threatens to…something about a loyalty oath…He’s been talking to the FBI in secret, they say.” He paused and glanced at me. “I’m sorry.”
Max grinned at me. “Sol and I stay up all night discussing Hollywood and the witch-hunt.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s my only story, I’m afraid. Miss Ferber, I helped organize the Committee for the First Amendment to fight back. We need to do battle. I’m…driven.” For the first time he grinned, and his face came alive, wrinkled, rutted, but filled with vitality and force. You saw a man who seemed a hard-boiled sort but was really a softie out of a Dashiell Hammett novel, a stocky man in a baggy double-breasted seersucker suit with a Hoover collar, an ex-boxer type, the pugnacious man who stops to play with children. But a man who could not disguise his nervousness.
Alice pointed at him. “Your Cousin Irving.”
That made little sense to me. “What?” I had no cousins named Irving. I’d know. I did have a pesky older sister named Fanny, and she was trial enough.
Max explained, “Sol plays Cousin Irving on The Goldbergs . You know, Gertrude Berg’s wildly popular television show. He started when it was on the radio, but now he’s on television. A star, can you imagine? Molly Goldberg. You know, the nosy woman hanging out of the tenement window, yelling, ‘Yoo hoo, come in, you’ll have a nice glass tea and we’ll talk some.’ Irving is her nebbish cousin, the sad sack in an unpressed, oversized suit, a blunderer…”
“I don’t have a television. Never will. A full meal of no nourishment.”
Sol burst out laughing, enjoying the moment. “For that, all Hollywood moguls like Louis B. Mayer will applaud you.”
“Cousin Irving’s hugely popular, Edna,” Alice added. “He fights with his son, Moshe the doctor.”
“I’ll bet.” I spoke too quickly and, I feared, too snarkily. I could envision the hapless Sol with his Borscht Belt vaudeville slapstick, all buffoon and droopy face.
“Did you read Max’s letter?” Sol suddenly asked me.
“Of course,” I answered. “I can recite parts by heart.” Max wrote of being an American, and deeply proud of it, and the need for a voice of reason in the savage wilderness of accusation and calumny. By law, he stressed, American citizens could not be forced to disclose their political viewpoints, and yet, perversely, these poor men were commanded to do so. “My favorite line: ‘Now we will create American concentration camps for the honest naysayers.’” I liked that. “Noble.”
“They want him to recant,” Sol told me.
“What does that mean?”
“To join a patriotic organization like the American Legion, I guess. To sign a loyalty pledge. To apologize. He should admit any errors he made. Penance.” Sol turned to Max. “But he’s unrepentant.”
Max shrugged, the Yiddish comic by way of Jack Benny. “So what’s to repent?”
“Metro unloaded Doc Trumbo, others. Fox booted out Ring Lardner, Jr. Hollywood has few heroes these days. But Max is one.” He saluted him.
“For God’s sake, Solly, I’m not a saint. I said what I had to say. You got to speak up for your friends. I’m not Thomas Paine.” He grinned. “Just your garden-variety pain in the tuckus .”
“A hero.” Sol looked at me, awe in his voice. “I couldn’t have written that letter.” Then, slowly, “Max’s touch is all over Show Boat but his name has been erased.”
I harrumphed, grandly. “I aim to see about that.”
“Edna, don’t. Not for me.” From Max, pleading.
“You’ll be blacklisted, Miss Ferber, and branded a Commie sympathizer,” Sol said.
“I’ve been called a lot of things, sir, but I think my Americanism speaks for itself.”
Max hesitated. “I thought mine did, too.” A gleam in his eye. “Though I did cast a vote for FDR.”
Sol added, “America has become a dangerous place.”
Silence: the weight of the declaration, awful and raw.
I sat there, staring from
Max grinned at me. “Sol and I stay up all night discussing Hollywood and the witch-hunt.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s my only story, I’m afraid. Miss Ferber, I helped organize the Committee for the First Amendment to fight back. We need to do battle. I’m…driven.” For the first time he grinned, and his face came alive, wrinkled, rutted, but filled with vitality and force. You saw a man who seemed a hard-boiled sort but was really a softie out of a Dashiell Hammett novel, a stocky man in a baggy double-breasted seersucker suit with a Hoover collar, an ex-boxer type, the pugnacious man who stops to play with children. But a man who could not disguise his nervousness.
Alice pointed at him. “Your Cousin Irving.”
That made little sense to me. “What?” I had no cousins named Irving. I’d know. I did have a pesky older sister named Fanny, and she was trial enough.
Max explained, “Sol plays Cousin Irving on The Goldbergs . You know, Gertrude Berg’s wildly popular television show. He started when it was on the radio, but now he’s on television. A star, can you imagine? Molly Goldberg. You know, the nosy woman hanging out of the tenement window, yelling, ‘Yoo hoo, come in, you’ll have a nice glass tea and we’ll talk some.’ Irving is her nebbish cousin, the sad sack in an unpressed, oversized suit, a blunderer…”
“I don’t have a television. Never will. A full meal of no nourishment.”
Sol burst out laughing, enjoying the moment. “For that, all Hollywood moguls like Louis B. Mayer will applaud you.”
“Cousin Irving’s hugely popular, Edna,” Alice added. “He fights with his son, Moshe the doctor.”
“I’ll bet.” I spoke too quickly and, I feared, too snarkily. I could envision the hapless Sol with his Borscht Belt vaudeville slapstick, all buffoon and droopy face.
“Did you read Max’s letter?” Sol suddenly asked me.
“Of course,” I answered. “I can recite parts by heart.” Max wrote of being an American, and deeply proud of it, and the need for a voice of reason in the savage wilderness of accusation and calumny. By law, he stressed, American citizens could not be forced to disclose their political viewpoints, and yet, perversely, these poor men were commanded to do so. “My favorite line: ‘Now we will create American concentration camps for the honest naysayers.’” I liked that. “Noble.”
“They want him to recant,” Sol told me.
“What does that mean?”
“To join a patriotic organization like the American Legion, I guess. To sign a loyalty pledge. To apologize. He should admit any errors he made. Penance.” Sol turned to Max. “But he’s unrepentant.”
Max shrugged, the Yiddish comic by way of Jack Benny. “So what’s to repent?”
“Metro unloaded Doc Trumbo, others. Fox booted out Ring Lardner, Jr. Hollywood has few heroes these days. But Max is one.” He saluted him.
“For God’s sake, Solly, I’m not a saint. I said what I had to say. You got to speak up for your friends. I’m not Thomas Paine.” He grinned. “Just your garden-variety pain in the tuckus .”
“A hero.” Sol looked at me, awe in his voice. “I couldn’t have written that letter.” Then, slowly, “Max’s touch is all over Show Boat but his name has been erased.”
I harrumphed, grandly. “I aim to see about that.”
“Edna, don’t. Not for me.” From Max, pleading.
“You’ll be blacklisted, Miss Ferber, and branded a Commie sympathizer,” Sol said.
“I’ve been called a lot of things, sir, but I think my Americanism speaks for itself.”
Max hesitated. “I thought mine did, too.” A gleam in his eye. “Though I did cast a vote for FDR.”
Sol added, “America has become a dangerous place.”
Silence: the weight of the declaration, awful and raw.
I sat there, staring from
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