I shook my head. I had heard the words, but my brain wouldn't accept them. “What can we do about it?” I asked.
Earl's gaze held my eyes. “Not a damn thing, farm boy.”
I turned away.
My MGM attorney played a recording of the Holmes hearing for me that night. Mr. Holmes and his attorney, an old Virginia family friend named Cranmer, were used to the ways of Washington and the ways of law. They expected an orderly proceeding, the gentlemen of the committee asking polite questions of the gentlemen witnesses.
The plan had no relation to reality. The committee barely let Mr. Holmes talk—instead they screamed at him, rants full of vicious innuendo and hearsay, and he was never allowed to reply.
I was given a copy of the transcript. Part of it reads like this:
Mr. RANKIN: When I look at this disgusting New Deal man who sits before the committee, with his smarty-pants manners and Bond Street clothes and his effete cigarette holder, everything that is American and Christian in me revolts at the sight. The New Deal man! That damned New Deal permeates him like a cancer, and I want to scream, “You're everything that's wrong with America. Get out and go back to Red China where you belong, you New Deal socialist! In China they'll welcome you and your treachery.”
CHAIRMAN: The honorable member's time has expired.
Mr. RANKIN: Thank you, Mr. Chairman.
CHAIRMAN: Mr. Nixon?
Mr. NIXON: What were the names of those people in the State Department who you consulted with prior to your journey to China?
WITNESS: May I remind the committee that those with whom I dealt were American public servants acting in good faith . . .
MR. NIXON: The committee is not interested in their records. Just their names.
The transcript goes on and on, eighty pages of it altogether. Mr. Holmes had, it appeared, stabbed the generalissimo in the back and lost China to the Reds. He was accused of being soft on communism, just like that parlor-pink Henry Wallace, who he supported for the presidency. John Rankin of Mississippi—probably the weirdest voice on the committee—accused Mr. Holmes of being part of the Jewish-Red conspiracy that had crucified Our Savior. Richard Nixon of California kept asking after names—he wanted to know the people Mr. Holmes consulted with in the State Department so that he could do to them what he'd already done to Alger Hiss. Mr. Holmes didn't give any names and pleaded the First Amendment. That's when the committee really rose to its feet in righteous indignation: they mauled him for hours, and the next day they sent down an indictment for contempt of Congress. Mr. Holmes was on his way to the penitentiary.
He was going to prison, and he hadn't committed a single crime.
“Jesus Christ. I've got to talk to Earl and David.”
“I've already advised you against that, Mr. Braun.”
“The hell with that. We've got to make plans.”
“Listen to him, honey.”
“The hell with that.” The sound of a bottle clinking against a glass. “There's got to be a way out of this.”
When I got to Mr. Holmes's suite, he'd been given a sedative and put to bed. Earl told me that Blythe and Tachyon had gotten their subpoenas and would arrive the next day. We couldn't understand why. Blythe never had any part in the political decisions, and Tachyon hadn't had anything to do with China or American politics at all.
David was called the next morning. He was grinning as he went in. He was going to get even for all of us.
Mr. RANKIN: I would like to assure the Jewish gentleman from New York that he will encounter no bias on account of his race. Any man who believes in the fundamental principles of Christianity and lives up to them, whether he is Catholic or Protestant, has my respect and confidence.
WITNESS: May I say to the committee that I object to the characterization of “Jewish gentleman.”
Mr. RANKIN: Do you object to being called a Jew or being called a gentleman? What are you kicking about?
After that rocky start, David's pheromones began to infiltrate the room, and though he didn't quite have the committee dancing in a circle and singing “Hava Nagila,” he did have them genially agreeing to cancel the subpoenas, call off the hearings, draft a resolution praising the Aces as patriots, send a letter to Mr. Holmes apologizing for their conduct, revoke the contempt of Congress citations for the Hollywood Ten, and in general make fools out of themselves for several hours, right in front of the newsreel cameras. John Rankin called David “America's little Hebe friend,” high praise from him. David waltzed out, we saw that ear-to-ear grin, and we pounded him on the back and headed back to the Statler for a celebration.
We had opened the third bottle of champagne when the hotel dick opened the door and congressional aides delivered a new round of subpoenas. We turned on the radio and heard Chairman John Wood give a live address about how David had used “mind control of the type practiced in the Pavlov Institute in Communist Russia,” and that this deadly form of attack would be investigated in full.
I sat down on the bed and stared at the bubbles rising in my champagne glass.
The Fear had come again.
Blythe went in the next morning. Her hands were trembling. David was turned away by hall guards wearing gas masks.
There were trucks with chemical-warfare symbols out front. I found out later that if we tried to fight our way out, they were going to use phosgene on us.
They were constructing a glass booth in the hearing room. David would testify in isolation, through a microphone. The control of the mike was in John Wood's hands.
Apparently HUAC were as shaken as we, because their questioning was a little disjointed. They asked her about China, and since she'd gone in a scientific capacity she didn't have any answers for them about the political decisions. Then they asked her about the nature of her power, how exactly she absorbed minds and what she did with them. It was all fairly polite. Henry van Renssaeler was still a congressman, after all, and professional courtesy dictated they not suggest his wife ran his mind for him.
They sent Blythe out and called in Tachyon. He was dressed in a peach-colored coat and Hessian boots with tassels. He'd been ignoring his attorney's advice all along—he went in with the attitude of an aristocrat whose reluctant duty was to correct the misapprehensions of the mob.
He outsmarted himself completely, and the committee ripped him to shreds. They nailed him for being an illegal alien, then stomped over him for being responsible for releasing the wild card virus, and to top it all off they demanded the names of the aces he'd treated, just in case some of them happened to be evil infiltrators influencing the minds of America at the behest of Uncle Joe Stalin. Tachyon refused.
They deported him.
* * *
Harstein went in the next day, accompanied by a file of Marines dressed for chemical warfare. Once they had him in the glass booth they tore into him just as they had Mr. Holmes. John Wood held the button on the mike and would never let him talk, not even to answer when Rankin called him a slimy kike, right there in public. When he finally got his chance to speak, David denounced the committee as a bunch of Nazis. That sounded to Mr. Wood like contempt of Congress.
By the end of the hearing, David was going to prison, too.
Congress adjourned for the weekend. Earl and I were going before the committee on Monday next.
We sat in Mr. Holmes's suite Friday night and listened to the radio, and it was all bad. The American Legion was organizing demonstrations in support of the committee all around the country. There were rounds of subpoenas going out to people over the country who were known to have ace abilities—no deformed jokers got called, because they'd look bad on camera. My agent had left a message telling me that Chrysler wanted their car back, and that the Chesterfield people had called and were worried.
I drank a bottle of scotch. Blythe and Tachyon were in hiding somewhere. David and Mr. Holmes were zombies, sitting in the corner, their eyes sunken, turned inward to their own personal agony. None of us had anything to say, ex
cept Earl. “I'll take the First Amendment, and damn them all,” he said. “If they put me in prison, I'll fly to Switzerland.”
I gazed into my drink. “I can't fly, Earl,” I said.
“Sure you can, farm boy,” he said. “You told me yourself.”
“I can't fly, dammit! Leave me alone.”
I couldn't stand it anymore, and took another bottle with me and went to bed. Kim wanted to talk and I just turned my back and pretended to be asleep.
“Yes, Mr. Mayer.”
“Jack? This is terrible, Jack, just terrible.”
“Yes, it is. These bastards, Mr. Mayer. They're going to wreck us.”
“Just do what the lawyer says, Jack. You'll be fine. Do the brave thing.”
“Brave?” Laughter. “Brave?”
“It's the right thing, Jack. You're a hero. They can't touch you. Just tell them what you know, and America will love you for it.”
“You want me to be a rat.”
“Jack, Jack. Don't use those kind of words. It's a patriotic thing I want you to do. The right thing. I want you to be a hero. And I want you to know there's always a place at Metro for a hero.”
“How many people are gonna buy tickets to see a rat, Mr. Mayer? How many?”
“Give the phone to the lawyer, Jack. I want to talk to him. You be a good boy and do what he says.”
“The hell I will.”
“Jack. What can I do with you? Let me talk to the lawyer.”
Earl was floating outside my window. Raindrops sparkled on the goggles perched atop his flying helmet. Kim glared at him and left the room. I got out of bed and went to the window and opened it. He flew in, dropped his boots onto the carpet, and lit a smoke.
“You don't look so good, Jack.”
“I have a hangover, Earl.”
He pulled a folded Washington Star out of his pocket. “I have something here that'll sober you up. Have you seen the paper?”
“No. I haven't seen a damn thing.”
He opened it. The headline read: STALIN ANNOUNCES SUPPORT FOR ACES.
I sat on the bed and reached for the bottle. “Jesus.”
Earl threw the paper down. “He wants us to go down. We kept him out of Berlin, for god's sake. He has no reason to love us. He's persecuting his own wild card talents over there.”
“The bastard, the bastard.” I closed my eyes. Colors throbbed on the backs of my lids. “Got a butt?” I asked. He gave me one, and a light from his wartime Zippo. I leaned back in bed and rubbed the bristles on my chin.
“The way I see it,” Earl said, “we're going to have ten bad years. Maybe we'll even have to leave the country.” He shook his head. “And then we'll be heroes again. It'll take at least that long.”
“You sure know how to cheer a guy up.”
He laughed. The cigarette tasted vile. I washed the taste away with scotch.
The smile left Earl's face, and he shook his head. “It's the people that are going to be called after us—those are the ones I'm sorry for. There's going to be a witch hunt in this country for years to come.” He shook his head. “The NAACP is paying for my lawyer. I just might give him back. I don't want any organization associated with me. It'll just make it harder for them later.”
“Mayer's been on the phone.”
“Mayer.” He grimaced. “If only those guys who run the studios had stood up when the Ten went before the committee. If they'd shown some guts none of this would ever have happened.” He gave me a look. “You'd better get a new lawyer. Unless you take the Fifth.” He frowned. “The Fifth is quicker. They just ask you your name, you say you won't answer, then it's over.”
“What difference does the lawyer make, then?”
“You've got a point there.” He gave me a ragged grin. “It really isn't going to make any difference, is it? Whatever we say or do. The committee will do what they want, either way.”
“Yeah. It's over.”
His grin turned, as he looked at me, to a soft smile. For a moment, I saw the glow that Lillian had said surrounded him. Here he was, on the verge of losing everything he'd worked for, about to be used as a weapon that would cudgel the civil rights movement and anti-fascism and anti-imperialism and labor and everything else that mattered to him, knowing that his name would be anathema, that anyone he'd ever associated with would soon be facing the same treatment . . . and he'd accepted it all somehow, saddened of course, but still solid within himself. The Fear hadn't even come close to touching him. He wasn't afraid of the committee, of disgrace, of the loss of his position and standing. He didn't regret an instant of his life, a moment's dedication to his beliefs.
“It's over?” he said. There was a fire in his eyes. “Hell, Jack,” he laughed, “it's not over. One committee hearing ain't the war. We're aces. They can't take that away. Right?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“I better leave you to fix your hangover.” He went to the window. “Time for my morning constitutional, anyway.”
“See you later.”
He gave me the thumbs-up sign as he threw a leg over the sill. “Take care, farm boy.”
“You too.”
I got out of bed to close the window just as the drizzle turned to downpour. I looked outside into the street. People were running for cover.
“Earl really was a Communist, Jack. He belonged to the party for years, he went to Moscow to study. Listen, darling”—imploring now—“you can't help him. He's going to get crucified no matter what you do.”
“I can show him he ain't alone on the cross.”
“Swell. Just swell. I'm married to a martyr. Just tell me, how are you helping your friends by taking the Fifth? Holmes isn't coming back to public life. David's hustled himself right into prison. Tachyon's being deported. And Earl's doomed, sure as anything. You can't even carry their cross for them.”
“Now who's being sarcastic?”
Screaming now. “Will you put down that bottle and listen to me? This is something your country wants you to do! It's the right thing!”
I couldn't stand it anymore, so I went for a walk in the cold February afternoon. I hadn't eaten all day and I had a bottle of whiskey in me, and the traffic kept hissing past as I walked, the rain drizzling in my face, soaking through my light California jacket, and I didn't notice any of it. I just thought of those faces, Wood and Rankin and Francis Case, the faces and the hateful eyes and the parade of constant insinuations, and then I started running for the Capitol. I was going to find the committee and smash them, bang heads together, make them run gabbling in fear. I'd brought democracy to Argentina, for crissake, and I could bring it to Washington the same way.
The Capitol windows were dark. Cold rain gleamed on the marble. No one was there. I prowled around looking for an open door, and then finally I bashed through a side entrance and headed straight for the committee room. I yanked the door open and stepped inside.
It was empty, of course. I don't know why I was so surprised. There were only a few spotlights on. David's glass booth gleamed in the soft light like a piece of fine crystal. Camera and radio equipment sat in its place. The chairman's gavel glowed with brass and polish. Somehow, as I stood like an imbecile in the hushed silence of the room, the anger went out of me.
I sat down in one of the chairs and tried to remember what I was doing here. It was clear the Four Aces were doomed. We were bound by the law and by decency, and the committee was not. The only way we could fight them was to break the law, to rise up in their smug faces and smash the committee room to bits, laughing as the congressmen dived for cover beneath their desks. And if we did that we'd become what we fought, an extralegal force for terror and violence. We'd become what the committee claimed we were. And that would only make things worse.
The Aces were going down, and nothing could stop it.
As I came down the Capitol steps, I felt perfectly sober. No matter how much I'd had to drink, the booze couldn't stop me from knowing what I knew, from seeing the situation in all i
ts appalling, overwhelming clarity.
I knew, I'd known all along, and I couldn't pretend that I didn't.
I walked into the lobby next morning with Kim on one side and the lawyer on the other. Earl was in the lobby, with Lillian standing there clutching her purse.
I couldn't look at them. I walked past them, and the Marines in their gas masks opened the door, and I walked into the hearing room and announced my intention to testify before the committee as a friendly witness.
Later, the committee developed a procedure for friendly witnesses. There would be a closed session first, just the witness and the committee, a sort of dress rehearsal so that everyone would know what they were going to talk about and what information was going to be developed, so things would go smoothly in public session. That procedure hadn't been developed when I testified, so everything went a little roughly.
I sweated under the spotlights, so terrified I could barely speak—all I could see were those nine sets of evil little eyes staring at me from across the room, and all I could hear were their voices, booming at me from the loudspeakers like the voice of God.
Wood started off, asking me the opening questions: who I was, where I lived, what I did for a living. Then he started going into my associations, starting with Earl. His time ran out and he turned me over to Kearney.
“Are you aware that Mr. Sanderson was once a member of the Communist party?”
I didn't even hear the question. Kearney had to repeat it.
“Huh? Oh. He told me, yes.”
“Do you know if he is currently a member?”