, poised to write down Dad’s answer.
“Well.” Dad folded up his paper and set it on the little table next to his chair. “I’m accused and convicted of a crime. But what kind of crime did I commit? I didn’t rob a bank. I didn’t break into someone’s home. I didn’t physically attack anyone. I certainly didn’t commit murder.
What have I done? I don’t have guns hidden under my sofa, but I do have ideas in my head. And I’ve taken political positions some people don’t like.”
“Unfortunately for you, important people,” Paul said.
“Sadly.” Dad nodded. “So I’m named as a Communist, and the Communist Party is a political party. I’m then fired from my job because of that political name-calling.
And in this country right now one isn’t simply identified as a Communist, one is vilified.” Dad looked carefully at Paul to see if he understood.
82
“Maligned,” Paul said.
Of course. “Vilify” had been one of Paul’s words in the Record office when he rejected an attack piece on the head of the cafeteria. “Just tell the story,” he said. “No need to vilify . The facts are damning enough.” Dad looked like he was enjoying this exchange. “Then I’m summoned to testify before Senator McCarthy’s sub-committee, part of the political structure of our government. The Senator orders me to name names of people I supposedly know are Communists. Footnote here,” and Dad makes what looks like an asterisk in the air, “naming names is a form of name-calling these days.” Paul wrote furiously in his notebook. So far nothing about life in prison, which is what I’m afraid to hear about.
“I told the Senator I believe that in a democracy no one should be forced under compulsion of law to say how he voted, what church, if any, he attends, et cetera, et cetera.
You don’t like my beliefs, fine. But I’ve a right to them and, equally important, the right to express them without fear of government harassment.
“Bottom line,” Dad continued, “it’s none of your business. And if I won’t tell you about my political convictions, surely you understand I won’t talk about anyone else’s.” Dad stretched his feet out in front of him and lightly tapped the arms of the chair. “I believe in democracy and free speech, and I condemn any government that gags the speech of its citizens.”
83
Paul’s pencil was suspended in midair. “But haven’t you supported the Soviet system, which is a dictatorship?” Dad took a deep breath. “When the revolution happened, I was so hopeful. Many of us were. We thought the world had finally found a way to end poverty.” Dad blinked rapidly, his eyes like windshield wipers clearing a mist. “Some people say we were naïve. Perhaps, but I still believe it was a worthy ideal.”
“But now we know,” Paul said, “Stalin ran a murderous regime.” Dad shook his head as if in disgust. “A complete betrayal of the ideals of the revolution.” This is so weird, because Dad left the Communist Party back in 1939 at the time of the Stalin-Hitler pact, way before Senator McCarthy questioned him. Paul didn’t know that, and actually I hadn’t either until he was fired.
“But Dad,” I said, “you weren’t even in the party when Senator McCarthy went after you.”
“It’s okay for you, Jamie, and you, Paul, to ask me about my politics, but not for the
81
He was all business. Out came the notebook and pencil. He flipped pages and looked up at Dad. “Mr.
Morse, I really appreciate this chance to talk with you. I saw the McCarthy committee hearing on television when you pleaded the First—”
“I know taking a plea is a legal phrase,” Dad said, “but I vastly prefer saying that I asserted my First Amendment rights.”
Paul nodded. “Point taken, sir.”
I settled back into the softness of the couch. Times like this I like Dad’s pedantry. Correct away, Pops!
“Do you consider yourself a ‘political prisoner’?” Paul asked, poised to write down Dad’s answer.
“Well.” Dad folded up his paper and set it on the little table next to his chair. “I’m accused and convicted of a crime. But what kind of crime did I commit? I didn’t rob a bank. I didn’t break into someone’s home. I didn’t physically attack anyone. I certainly didn’t commit murder.
What have I done? I don’t have guns hidden under my sofa, but I do have ideas in my head. And I’ve taken political positions some people don’t like.”
“Unfortunately for you, important people,” Paul said.
“Sadly.” Dad nodded. “So I’m named as a Communist, and the Communist Party is a political party. I’m then fired from my job because of that political name-calling.
And in this country right now one isn’t simply identified as a Communist, one is vilified.” Dad looked carefully at Paul to see if he understood.
82
“Maligned,” Paul said.
Of course. “Vilify” had been one of Paul’s words in the Record office when he rejected an attack piece on the head of the cafeteria. “Just tell the story,” he said. “No need to vilify . The facts are damning enough.” Dad looked like he was enjoying this exchange. “Then I’m summoned to testify before Senator McCarthy’s sub-committee, part of the political structure of our government. The Senator orders me to name names of people I supposedly know are Communists. Footnote here,” and Dad makes what looks like an asterisk in the air, “naming names is a form of name-calling these days.” Paul wrote furiously in his notebook. So far nothing about life in prison, which is what I’m afraid to hear about.
“I told the Senator I believe that in a democracy no one should be forced under compulsion of law to say how he voted, what church, if any, he attends, et cetera, et cetera.
You don’t like my beliefs, fine. But I’ve a right to them and, equally important, the right to express them without fear of government harassment.
“Bottom line,” Dad continued, “it’s none of your business. And if I won’t tell you about my political convictions, surely you understand I won’t talk about anyone else’s.” Dad stretched his feet out in front of him and lightly tapped the arms of the chair. “I believe in democracy and free speech, and I condemn any government that gags the speech of its citizens.”
83
Paul’s pencil was suspended in midair. “But haven’t you supported the Soviet system, which is a dictatorship?” Dad took a deep breath. “When the revolution happened, I was so hopeful. Many of us were. We thought the world had finally found a way to end poverty.” Dad blinked rapidly, his eyes like windshield wipers clearing a mist. “Some people say we were naïve. Perhaps, but I still believe it was a worthy ideal.”
“But now we know,” Paul said, “Stalin ran a murderous regime.” Dad shook his head as if in disgust. “A complete betrayal of the ideals of the revolution.” This is so weird, because Dad left the Communist Party back in 1939 at the time of the Stalin-Hitler pact, way before Senator McCarthy questioned him. Paul didn’t know that, and actually I hadn’t either until he was fired.
“But Dad,” I said, “you weren’t even in the party when Senator McCarthy went after you.”
“It’s okay for you, Jamie, and you, Paul, to ask me about my politics, but not for the
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