Thirty Pieces of Silver

A Play in Three Acts

Howard Fast

CONTENTS

ACT I

Scene One

Scene Two

ACT II

Scene One

Scene Two

ACT III

A Biography of Howard Fast

DEDICATION

To the thousands of American anti-fascists who wear the mantle of their country’s honor nobly and proudly

INTRODUCTION

TOWARD the end of 1947, a Broadway producer who had read two plays of mine which he did not feel were right for production, suggested that I write about something close and meaningful to me. He signed a contract for an option on this yet unwritten play and gave me his verbal assurances that if it had any merit whatsoever, he would produce it. Almost a year later, I handed him the first draft of Thirty Pieces of Silver. He read it through and dismissed it with one word—‘impossible’.

So ended my modest and brief flirtation with the Broadway theatre. While I was serving a short prison sentence for Contempt of Congress, an earlier play of mine was prepared for production off Broadway; but neither the play nor the production blazed any trails of fire across the sky. I decided that the novel and the short story were forms better suited to my skills, and Thirty Pieces of Silver reposed half-forgotten in a drawer of my files. There it gathered dust until January of 1951, when quite by accident its extraordinary career began.

I received a letter from the New Theatre, in Melbourne, Australia, saying that they were looking for scripts about the modern scene, and did I have anything they could possibly use? Possibly because Australia was sufficiently distant for me to plunge again, and possibly because the fascination of the theatre is something no writer truly shakes loose from, I rooted out the MS. of Thirty Pieces of Silver, shook the dust from it, read it through, made some changes, and sent it off to Australia.

My own opinion of that draft, reread after so long an interval, was that the subject matter was quite interesting and that the play was structurally not too bad. I knew it had weaknesses, some of them fairly serious, but I was also not completely certain that the Australian Theatre group would want to perform it.

However, they were quite taken by the play—again while recognizing its weaknesses—and they decided to go ahead with the production. Whereupon, it opened first in Melbourne and then in Sydney. In each place, it had, I was informed, long and successful runs—that is, long in the local terms of such productions. While it was playing in Australia, the Czech Theatrical and Literary Agency heard about it somehow and wrote to me, asking whether I could send them a copy to read. I now studied the MS. more carefully, and decided to do a complete rewrite, basing this new version on criticisms from Australia and the comments of various actor-friends to whom I had shown it.

I finished the rewrite and sent the new version off to Czechoslovakia by airmail. It was translated and went into production immediately, and opened in Prague in April of 1951. The production was, according to information received, an excellent one, and became a considerable hit—maintaining an unusually long run. A second company opened in Pilsen, and then in short order, sixteen additional Czech companies began to perform the play.

I now received correspondence from Vienna, Berlin, and Tel Aviv—all of it concerning Thirty Pieces of Silver. Once again, I did a rewrite, particularly of the third act, and sent additional manuscripts out. Separate German translations were made for Vienna and Berlin, and soon thereafter it opened in each of the above-mentioned cities. A Yiddish translation was performed in the Yiddish theatre in Poland, while a Polish version opened in Warsaw. Meanwhile, a British director working with a Hebrew group in Israel, had supervised a translation into Hebrew, although the first Hebrew production in Israel did not take place until December of 1952. However, at one point during 1952, productions were running simultaneously in Berlin, Vienna, Budapest, Warsaw, Pilsen and Moscow. Both Italian and French translations have been completed, and openings in Antwerp and Rome are scheduled for 1953. A Canadian production is scheduled to open in 1953—which will give an audience in the western hemisphere its first opportunity to see the play.

HOWARD FAST

April 1953

CHARACTERS IN ORDER

OF THEIR APPEARANCE

Jane Graham

Mildred Andrews

Hilda Smith

Lorry Graham

David Graham

Fuller

Grace Langly

Austin Carmichael

Frederick Selwin

The action takes place in the Spring of 1948, in Washington, D.C.

ACT I

Scene One

The scene is the living-room of the Graham home, in a suburb of Washington, D.C. Just from this interior, you would know the house, white clapboard outside, like a thousand others in this rather intermediate, middle-income bracket, an indeterminate colonial style in a well-kept small lawn. The room is furnished in the colonial style of the house, also indeterminate, with some taste but enough timidity to make it a blood brother of a thousand other such living-rooms that represent six, or seven or eight thousand dollars of income per year.

On stage left, the archway to the entrance; on stage right, the archway to the dining-room. The staircase to above backs the room, and under it there is a bay window with a recessed window seat. Which is not to say this isn’t a cheerful room with a chintz-covered couch, Lawson style, two big easy chairs, and a rather nice selection of occasional pieces in pine. There is a baby-grand piano, stage right rear, and a tray bar. Several hooked rugs, and Audubon, and Currier and Ives on the walls. It is too right, too even. A toy tractor on the floor is the only note of indifference.

When the curtain rises, JANE GRAHAM and MILDRED ANDREWS are in the room. JANE GRAHAM is a slim, rather pretty woman of twenty-nine. Dark-haired and blue-eyed, she is a fairly familiar type south of the Mason-Dixon Line, and her voice reveals just a trace of that accent. What makes her unusual is a certain measured sincerity and an almost compulsive determination.

MILDRED ANDREWS is a few years older, harder, better dressed, more made up and more skilfully made up. When the curtain rises, MILDRED sprawls on the couch. JANE is attempting to pin the pieces of a slip cover on to the upholstered chair. She goes on with her work through this scene, pins in her mouth sometimes, always intent on what she is doing.

MILDRED It’s none of my business. Darling, if I hewed a line to what is my business I’d be biting the edges of those fine carpets that Jim Andrews hasn’t quite paid for yet.

JANE But, Mildred, you don’t know—do you?

MILDRED Was I in the room with them? Honey, I haven’t even got a photograph.

JANE It would hurt a little more if they said it about you. Or Jim.

MILDRED Why? The truth doesn’t hurt—well— What have you heard about my fine Jim?

JANE Nothing.

MILDRED He hasn’t—? (She swallows and stares at Jane.) If that son-of-a-bitch made a pass at you, I’ll— Did he, Jane? I want the truth. The whole truth. I’ll hate your guts if you don’t tell me.

JANE (unconcernedly going on with her work) No one ever makes a pass at me.

MILDRED Where have I heard that before?

JANE I wouldn’t know.

MILDRED Not even Leonard Agronsky?

(She says this casually, but transparently so. JANE pauses in her work long enough for it to be noticeable.)

JANE No.

MILDRED (smiling tolerantly) Well, I wouldn’t know either, would I? I suppose you require some special kind of ego to live in a no-pass world. I’d be scared to say it, if it were true.

JANE What makes you thinks——

MILDRED Yes, my sweet?

JANE Oh—nothing.

MILDRED Simple projection, as a matter of fact. Andrews doesn’t like Agronsky. I like Agronsky. If he looked at me the way I’ve seen him look at you, I would undoubtedly be in bed with him, being a sort of slut myself.

JANE (still unconcernedly) You really have Agronsky on your mind, haven’t you?

MILDRED No—men in general maybe. Not your David, honey.

(Now JANE turns and looks at her half-angrily, half-uncertainly.)

Well, I’m sorry. Forgive me.

JANE Why do you hate him so?

MILDRED I did it, didn’t I? Look, honey—I don’t hate him. I’ve got no feelings about your guy at all——

JANE (actually upset now) Like hell you haven’t!

MILDRED All right—I don’t like him. Do we stop being friends?

JANE Don’t be an idiot. I never thought you made the mistake of liking David.

MILDRED And now you’re mad.

JANE Do you want me to turn handsprings? Why don’t you like him? He’s just a poor, frightened guy—who never quite grew up.

MILDRED Maybe I’m tired of men who never quite grew up. It’s a disease of our males—at least of those who infest Washington. Except——

JANE Except what?

MILDRED Except Agronsky. He never leaves me alone, does he? I wonder if he leaves you alone? Why in hell didn’t you marry him, Jane?

JANE Why didn’t you marry Harry Truman and learn to pour tea? For God’s sake——

MILDRED Make it Abe Lincoln. I’ll bring my birth certificate next time. The sweet ones always have the claws. Yes, my darling, I can think of two reasons why you didn’t marry Agronsky, and David doesn’t figure in either of them.

JANE You’re an evil person with an evil mind.

MILDRED I am that. Did you ever know a woman in this city who wasn’t? The men are little lice, but we become female Walter Winchells. That’s inevitable.

JANE Don’t talk to me about Agronsky any more, please, Mildred. I don’t know what he means to you. To me, he’s a friend—that’s all.

MILDRED To me, he’s a man, do you see, my dear? He’s a hero, the only male hero in my lexicon. And not only because Jim Andrews, whom I happen to be married to, thinks he’s a Red. Agronsky is real. That’s all. Everything else around here is a nightmare, a horror, a particular cesspool created by the God-fearing folk of this nation so that they might be governed——

JANE Stop it, Mildred. You’re manufacturing this beautiful and particular horror out of your own needs. There are as many honest men and women here as anywhere.

MILDRED Are there? Then sweet dreams to you. Let’s not fight.

JANE We won’t fight, honey.

MILDRED (looking at her watch) This is overtime.

(She rises.)

I’ve got to run, darling. This is a long subject, and some other time, on a long rainy afternoon, maybe, we’ll go into it.

(She starts to the door and then stops.)

I’ll see you to-night, won’t I? You’re not really angry?

JANE No, I’m not really angry.

MILDRED Thank the Lord. You’re the one friend I’ve got. The rest belong to that louse, Andrews.

(She takes a quick step to JANE, kisses the top of her head, and then exits. JANE remains for a moment, kneeling by the chair. Then she gets up and stares at the door for a moment. Then she gathers the slip covers together, shrugs, and exits up the staircase.)

(She is just gone when LORRY GRAHAM enters through the archway from the dining-room. She is a healthy-looking little girl of five and a half or so, in overalls and braids. She wanders in, singing lightly to herself, drifts around the room and spies the tractor. She sits down next to it, trying to fit on a loose rubber tread, holding the toy in her lap and working seriously.)

LORRY The damn thing keeps losing this tread, no matter what I do.

HILDA (entering from the dining-room to hear this. She is a Negro woman of about thirty. She wears a maid’s uniform.) That’s no way to talk.

LORRY What way?

HILDA Damn.

LORRY There. You said it yourself.

HILDA I didn’t say it. I just told you not to say it.

LORRY Why?

HILDA You know why. My goodness, Lorry, you know a good word from a bad word.

LORRY I always hear you say it. It’s just that this damn tractor keeps losing a tread. It always keeps losing a tread.

HILDA (getting down next to her) There again. Let’s see that tractor. And just let me tell you this. If my mother heard me talk like that when I was your size, I’d be whupped good. Right now, I’m old enough to say what I please and I intend to, so you just get that into your little head. A tractor’s a boy’s toy, anyway.

LORRY Where’s your mother now, Hilda?

HILDA Dead.

LORRY What’s dead?

HILDA (putting down the toy and staring at the child) Give me a kiss, honey—and I should have my head examined for getting to love you so much.

LORRY (holding back) What’s dead, Hilda?

HILDA Now I’m in something, ain’t I? Dead’s quiet, honey. Dead’s just still, still as the whole night long, but it don’t stop. Like going to sleep and not waking up and no more struggle or crying.

(During this, JANE enters, coming down the stairs from above.)

LORRY Will I get dead?

HILDA Sometime, honey—yes, sometime, there’s no getting away from that.

JANE Hilda! Hilda, how can you?

HILDA (rising) That’s no harm, Mrs. Graham. She asked me. They’re all going to ask sooner or later, and sooner or later, you got to tell them.

JANE But not like that.

HILDA You just going to make a cushion for her? For how long?

JANE That’s enough! That’s my affair, not yours, Hilda.

(HILDA looks at her.)

I’m sorry, Hilda, I’m sorry. Lorry, take the tractor upstairs.

LORRY Why can’t I play with it here?

JANE Because you can’t. Anyway, it’s time for your dinner, so take it upstairs and wash your hands.

(LORRY picks up the toy and goes up the stairs.)

Hilda——

HILDA I’ll try to be a maid, Mrs. Graham. Sometimes I forget, Mrs. Graham. My mother used to tell me—never forget, never for one second. Well—I forgot.

JANE (coming over to her) Hilda—you’ve been with us long enough to know me a little. I forget myself sometimes. Do you know anyone who doesn’t, Hilda?

HILDA It doesn’t matter, Mrs. Graham.

JANE It does matter. You’re burning up inside. Well, I’m sorry. I was born and raised in Charleston. I guess I’ve told you that a hundred times. This is a hundred and one, then. I try to act like a human being, which isn’t easy. Not for me. Not for anyone, I sometimes think.

(They stand there, looking at each other, and LORRY comes down the stairs. Then HILDA nods slightly.)

(to LORRY)

Did you wash your hands?

LORRY Uh-huh.

HILDA I’ll wash them again in the kitchen. Come along, Lorry.

(They go out through the dining-room archway, and JANE stands looking after them for a moment. Then she shakes her head, goes to the tray bar, and makes the proportions for a martini. While she is doing this, the outside door opens. This we can partly see. DAVID GRAHAM lets himself in, pocketing his keys.)

(He is fairly tall, decently dressed in a grey suit and white shirt. A round, small-nosed, even-featured face is without particular distinction: it is honest insofar as it is obvious, overflowing college campuses and billboards and magazine ads, omnipresent and speaking for America. It gives evidence of good feeding and a certain amount of thought, and is saved from being wholly negative by a pair of glasses. A pleasant-looking young man, only reasonably complicated.)

DAVID (tossing his paper on to a chair) Hello, Janey.

JANE Oh?

(She throws him a glance, then pours the drinks.’)

DAVID Just oh? What in hell are you so burned up over?

JANE Nothing—want a drink?

DAVID Yes, I want a drink. I want a kiss. I want the whole Hollywood production that comes to a man who’s not as unhappily married as most and sitting on his can all day, too. What did I do now?

JANE (walking over to him, handing him a drink and kissing him lightly) Nothing that you did. I just had a little run-in with Hilda and I’m upset. It’s my fault. It has nothing to do with you, Dave, and I’ll be over it in a moment or two. Here’s mud in your lovely blue eyes.

DAVID (tasting the drink) To you. What happened?

JANE Nothing—just silly stuff, and I snapped at her. I treated her like a servant, that’s it. No, it isn’t, either. (Shakes her head.) It was just something foolish. Let’s forget it.

DAVID The whole rigmarole you indulge in with her beats the hell out of me. You can’t make a friend out of a servant.

JANE I don’t make a friend out of her. I just keep reminding myself that she’s a human being. Or I try to. Oh, let’s forget the whole thing.

DAVID (walking over to a chair and dropping into it) Sure. But it’s only natural, Janey. As an intelligent Southerner, you have an excess of guilt. Some kind of atonement, I guess, or something. I can be a lot more natural with ni——

JANE Don’t do that!

DAVID What?

JANE (slowly and deliberately) Don’t use that word. It’s a filthy word.

DAVID (shaking his head) You’re off to-night. All right—if you don’t want me to, I won’t use it. But I don’t have the kind of associations with it that you do. I don’t have to overcome the things you——

JANE Don’t be such a damn fool!

DAVID (pitting his glass down and looking at her curiously. He speaks slowly.) I should be sore as hell at that.

JANE But you’re going to be patient and understanding.

DAVID That’s right. I’m going to be patient and understanding. I came home feeling warm and good for a change. I’m going to stay that way. Those are my small pleasures.

(HILDA enters now.)

Hello, Hilda.

HILDA Good evening, Mr. Graham.

DAVID Where’s my beautiful daughter?

HILDA Having her supper. But she won’t eat.

DAVID That’s no daughter of mine. Let me try. I’ll be back.

(He takes his drink and goes out through the dining-room. HILDA hesitates a moment, then starts to follow DAVID.)

JANE Wait a minute, Hilda.

HILDA Yes, Mrs. Graham?

JANE (without warmth) Try calling me Jane, just for once.

HILDA Yes, Mrs. Graham.

JANE You’re not going to try, are you? You’re going to ride that little bit of hurt right into the ground, aren’t you?

HILDA I don’t know what you want from me, Mrs. Graham.

JANE The trouble is, you do. What’s wrong with me, Hilda?

(HILDA stands there, without reacting particularly, without answering.)

Or what’s right with me—or with David—or with Lorry? Are you as uncomfortable as I am, Hilda? The trouble isn’t that I’m superior to you, but that you can convince me that you’re so superior to me. Why? That’s what I want to know, Hilda. We’re Americans. I want to do what’s right; so does David. What’s wrong with us?

HILDA I’m sorry, Mrs. Graham.

JANE (suddenly angry) Like hell you are.

(The doorbell rings.)

All right. See who it is, Hilda.

(HILDA goes to the door. Offstage, FULLER’S voice asks if MR. DAVID GRAHAM lives here. HILDA brings him in, a middle-sized, youngish man, middle thirties, well-groomed, quietly dressed, unimpressive and not too unusual. In all points of origin, he is vaguely similar to DAVID GRAHAM, yet there is a subtle though consistent difference. It might be said that a trained shrewdness has substituted for intelligence—a somewhat laboured control for whatever spontaneity DAVID GRAHAM exhibits. He wears saddle shoes and carries a soft Panama.)

FULLER (to JANE) HOW do you do. My name’s Fuller. Are you Mrs. Graham?

JANE That’s right.

FULLER I’d like to see Mr. Graham, if it’s no trouble. If he’s home now?

JANE Is he expecting you?

FULLER (smiling apologetically) I don’t think so, Mrs. Graham. I’ll explain to him, if he’s home.

JANE All right. Sit down. I’ll get him. Do you want a drink? Hilda, will you give Mr. Fuller a martini or something?

FULLER (He remains standing.) Thank you, no.

JANE (pausing as she turns to leave) Nothing? Well, won’t you sit down? What did you say your name was?

FULLER Fuller. F-U-L-L-E-R. Mr. Fuller.

JANE I see. Thank you, Mr.… Fuller. I’ll call my husband.

(JANE goes out. Fuller stands there, turning his hat in his hands.),

HILDA May I take your hat?

FULLER You’re the maid?

HILDA You guessed that, didn’t you? I’m the maid. How did you guess?

FULLER I’ll hold the hat, if you don’t mind. This is fine weather, isn’t it? I mean, for June, it’s cool.

(His speech is precise and emotionless. He ignores HILDA’S sarcasm. Now DAVID GRAHAM enters, JANE after him. LORRY trails them with a piece of bread.)

JANE Take her inside, will you, Hilda? David, this is Mr. Fuller.

FULLER How do you do, Mr.Graham.

LORRY How old are you, Mr. Fuller?

JANE Will you finish your supper, Lorry—please.

(HILDA leads LORRY out. JANE picks up her drink now, and DAVID looks at FULLER inquiringly.)

FULLER This is a very nice house—nice family, too, Mr. Graham. Nice little girl. You got a lot to be thankful for.

DAVID What can I do for you, Mr. Fuller?

FULLER (There is a fussy, almost womanish quality in his speech.) I will sit down, thank you. I come into a fine, nice American home like this—I will say it always makes me a little uneasy.

JANE Would you like me to go?

DAVID (with some annoyance) Why should it make you uneasy? You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Fuller—but we have an appointment this evening and dinner before then, so I wish you’d get down to what you have to say, whatever it is.

FULLER (to JANE) Please don’t go, Mrs. Graham. I’d like to talk to both of you, if you’ll permit me.

(He is very polite, somewhat abashed.)

This is a routine matter. I’m from the Department, and I have a few questions. It won’t take long.

JANE (standing to one side, sipping at her drink. DAVID and FULLER are sitting.) What department?

FULLER The Department of Justice, Mrs. Graham.

JANE You mean you’re a G-man? Why didn’t you say so?

FULLER (taking out his wallet and extracting a Jew cards) We don’t like the term. It has melodramatic connotations which are hardly grounded in reality. Here are my credentials, Mr. Graham.

DAVID (taking the credentials and scanning them uneasily) Yes—well, we’ll be happy to co-operate with you—in any way, Mr. Fuller. I don’t know how we can help you—I mean, I can’t think of anything——

FULLER It’s just a regular routine matter. We’re checking on someone else, a man by the name of Leonard Agronsky, and we were referred to you as friends of his. That’s all. It’s just as simple as that and I’m sorry that it has to break into your evening this way, but I thought it would be the best time to find both of you home.

DAVID We know Agronsky. That’s right. Is he in some kind of trouble?

FULLER I hope not—but then that’s not properly my affair. I’m simply given the routine matter of investigation. My guess would be that it’s simply the routine check we are taking of any government employees about whom there might be any doubt at all.

(He takes out a small book and opens it.)

My own information has him as an under-secretary in the Department of Commerce. That’s a pretty important job, so it’s only natural that he would be investigated.

JANE He’s been in government a long time, hasn’t he?

FULLER (shrugging) I don’t make the policy. Is there anything you’d like to tell me about him, Mr. Graham?

DAVID What sort of thing? I guess there’s a lot I could tell you about him, but I don’t know what I could tell you that would help you. I haven’t seen as much of him as I might have since the war. That’s where I met him—in the army. Since then, well, I guess we’ve seen Agronsky about every ten weeks or so.

FULLER You work for the Treasury Department, don’t you, Mr. Graham?

DAVID That’s right.

FULLER You’ve been there almost three years now.

DAVID Since the war. I’m a statistician. But I suppose you know that?

FULLER Yes—but don’t let me give you the impression that we have anything like a spy service. There’s too much loose talk about dossiers and things of that sort.

(He smiles apologetically.)

This is simple information. We know, for example, that before the war, you worked for New York Life. But it is true that Agronsky helped you get this job with the Treasury Department?

DAVID Well—I guess you could say that. He knew Phillips quite well. Phillips is out now.

JANE I don’t see what this has to do with us. Dave’s record is a good one. You’re not investigating him, are you?

FULLER (He never loses his air of intense and self-concerned seriousness, withal there being always a note of embarrassment.) I don’t enjoy this—it’s a job. But what would you say, Mr. Graham, that Agronsky’s politics are?

DAVID I don’t know. I suppose he’s a Democrat. A New Dealer, I suppose. At least he was in the Roosevelt administration.

FULLER I mean—in a deeper sense.

DAVID I don’t know what you mean by that.

FULLER Did you know that Agronsky wasn’t born in this country?

JANE What has that got to do with it?

FULLER Just in terms of information. I can understand you when you say you were never very friendly with him. He was born in Russia and he came here when he was seven years old. In addition to that, he’s Jewish. These are matters of information, and I was just curious as to whether you knew. Naturally, you wouldn’t be too friendly with him.

JANE Why not?

DAVID You know what he means, Jane. For God’s sake, can’t we keep our heads about this!

JANE I’d like to keep my head. As a matter of fact, I’ve been practising all day. If Mr. Fuller wants to speak to you, I’ll be happy to go inside and sit with Hilda. If he wants to talk to me, too, I should like to know what Agronsky’s being Jewish or foreign born has to do with us being friends of his?

DAVID I think all Mr. Fuller meant was that he’s not exactly our kind.

JANE You know that wasn’t what he meant. Anyway, Leonard was enough your kind when you were in the service.

DAVID All right, Jane. This isn’t getting us anywhere. Why don’t you let Mr. Fuller say what he means.

FULLER (placatingly) I don’t think I meant anything in particular. It was your opinion that you were not too friendly with Agronsky. But those times when you did see him, what were his political expressions? I mean, would you call him pro-Russian?

DAVID God knows! The few times we’ve seen him, we played bridge mostly.

FULLER And in the service?

DAVID Well—you could say we were all pro-Russian then, couldn’t you?

FULLER I wouldn’t know.

DAVID Agronsky as much as the next fellow, I suppose. We were Russia’s ally.

FULLER How does he feel about Franco? DAVID Franco?

JANE Yes, dear. (caustically) That’s the Spanish dictator.

DAVID I’m not completely an idiot, darling. I don’t know how he feels about Franco. I’ve never talked to him about Franco. There’s one thing I think you should understand, Mr. Fuller. In the service, Agronsky was an officer. I was an enlisted man. He didn’t talk to me about these things, even if he had them on his mind.

Fuller I see.

(He closes his notebook, looking from DAVID to JANE.)

Yet you can always make inferences, would you say? I could infer that you’re not very co-operative.

DAVID I’m trying to be co-operative, Mr. Fuller.

JANE (to FULLER) Is that a threat?

FULLER We don’t make threats, Mrs. Graham. That’s a comic book aspect of the Department. It just seems to me that if you know a man, you know what he thinks’ and what he is. You would know whether or not that man was a Communist—or a Republican—or a Seventh Day Adventist.

DAVID Maybe I would. I don’t know if Agronsky’s a Communist, if that’s what you’re asking me.

FULLER What do you think?

DAVID I don’t know. I never really thought about it. As a matter of fact, I never knew a Communist, so I wouldn’t be able to recognize one if I ran smack up against him. About Franco—well, I would guess Agronsky doesn’t like him. We’ve never talked directly about it, but I would think so from what I know of him. He doesn’t like fascism.

FULLER Red fascism as well as the other kind?

DAVID I don’t know how you mean that.

JANE I don’t like Franco. Does that make me a Communist?

FULLER I don’t know, Mrs. Graham.

DAVID (smiling uneasily) Well, just for the record, she isn’t. Neither am I.

FULLER And Agronsky?

DAVID I’ve no reason to think he is. I don’t know that I ever talked directly about Communists with him——

(The bell rings. JANE goes to answer, greets GRACE LANGLY offstage, and comes back into the room leading a Negro woman. This is GRACE LANGLY, about thirty, dark, intelligent looking, with contained dignity.)

JANE Hilda’s in the kitchen, still struggling with Lorry’s supper.

DAVID (in the most matter of fact way, still struggling with his thoughts in relation to FULLER) Hello, Grace.

GRACE Good evening, Mr. Graham. This is certainly a fine summer evening, isn’t it?

DAVID Yes——

(For all that he and FULLER are superficially alike, DAVID is at the disadvantage here, wholly so, fighting basically to understand what is the best required response to each situation on his part.)

I know——

FULLER (looking at GRACE) Yes, Mrs. Graham?

JANE This is Mrs. Langly. Grace, this is Mr. Fuller.

GRACE How do you do, Mr. Fuller.

(FULLER looks evenly at her. She meets his gaze for a moment, then turns and goes into the kitchen.)

FULLER (to JANE) YOU keep two in help?

JANE No. She’s a friend of Hilda. That’s the woman you met before.

FULLER Oh—I see. You’re a Southerner, aren’t you, Mrs. Graham?

JANE Yes. I’m from South Carolina originally.

(FULLER nods slowly, regarding JANE deliberately and curiously.)

Is that a crime too?

FULLER Not at all. Quite to the contrary. You talk my language—which’ is more than I can say of most New Yorkers. Or at least, I thought you did. What were you going to say before, Mr. Graham?

DAVID Nothing important.

FULLER If it concerned Agronsky, why don’t you let me decide if it was important?

DAVID Only that I saw a copy of. The New Masses in his house once. I don’t know how it happened to be there or whether it’s of any importance at all.

JANE David!

FULLER You don’t object to that, do you, Mrs. Graham?

JANE I can’t see that it makes any sense. Suppose you found a copy of The New Masses here?

FULLER Let me decide what makes sense, Mrs. Graham. We’re all of us good Americans and devoted to protecting our country. Or at least I think we are.

(to DAVID)

What about Agronsky’s friends?

DAVID (his uneasiness and uncertainty increasing) Just ordinary people—the sort of people you’d find around Washington.

FULLER But Agronsky isn’t just the sort of people you’d find around Washington, is he?

JANE What are you trying to make us say, Mr. Fuller? We’re not holding anything back. You’re not asking questions—you’re forming implications.

FULLER You’re forming the implications, Mrs. Graham.

DAVID Please, Jane, let me handle this. If Mr. Fuller asks me something, let me try to answer it. God knows, I want to.

FULLER Exactly. I’m not a private detective and I’m not a policeman—and certainly you’ve got nothing to fear from me. If anything, I’m wholly and completely on your side. The question is simply what side Agronsky’s on. That’s why I asked you about his friends. Are most of them Jews?

DAVID Some are, I suppose. I just wouldn’t be able to say without thinking about it.

FULLER Reds? Jews and Reds? That’s a fairly common equation, Mr. Graham. Think about it.

DAVID I want to help you, Mr. Fuller—but I don’t know where to start.

FULLER (placatingly, his voice softer, confiding, with a suggestion of warm intimacy) Why don’t you think it over, Mr. Graham? Here’s my card. Just think about it. I’ll be in my office until midnight. I know you wouldn’t have been thinking this way. It’s just our damn good fortune that as yet most Americans don’t have to think this way. And that’s a condition we’re trying to preserve.

(rising and turning to JANE)

You agree with me, don’t you, Mrs. Graham?

JANE Yes, I agree with that.

FULLER Then I’ll conclude that both of you have forgiven me for breaking in on you like this. It’s a fine family you have, Mr. Graham. I’d be proud of them, if I were you, and I’d fight to the last drop of red blood in me to defend them, if I were you.

DAVID Yes—thank you.

FULLER Thank you for your kindness. Good night.

DAVID Good night. I’ll go to the door with you.

(He accompanies FULLER to the vestibule. JANE mixes another drink. He returns to the room, stands for a moment regarding JANE.)

Nice feller.

JANE What?

DAVID I mean he could have been a lot more nasty than he was.

JANE I think he was insufferable. Do you want another drink? I want another. I think I want two or three. I think I want to get stinking drunk to-night.

DAVID That’s fine—that’s just fine. That’s a nice healthy reaction.

(Hands in pockets, he moves slowly across the room, eyes on his feet, almost shuffling. He stops and watches JANE drink.)

We’re due at the Andrews’ for bridge—at nine.

JANE And I’m bad enough sober at your favourite game.

DAVID I didn’t say that. For God’s sake, what’s eating you, Jane?

JANE Nothing. I just feel lousy. Am I entitled to that? Your friend, who’s such a nice feller, didn’t make me feel any better.

DAVID You talk as if I invited him over. He’s only doing his job. Did you want me to tell him to go to hell? That would be fine. That would be just fine. That would be all I’d need. The trouble is, you’re still brooding over that business with Hilda. I don’t know why you can’t be sensibe about things like that. I knew a lot of coloured boys in the service. I got on with them too, but I didn’t Snuggle up to them.

JANE That’s a rotten thing to say!

DAVID All right. I apologize. Anything I say is a rotten thing to-night.

JANE (She puts down her drink and looks at him—then walks over to him, shaking her head. She takes him by his arms, gently.) Davey—we’re headed for a real humdinger of a battle, aren’t we?

(He nods mutely.)

In ten minutes more, we’d really be hating each other, wouldn’t we?

(He nods again.)

Let’s not.

DAVID Okay—Okay.

JANE Kiss me, instead of just saying it.

(He takes her in his arms and kisses her.)

Want another drink now?

DAVID All right.

(She walks over and pours one. DAVID speaks slowly and with difficulty)

I get panicked by that kind of thing. I just stop thinking. Everything becomes muddy. I say to myself, maybe Agronsky is a Communist. How should. I know?

JANE (giving him the drink) Maybe he is. The hell with it.

(LORRY comes in, HILDA following her)

HILDA This one really ate to-night.

LORRY Everything. I could see the plate all over. I ought to get a present for that.

DAVID (picking her up and kissing her) You’re wonderful.

LORRY You love me?

DAVID All over, just like the plate. Every inch of you. Wherever I can see you, I love you.

LORRY That’s more than you love Mommy, isn’t it?

DAVID Well…

JANE (to HILDA) YOU might cover her to-night, Hilda. It’s going to be cool, I think.

DAVID … well, differently. You’re something special.

(He speaks to HILDA almost casually)

I wish you’d have Grace use the back door, Hilda.

HILDA (stiffening) I never told her to use the front door, Mr. Graham.

JANE I did. I told her to. You know that, David.

DAVID Look, I know. It’s just that I couldn’t explain that to Fuller. Did you see the way he looked at her?

HILDA If you’ll give me Lorry, I’ll put her to bed.

(Her voice is even and emotionless.)

I’ll see that Grace doesn’t use the front door again.

JANE Hilda——

(She breaks off, staring at DAVID.)

HILDA Come on, Lorry, Kiss them good night.

(LORRY kisses each in turn.)

LORRY You going to get me that present, Daddy?

DAVID Sure, angel. Run along.

LORRY What’s it going to be?

DAVID I haven’t made up my mind yet. Upstairs now.

LORRY You going to fix that damn tractor for me?

DAVID Not if you use that kind of language. Up to bed and good night.

(HILDA goes up the stairs, LORRY following. When they are gone, there is a strained silence. DAVID look at his drink, sips it.)

Well—go ahead. Let me have it.

JANE Don’t make me out to be a fishwife, Dave. (Almost gently) You didn’t have to say that.

DAVID Well, damn it all, what do you suppose Fuller thought?

JANE What did he think, Dave?

DAVID (walking slowly to the chair and dropping into it) Who treats a … well, one of them that way? You make a friend of Hilda.…You get to treat all of them that way.

JANE What way? Like a human being?

DAVID Can you explain that to Fuller? He’s looking for Reds—not for politeness.

JANE (striding over and facing him) My God, Dave, do I have to explain to Fuller! Am I a Communist because I treat a maid decently or let a friend of hers come in by the front door?

DAVID Look—I don’t know what a Communist is. I never met one. I never spoke to one. Christ Almighty, maybe I’m a Communist! Maybe Agronsky is! How do I know? But they say Reds do that. He looked at Grace—and I could see what he was thinking.

JANE (more gently) What’s the matter, Dave? What’s getting into you?

DAVID I don’t know, Jane. It’s the first time I ever ran into one of them. I heard about it. It happened to my friends. But this is the first time for me. Well, I’m scared. I’m no hero. That’s the F.B.I., and I don’t like it.

JANE Let’s forget it. Come on, Davey—let me see you smile.

(She sits in his lap.)

DAVID He files two reports—one on Agronsky, one on me.

JANE (standing up) How do you know?

DAVID Of course he does. He’d have to.

JANE Well, what of it? So he files a report on you.

DAVID Suppose Agronsky is a Communist? Where does that put me? Did you ever hear Agronsky say anything against Russia? Do you remember that story he told about Soviet medicine? I remember once, in our unit—Agronsky made a crack about capitalism. He said——

JANE (She has been listening to this incredulously, and breaks in on him angrily.) Dave; you can go crazy thinking that way!

DAVID (standing up) You always liked Agronsky.… You think I never noticed the way you look at him, the way you listen to him.

JANE Dave!

DAVID (shaking his head bewilderedly) I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Jane.

(He paces across the room.)

Everything I’ve said to-night——

JANE (coming over to hint) That’s all done. Everything washed out. Will you take me to dinner at the Occidental and let me have two more cocktails and get stinking and overbid everything—will you, Dave?

DAVID It’s a deal.

JANE (starting up the stairs) I love you—you crazy damn fool.

Curtain—End of Scene One

Scene Two

It is about midnight of the same day. One lamp burns in the room as the curtain rises on the same scene. There is a sound of the door opening, and the GRAHAMS come in, DAVID first.

DAVID (continuing a speech he started offstage) —not just losing, but their damned arrogance. I don’t mind the five dollars. I do mind being set the way we were set three times.

JANE Dave, what difference does it make? Maybe if Jim Andrews was better at other things, he wouldn’t have to feed his ego this way on a card game. Maybe then we’d talk once in a while, instead of burying ourselves in cards.

DAVID (putting on a lamp and lighting a cigarette) What makes you think I’m better than Jim Andrews at anything?

JANE (smiling) I’ve got my reasons.

DAVID (dropping into a chair) What are they? Andrews was an up and coming New Dealer, but when they threw out the New Dealers, he became a solid administration man. When the war came, they made him a captain in the Pentagon. He’ll be Secretary of the Interior some day, and I’ll still be doing statistics at six thousand a year. That’s how much better I am than Jim Andrews. His father just happens to, be a vice president of Amalgamated Steel, and mine runs a drug store in Peoria.

JANE Go ahead, get it all off your chest. You’re nobody. You’re just poor David Graham who never amounted to anything and never will amount to anything.

DAVID You mean that, don’t you?

JANE David, you’re impossible. All this because I play bridge as stupidly as I always have. Why did we go there to-night?

DAVID Because I haven’t got the guts to turn down a bid from Andrews. Because I brownnose him the same way I did Agronsky. Because I’m not good enough to get anything or do anything on my own.

JANE Agronsky never thought so.

DAVID How do you know what Agronsky thought?

JANE Dave, he spoke to me about you. Is that so unnatural? He thinks you’re a hell of a guy.

DAVID Then I’ve really achieved something.

(bitterly)

I’m a hell of a guy to Leonard Agronsky. I shouldn’t take that from where it comes, should I? What was in it for him? What I am doesn’t matter. But if Agronsky puts in a good word for me, I’m solid with you.

JANE I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dave.

DAVID I asked Jim Andrews about Agronsky when you were inside with Ruth. Do you know what he said?

JANE I can guess. He wouldn’t like Agronsky. What difference does it make?

DAVID Nothing that concerns me makes any difference, does it?

JANE Dave, I’m not going into all that again at this time of the night. If you want to beat yourself, do it alone. I’m going to bed.

(She starts toward the stairs.)

DAVID Poison.

JANE What?

DAVID Nothing—I’m just giving you Jim Andrews’ opinion of Agronsky. He said the man is poison.

JANE Did he?

DAVID It just seems funny as hell that you know so much more about Leonard Agronsky than I ever did. Nothing surprises you.

JANE Why should I be surprised by one of Jim Andrews’ profound opinions?

DAVID If you’re on such solid ground with Agronsky, why couldn’t you offer an opinion when Fuller asked you?

JANE (She has gone on to the stairs. Now she stops with her hand on the rail and turns to him.) Dave, I’m not a police informer.

DAVID Then Agronsky is a Communist? In other words—even if you knew, you’re not talking.

JANE Dave, he may be a Martian, I don’t know. If your friend, Mr. Fuller, is going to think I’m a Communist because I allow a Negro woman to come in my house through the front door, then he’ll think just what he pleases about Leonard Agronsky, and nothing you or I say is going to change it.

DAVID (standing up and facing her) That’s fine. But it never occurred to you that I might take any rap for this?

JANE That occurred to me, Dave.

DAVID And——

JANE What do you think I should have done, Dave? Told Fuller that Agronsky was a Communist and I knew it?

DAVID Did you know it? That’s all I’m trying to find out.

(He starts toward her.)

I thought I knew Agronsky! I thought it was all my brilliance as a tech sergeant that made him get me this job. But I don’t know a thing about Agronsky, and I can see that! When it comes to Jews and such—I’m ignorant. My little innocent wife could teach me a thing or two.

JANE (very coolly and evenly, in contrast to his raised voice) Stop it, David. I think you’ve said enough.

DAVID (forcing his anger now) There’s a lot I could say if I want——

JANE (breaking in at the beginning) Don’t say any more, David. That’s enough. I’m going to bed. Good night, David. ‘

(JANE goes up the stairs and offstage without looking back DAVID stands where he is, watching her and then staring at the stairs after she has gone. He turns slowly until he is facing the vestibule, takes out a cigarette and lights it nervously. His puffs are quick and nervous as he walks over to the piano and drops the match in an ash tray.)

(As he does this, HILDA enters from the dining-room, and DAVID starts at her step, swinging around to face her.)

DAVID What do you want?

HILDA (evenly) I came in to put out the lights, Mr. Graham. I thought you and Mrs. Graham had gone to bed.

DAVID Why? Because you were listening.

HILDA (control covering her mounting anger) I don’t eavesdrop, Mr. Graham. I heard voices in here and then the voices stopped, and from the kitchen I could still see the lights burning. You got no right to accuse me of eaves-dropping. I don’t know what you were saying and I don’t care what you were saying.

DAVID All right. I’m sorry.

HILDA (taking a deep breath and biting her lower lip before she speaks) This is a job, Mr. Graham, and I like working for Mrs. Graham, and I like the little girl. But I can find another job if you want me to.

DAVID Who said that?

HILDA That’s what you implied, Mr. Graham. I don’t like to be accused of listening at keyholes. I don’t like to be insulted about my friends. I never told Grace to go the front way. Mrs. Graham told her that.

DAVID (suddenly losing control) You can do just as you God damn please, Hilda! Stay or go! The hell with it. This is still my house! You want me to put it more definitely? You’re fired! I never could tolerate one of your kind who couldn’t keep his place. You understand?

HILDA (with great calm) I understand, Mr. Graham. Good night.

(She exits through the dining-room.)

(DAVID stands there looking after her. This way for at least thirty seconds. Then he takes off his glasses and rubs his clenched fist into his eyes. He turns slowly, looking around the room, crosses over to the telephone and stares at it. Then he moves forward and drops into a chair and sits there loosely and unhappily. He then rises and turns off some of the lamps. He starts toward the stairs, stops, stands irresolute, then tales out his wallet and extracts a card. Now that the die is cast, he moves more quickly, dialing a number on the phone with nervous concentration. He holds the phone while it rings and then speaks softly.)

DAVID (into the phone) Hello—Fuller?

(pause for rejoinder)

Mr. Fuller, this is David Graham—yes, you remember, David Graham. I’m sorry to call you this late. I’m sorry as hell. But you know how it is when you have something pressing on your conscience. You can’t wait for morning. You just can’t wait.

(pause)

I’m glad you felt that way. I agree with you that duty doesn’t punch a time clock.

(pause)

Of course. And you understand this isn’t an easy thing to do. There are all sorts of connotations to something like this, and it takes some understanding to see yourself as a loyal American doing his duty. I was in the service, you know——

(pause)

Yes, of course.

(pause)

Yes. Yes. That’s a fine way to put it. I wouldn’t have thought of putting it that way, Mr. Fuller, but it’s true. As you say, it’s a morality that transcends morality. That doesn’t mean I held anything back. I tried to be as frank and open with you as I knew how, and even now I’ve got nothing sensational to add to what I told you. That is, nothing that makes for any kind of conclusive thoughts——

(pause)

No—of course, I agree with you that you never can be conclusive on this kind of thing. But my wife and I put our heads together …

(On this, JANE appears on the staircase. She is wearing a dressing gown, and as DAVID speaks, she continues down, halting near the bottom and watching him, almost frozen.)

… and we couldn’t help but agree that Agronsky could very well be a Red. You put the pieces together, and it seems to be a reasonable conclusion, anyway, that’s how it seems——

(pause)

Yes, I’d be fairly definite on it. Naturally, he never told me so. If he had, I would have broken clean. As it is we had practically stopped seeing each other. I couldn’t stomach his philosophy——

(pause)

Yes—I want to co-operate. Any time you say.

(pause)

Good night to you, sir.

(DAVID replaces the phone and turns, seeing JANE. They stare at each other. Then DAVID shrugs and lights another cigarette. JANE walks across the room, never taking her eyes off DAVID, until she is opposite the vestibule and facing him. When she speaks, however, her voice is very calm, yet with an undertone of tension.)

JANE Do you feel better now, David?

(DAVID refuses to meet her eyes. He puffs his cigarette.)

Cleansed?

(He walks to the piano, grinding the cigarette into an ash tray. Now his hack is to her. He turns sharply to her, yet remains silent.)

Purified, David? You shouldn’t raise your voice when -you purify yourself. I wouldn’t have heard you if you weren’t so afraid your friend might miss something you said.

DAVID For Christ’s sake, Jane, leave me alone! I did it. That’s all. I did what I thought was right.

JANE (with a note of pity in her voice) You didn’t think it was right, David.

DAVID How do you know what I thought? You’re so God damn righteous! You can’t be wrong. But whatever I do is wrong.

JANE No—that’s not so.

DAVID You said yourself nothing I said or did would keep them from thinking whatever they wanted to think about Agronsky.

JANE Sure I said that.

DAVID Then what difference does it make?

JANE (shaking her head) My God, David, are you really asking me that?

DAVID Well, it’s done.

JANE After Agronsky got you the, job. I know what it is to be frightened, David. I’ve been frightened too, believe me——

DAVID (breaking in) Stop preaching at me! I’m not a child that I have to be preached at this way!

JANE You’re not a child, David.

DAVID Why do you have to keep beating at it? It’s done, isn’t it?

JANE Sure it’s done, David. Sure it’s done.

(She goes toward the stairs.)

Good night, David.

The curtain falls for the end of Act I

ACT II

Scene One

The time is early afternoon of the following day. The place is the office of AUSTIN CARMICHAEL in the Treasury Department. This is a fair-sized office, neither very modern nor rich in its furnishings, but with the substantial and well-kept air of a government office occupied by a moderately important executive. The desk is mahogany: the walls are the insipid green preferred so often in Washington. The floor is covered by a grey carpet, and at either side of the desk, which is stage right, cattycorner, are two leather-upholstered chairs. A broad window with Venetian blinds backs the stage, and at one side of it, a water cooler. A leather couch and two straight-back chairs complete the furnishings. A framed picture of the President on the wall at stage right is the only personal picture. There is a framed eagle print and one of those many-figured steel engravings of an early Cabinet meeting. The desk is neat, with few papers, and as the curtain rises, a long slant of sunlight warms the room from the window.

As the curtain rises, the mahogany door at stage left opens, and AUSTIN CARMICHAEL enters, followed by FRED SELWIN. CARMICHAEL is a heavy, middle-sized man of fifty. His fat is less excess than substance. He carries his head a little forward and walks with a slight stoop. His features are large but regular, and his eyes are bright blue under heavy brows. He wears a seersucker suit. SELWIN is younger, in his forties, pinch-faced, thin, nervous in temperament.

CARMICHAEL walks to the blind and tilts it, blotting the sun. His movements are decisive. Then he sits down behind the desk. SELWIN stands beside the desk, looking at a file folder.

CARMICHAEL Let’s see it, Fred.

(He holds out his hand for the file folder, meanwhile examining another paper on his desk. SELWIN gives it to him and he opens it and ruffles through it. SELWIN drifts across the room.)

They are a thorough group of people, believe me.

SELWIN Yes, they make up in efficiency what they lack in inspiration.

CARMICHAEL Come now—give the credit where it’s due. That’s a good practice, Fred. Now I’m not one of these damn fool Chamber of Commerce patriots, but you got to admit that when we do a thing we can do it a little better than anyone else.

SELWIN A lot better, unfortunately.

CARMICHAEL It’s not so unfortunate, Fred, and stop trying to be a two-bit philosopher. You’ve read this, I suppose.

SELWIN I read it.

CARMICHAEL The mere fact that they send it here is an indication of desired action. There’s nothing in it particularly damning except that Graham’s a fool. I feel kind of sorry for him.

SELWIN Like hell you do!

CARMICHAEL (good-humouredly) You really think I take pleasure in inflicting—let us say suffering?

SELWIN To a degree. I suppose it is needful to you.

CARMICHAEL (shaking his head) You’re sentimental, Fred. Not good. Not kind. Simply sentimental. My own guess is that at home you’re a perfect son-of-a-bitch.

(smiling at SELWIN who stares at him stolidly)

Don’t get sore at that. That’s a sop to my own age. I am not sentimental, but I am also never deliberately cruel. That’s something you should understand, Fred, for your own good.

SELWIN (walking over to the desk) What are you going to do? Ask for his resignation?

CARMICHAEL Anything else I can do, Fred?

SELWIN Don’t try to shift’ it to me. You’re the head of the Department, not me.

CARMICHAEL I’m always intrigued by morality that holds aloof from action. The dead are always good, aren’t they? I repeat—what else can I do?

SELWIN I don’t know. Yet even you will admit that the thing is essentially wrong.

CARMICHAEL (folding his arms, leaning back in his chair and smiling) Even I. You put such stock in your superior morality. I’ll bet you’re a damn goat, Fred. Always right or wrong. Well, nothing is right and nothing is wrong. There is only the immediate necessity.

SELWIN And the immediate necessity is so clear?

CARMICHAEL Quite clear. There is a process. Human beings create the situation that starts that process, but the process itself is quite inhuman. The process is simply necessary so that you and I can continue to draw our pay and do whatever satisfies our respective souls. But don’t offer me any abstract morality; there is none.

SELWIN I wonder what you would do if you had that kind of thing on me?

CARMICHAEL You can guess, can’t you, Fred?

SELWIN You know it was Phillips who gave Graham the job, and Phillips was a friend of—what’s his name?

CARMICHAEL Agronsky.

SELWIN And Phillips resigned, didn’t he? You were very friendly with Phillips, weren’t you, Mr. Carmichael? You saw a good deal of him.

CARMICHAEL (the thin, caustic smile returning to his lips) I don’t know whether to be angry or amused. How have you been spending your time, Fred—seeing cheap pictures about the Gestapo?

SELWIN Thinking, Mr. Carmichael.

CARMICHAEL So you think, do you Fred? Were you thinking perhaps that you’re big enough to tangle with me?

SELWIN This is not a case of who is big and who is little, Mr. Carmichael.

(He is tense and white and nervous.)

This is a new kind of thing. You are going to fire Graham—not because Graham is a Communist——

CARMICHAEL Give the Communists a little credit, Fred.

SELWIN —not because he’s a Communist, not even because he got the job through Agronsky, but to bolster yourself.

CARMICHAEL And yourself, Fred.

SELWIN Leave me out of it, Mr. Carmichael. I’ll build my own walls. You never had any conscience. I had a little. You sell Graham cheap. I’ll build my own walls.

CARMICHAEL And you think——

(He swings back in his chair with hard, convulsive laughter.)

—you think that you’ve got me, Freddy. Agronsky was Phillips’ friend. I was Phillips’ friend. Ergo——

(He stands up suddenly, his voice low and cold.)

Shall I resign, Fred?

SELWIN You don’t, frighten me, Mr. Carmichael. You would have once. You don’t now. This is a new situation. It has possibilities. I always considered myself a person of conscience Mr. Carmichael. Well, one adapts one’s conscience. I never made friends of people like Graham, like Phillips, like Agronsky. A certain fortunate purity, let us say. I’ll think about it.

CARMICHAEL (with controlled anger) Don’t let your thoughts run away with you, Fred. Suppose you have Graham in now.

SELWIN You really look forward to it, don’t you?

CARMICHAEL It interests me, I’ll admit that. The high moments of life are usually unpleasant for someone. They are still high moments. That’s why men kill each other. That’s why I can sit here so calmly and watch you hate me. You spend too many hours planning how to get rid of me. You won’t, Fred. I have better staying power. I have also been in this rat race longer. Bureaucracy is a technique, and there is always someone hating someone else and planning to get rid of him. But it’s a technique you will never be good at, Fred—because behind it are certain prime forces you understand in only the most primitive fashion.

SELWIN I see. Thank you, Mr. Carmichael. Do you want me to be here while you inform Graham?

CARMICHAEL I think you should. After all, you’re the personnel department.

SELWIN (He nods picks up one of the phones on Carmichael’s desk and talks quickly and flatly.) Will you send David Graham in here.

(He replaces the phone and stares at CARMICHAEL, who is reading in the file folder.)

CARMICHAEL (without looking up) The whole thing is a semantic trap. It’s not a question of loyalty. It’s a question of relative strength.

SELWIN Yes?

CARMICHAEL (still without looking up) And I don’t believe you feel any sorrier for Graham than I do. You’re sorry for yourself, Fred. You anticipate danger.

SELWIN (unemotionally) That may be.

CARMICHAEL And you suffer anxiety. You participate vicariously.

SELWIN (His voice becomes cold and insinuating.) Possibly. But I think you will suffer some anxiety yourself, Mr. Carmichael. That can be, you know.

(There is a knock on the door.)

CARMICHAEL (looking up and smiling) Let him in, Fred.

(SELWIN goes to the door and opens it. DAVID GRAHAM enters, his attitude one of mingled respect and uncertainty. He walks over to the desk.)

DAVID You sent for me, Mr. Carmichael?

CARMICHAEL That’s right, Graham.

(SELWIN walks over to the window and parts two slats of the blind, looking out. For a long moment CARMICHAEL studies the file folder. Then he closes it and looks up at DAVID, his face impassive.)

There is a little unpleasantness, Graham. I suppose you anticipated it?

DAVID What—sir?

CARMICHAEL Let me be a little more specific. You know, of course, that every bureau in Washington is under certain pressures. Ours not excluded. That is only to be expected within the context of present world events, and the approaching election doesn’t make it any better. There are bound to be many victims of such circumstances, and unfortunately you are one of them.

DAVID (puzzled and troubled) I still don’t follow you, Mr. Carmichael.

CARMICHAEL (smiling patiently) You know a man called Agronsky?

DAVID Yes——

CARMICHAEL As a matter of fact, it was through him that Phillips hired you.

DAVID Yes—but I don’t see——

CARMICHAEL (with the first note of impatience in his voice) I think you do, Graham. I called you in here to ask you to offer your resignation.

DAVID (with complete bewilderment) What?

SELWIN (turning away from the window and taking a few steps toward them) For God’s sake, Carmichael—we owe him a little more explanation than that.

CARMICHAEL (smiling again) By all means.

SELWIN (rubbing his face uneasily) It comes down to this, Graham. You’ve been seeing this Leonard Agronsky. The axe is going to fall on him—and on his friends, too. It’s better for you to resign than to go through the whole wretched business of a loyalty hearing and a forced dismissal. Better for you and better for the Department.

DAVID (still unable to assimilate the fact) But my work—my work’s been satisfactory. I never heard any complaints.

SELWIN This has nothing to do with your work, Graham.

DAVID Then what are you accusing me of? What have I done?

CARMICHAEL For all we know, Graham, you haven’t done anything. This is not a case of what you’ve done. This is a case of what you’ve allowed to be done to you.

DAVID But what? That’s all I’m asking—what? What are you accusing me of? What am I supposed to be? What crime have I committed?

CARMICHAEL (gently, with a note of patient tolerance) We’re not accusing you of any crime, Graham. We are simply stating the fact of your relationship with Agronsky.

DAVID But what was my relationship with Agronsky?

CARMICHAEL That we don’t know, Graham. We’re not a loyalty board. We’re just two people caught in a part of the same circumstances that surround you.

DAVID (with deep earnestness) Mr. Carmichael, do you think I’m a Communist?

CARMICHAEL (spreading his hands gravely) What difference does it make, Graham?

DAVID I think it makes some difference. I’m being fired for being a Communist without anyone asking me if I’m a Communist and without being given any chance to deny that I’m a Communist.

CARMICHAEL You’re not being fired, Graham; you’re being asked to resign. And you’re not being asked to resign because anyone considers you to be a Communist.

DAVID Then why on earth——

SELWIN (interrupting) Graham, we’re none of us children. I don’t think you’re a Communist; I don’t think Mr. Carmichael considers you to be a Communist. Speaking for myself, I don’t consider you to be disloyal. I’ve never seen any evidence of disloyalty on your part. You were in the service, and you’ve got a good record. So there’s no use of us bickering about that like a pack of children. The truth of the matter is that in one way or another you’re mixed up with Agronsky. Your relationship with him may be of the most casual kind. I suspect it is. Unfortunately that makes no difference. It’s the fact of the relationship, not the nature of it, that becomes the determining thing here. I don’t even know if Agronsky is a Communist; I have no thoughts at all on that subject and I don’t know Agronsky personally. But I do know that Agronsky is coming up before a Congressional Committee on charges of being a Communist and of being mixed up with the Soviets or the party here or whatever it is. That means inevitably that every friend of Agronsky’s will be checked and will come up before a loyalty board if he’s a government worker. The choice to us—and to you—is whether you go before the board or resign. We think it will be better for everyone concerned if you resign.

DAVID But I’ve got nothing to, hide. That’s what I’m trying to get across to you. Even if I went before a loyalty board, I could prove that I’ve got nothing to hide and that I did nothing disloyal.

CARMICHAEL We’re trying to be reasonable and sane, Graham. Do you know what will happen if you go up before a loyalty board and they recommend you for discharge?

DAVID Why should they? That’s just what I’m trying to find out.

CARMICHAEL (smiling sympathetically) They have found out all they need, you know. You might have trouble ever working again—anywhere.

SELWIN (to whom DAVID turns incredulously) That’s right, Graham. That’s something we can’t close our eyes to. It would be a hell of a thing to go out of here disloyal, but it would be almost inevitable. The facts cannot be avoided. It’s not what you are, but what your associates are.

DAVID But don’t you see—they came to me about Agronsky.

CARMICHAEL (with sudden interest) Who did?

DAVID The Department of Justice. I even helped them—all I could help them.

CARMICHAEL They don’t seem to look at it that way, Graham.

DAVID (with sudden earnestness, leaning over the desk, his palms on it) Look, Mr. Carmichael, I don’t like to plead any more than anyone else does …

(SELWIN watches a moment, then turns abruptly and goes to the window.)

… but I think I deserve a break in this thing. Maybe I’ve lived to the last dollar I made and maybe that was wrong, but I’m broke now. I have a wife and a kid. Look—I was an infantryman, Mr. Carmichael. How could I be disloyal? I love my country as much as anyone does. My ancestors came over here in 1659 on my mother’s side, and even earlier on my father’s side. I’m not a Communist. I can give you my word of honour on that, my oath if you want it——

CARMICHAEL (with sudden harshness) You don’t have to go into all that, Graham. I told you this isn’t something we decide. If you won’t accept our advice, if you prefer a board hearing—well, go to it. That’s all.

DAVID (straightening up and looking at CARMICHAEL, the final realization of defeat having sunk home) I see. (He turns and walks slowly toward the door. SELWIN makes as to approach and say something, takes a few steps, then stops and watches DAVID exit in silence. Then SELWIN turns to CARMICHAEL, who is leaning back in his swivel chair, looking at the Jar wall reflectively.)

CARMICHAEL Not well done, was it? You look sick, Selwin.

SELWIN Do I?

CARMICHAEL You have the most peculiar conscience, you know.

SELWIN I’m beginning to think that any conscience is peculiar.

CARMICHAEL You’re not the type for cynicism, Fred. Anyway, I can’t share your concern. That’s not a very admirable character. When the department came to him, he helped them, didn’t he? No great solicitude for Agronsky. Now it’s his turn. This is not an age for heroes, Fred. This is not an age for morality. We have only one measure.

SELWIN What is that? I’m eager to learn.

CARMICHAEL Power.

SELWIN That’s not a very new concept, is it?

CARMICHAEL But the form changes to fit new circumstances.

SELWIN How are we changing it, Mr. Carmichael? I. find the pattern recognizable—highly so, and——

CARMICHAEL (interrupting) I wouldn’t go on in that vein.

SELWIN (He stares at CARMICHAEL for a moment, then smiles bitterly.) I understand perfectly, Mr. Carmichael.

Curtain—End of Scene One—Act II

Scene Two

The same as Scene One, Act I, the living-room of the GRAHAM home; and the time is late afternoon, the same day as Scene One, Act II. As the curtain rises, HILDA comes down the stairs, LORRY trailing her. HILDA puts on two of the lamps, and then stands for a moment, irresolute, as if undecided as to her next step.

LORRY (holding out a book she is carrying) Read me this, Hilda.

HILDA What?

LORRY You promised before to read this later. You said you would.

HILDA (impatiently) Well, I can’t. I don’t have time. I got other things to do.

LORRY Well, you promised me. You promised me.

HILDA (angrily) Stop that—just stop that whining!

(LORRY stares at her; the child’s face wrinkles and then she starts to cry.)

Stop crying!

LORRY I don’t like that face.

HILDA What face?

LORRY That face you got. Why can’t you have a happy face? Why can’t you?

HILDA I just got damn little to be happy about.

LORRY There—you said it. You said damn, and you’re mad at me, too. Why can’t you be happy at me?

HILDA I’m not mad at you.

(She gets down and takes LORRY in her arms.)

Don’t you understand? I’m not mad at you—I’m mad at myself. I’m sick with myself. Anyway, I got to work. I got two years of stuff I been accumulating down in the cellar, and I got to sort it out and see what I want to keep and what I want to throw away.

LORRY Let me help you, Hilda.

HILDA (rising and looking at LORRY speculatively) All right. Come along.

(They go out though the dining-room. A moment after they have left, the doorbell rings. A pause, and then it rings again.)

JANE (from upstairs) Hilda!

(The bell rings again.)

HILDA—will you please answer.

(Again the bell. JANE comes running down the stairs, tying a bathrobe around her. She opens the door.)

Mildred—this is a surprise. A good one. I’m glad to see you.

(MILDRED ANDREWS enters. She wears a print dress and high heels, and too much make-up for the afternoon. She carries three pastry boxes, tied together with thin string.)

I’m this way.

(JANE points to herself.)

I had one of those days.

MILDRED You’re not ill?

JANE No—just going insane. And now Hilda’s disappeared.

MILDRED They’re all the same, aren’t they? Where shall I put these?

JANE What are they?

MILDRED Our winnings last night—just turned into pastry. I was at Lucille’s and everything looked so good and smelled so good——

JANE (actually troubled) You shouldn’t have done that. Why did you, Mildred?

MILDRED Because I despise winning at bridge—and playing it, too, especially the way Jim Andrews plays it.

(She drops into a chair.)

JANE I think he plays very well.

MILDRED He does everything well, darling. That’s one of the attributes of his special type of louse. Will you make me a drink, honey? It’s half-past four. I’ve been watching—I don’t drink before five now. I’ll just play with it.

(studying JANE curiously)

What’s wrong?

JANE Nothing. (She goes to the butler’s tray.) Mildred—why don’t you divorce him if you hate him that much?

MILDRED It’s a living, isn’t it?—and anyway, I don’t hate him that much. Where’s your beautiful daughter?

JANE With Hilda, I suppose. What’ ll you have?

MILDRED Just put some rye or bourbon or whatever you have on a piece of ice.

(While she speaks, she wanders around the room.)

Anyway, he wouldn’t give it to me, that is, if I wanted it, and I don’t, I don’t think. It’s no asset to have a divorce in this town if you’re after a big type of career, and Andrews is going to be a Cabinet something or other some day, or an ambassador or something——

(She takes the glass JANE holds out to her.)

Won’t you have any?

JANE I will.

(She makes one for herself.)

MILDRED To you, sweetie. You’re a doll.

JANE Thanks.

MILDRED Don’t go bitter on me. I couldn’t stand that.

JANE I’m not bitter. I’m just all mixed up.

MILDRED (sitting down) Who isn’t? At least, you have a man once in a while.

JANE Yes.

MILDRED That has all the elements of something in it, hasn’t it? What goes on with you two? Is it the Agronsky business?

JANE How do you know about that?

MILDRED It came my way. As a matter of fact, my being here is just the kind of thing to throw Andrews into a fine rage. I suppose that’s why I’m here so much.

JANE What are you talking about, Mildred?

MILDRED Look, honey—you’re verboten. For the time being. Andrews told me yesterday to call up and tell you that the bridge date was off, and we had a beautiful little set-to about that, just a beauty. Even for the Andrews, it was a beauty.

JANE (staring at her bewilderedly) Why didn’t you call it off if you wanted to? You know how I feel about bridge.

MILDRED Because sometimes I get a little insight into just what kind of a louse my husband is.

JANE You mean he was afraid, to see us because of the Agronsky business?

MILDRED That’s right. A friend of a friend. Only there aren’t any friends. Would you like a lecture on men? I’ve even got a solution for it, if you could dig a hole big enough.

JANE Mildred—will you concentrate on this for just one moment. What on earth could your seeing us have to do with Agronsky?

MILDRED Darling, don’t be an idiot. Agronsky’s going to have the whole book thrown at him. Therefore, if you know Agronsky or if you know anyone who knows Agronsky, you play it safe. Anyway, Andrews plays everything safe. Give me another drink, will you?

(JANE takes her glass, refills it, and then refills her own.)

Anyway, I wasn’t a hero. I suppose the truth of the matter is that I did it because I’d love to see Andrews pulled in on this Agronsky business. But that’s just an idle dream. He won’t be.

JANE Will you tell me one thing, Mildred—do you know what Agronsky has done?

MILDRED I don’t, and I don’t really care. I guess he’s a Red or something——

(LORRY enters on this. Her face and bands are quite dirty.)

Here’s the beautiful one.

LORRY Hello, Mildred, did you bring me a present?

JANE Lorry, how many times have I told you——

MILDRED Leave her alone. That’s the only practical thing any woman ever said.

(to LORRY)

Sure I did, Sweetie. Just let me get it.

(She goes to the pile of pastry boxes and begins to undo the string.)

JANE Lorry, how on earth did you get so dirty?

LORRY In the cellar with Hilda.

JANE What is Hilda doing in the cellar?

LORRY Throwing things away.

JANE What things? Has this whole house gone mad? Will you tell her that I want to see her—now. No, wait a minute. Get a wet rag from the kitchen and let me clean off your face and hands.

MILDRED (She has taken out from one of the boxes a decorative heart-shaped pastry.) How do you like it—from me to you?

LORRY (reaching for it) Oh, it’s beautiful.

JANE First get that wet rag.

(LORRY runs into the kitchen.)

MILDRED You’re not angry because I brought her the cake, are you, Jane?

JANE No—it’s not that, it’s a hundred and one other things.

(LORRY reappears with the rag, and JANE rubs her face and hands while she twists and pulls away.)

MILDRED Well, I’m on my way, just slightly potted. Darling, if you want to cry on an uneasy shoulder, drop over.

JANE Thanks.

LORRY (holding the pastry) This is beautiful! Can I eat it now, Mommy?

JANE (walking toward the door with MILDRED) Not now. Please call Hilda.

(to MILDRED, as LORRY exits)

You really envy me, don’t you?

MILDRED Sure I do.

JANE And I’m going to leave Dave.

MILDRED (stopping and turning toward her) What?

JANE That’s right. I don’t know when—to-day, to-morrow, ten days from now——

(shaking her head, her face suddenly contorted)

But I’m going to. That’s the important thing.

MILDRED Have you lost your mind?

JANE No—I shouldn’t have thrown it at you this way, but I had to talk to someone. I’ve been fighting it out with myself all day—and this is no good either. Please forget it, Mildred.

MILDRED (trying to embrace her) You poor thing. Why don’t you——

JANE (smiling and pushing her away) No, no, please don’t. This is one I can’t explain, Mildred. Thanks for coming. Now go ahead. Here’s Hilda.

MILDRED Just don’t do anything quick. Please—promise me.

JANE Sure——

(MILDRED leaves. JANE turns back to the living-room where LORRY is exhibiting the cake.)

LORRY See, Hilda—it’s for me. But I’ll give you a piece. That’s a promise right now.

JANE Hilda, what possessed you to decide to spend the afternoon in the basement?

HILDA I had to sort out my things, Mrs. Graham. I accumulate a lot of junk. It seems I can’t bear to throw anything away.

JANE What for?

HILDA Don’t you know?

(She looks at JANE curiously.)

I’m leaving.

JANE What do you mean, you’re leaving?

LORRY Where are you going, Hilda?

HILDA Nowhere—just nowhere at all. Lorry, why don’t you please take that cake into the kitchen, and then if you’ll set the table real nice, we’ll have a party——

(She breaks off, looking at the child.)

—and that’ll be fine.

LORRY But where are you going?

HILDA Don’t you want a party, Lorry?

JANE Lorry, do what Hilda says. Then I’ll have the party with you.

LORRY All right——

(She picks up the cake and leaves.)

JANE Please make sense, Hilda. Is this because of that silly scrap we had yesterday?

HILDA (shaking her head) No——

JANE Then what? Don’t you know what happened here yesterday? David was upset, and that’s why he said what he did about Grace.

HILDA It isn’t that. Last night I came in here after you went to bed, and Mr. Graham was here, and he accused me of listening to what you were saying—and well, we had a fight and he fired me. That’s all. I thought you knew.

JANE (walking over to HILDA) He fired you?

HILDA Yes.

JANE But what happened?

HILDA I don’t know what happened, Mrs. Graham. It just happened. It always does. It always does, doesn’t it? I’m not complaining. You stretch like a rubber band, and then you decide to be a human being, not a rubber band. And I’m sick of trying to be one—for Mr. Graham or you.

JANE (interrupting) What a way to talk, Hilda.

HILDA How do you want me to talk, Mrs. Graham?

JANE (going over and putting her arms around HILDA) Ever since I was able to think, Hilda, I’ve been trying to get this world I live in to make sense to me. I said to myself, If I do what I have to do, it will make sense. And sometimes, I think that if I do what I have to do, it will just come crashing down around my ears. Maybe it has already; I don’t know——

(The doorbell rings.)

That’s David. Hilda, go and have that^1 party with Lorry. We can’t settle this now. Please, Hilda.

HILDA (pilling away from her) All right, Mrs. Graham. Only don’t try to make believe nothing happened. Don’t treat me like a little girl. I’m older than you, Mrs. Graham. Remember that.

(She goes through the dining-room archway, leaving Jane standing there unhappily. Then Jane goes to the door and opens it. David enters.)

DAVID (dully) Hello, Jane.

(He comes into the room, walking without spirit. JANE closes the door and then starts toward the stairs.)

JANE I’ve been like this for the last hour. I’ll put on a dress and be down in a moment.

DAVID (in the same tone) All right.

(JANE goes up the stairs, leaving DAVID alone in the living-room. He stands as he is for a moment. Then he goes to the radio and switches it on. Music, to which he listens without hearing—and then he clicks it off. He goes to the bar and pours a drink, and then stands there sipping it. HILDA enters then and stops short at the archway. DAVID turns and sees her. Apparently he has forgotten about last night.)

Hello, Hilda;

HILDA Good evening, Mr. Graham. I was going to tell Mrs. Graham that the party was ready.

DAVID What party?

HILDA (her voice fiat and uncertain) Mrs. Andrews was here and she brought a pretty cake for Lorry, so Mrs. Graham said it would be nice if we all had a party.

DAVID (He hasn’t been listening.) What?

HILDA Just a little make-believe party.

DAVID Uh-huh—sure. I’ll tell Jane when she comes down.

(HILDA goes out. DAVID stands there, looking at his drink. Then he walks to a, chair and drops into it. JANE comes down the stairs, dressed now. DAVID doesn’t glance up until she is quite close to him.)

You don’t seem very glad to see me?

JANE No—I don’t, do I, Dave?

DAVID What was Mildred Andrews doing here to-day?

JANE She dropped in to give us some pastry she picked up. She bought it with her bridge winnings last night.

DAVID Why? Can’t we afford to lose five bucks without payment in kind?

JANE Yes, but I suppose she can’t afford to win it.

DAVID That doesn’t make sense.

JANE Hardly anything makes sense to-day.

(She turns and starts toward the dining-room. DAVID rises and follows her, taking one of her arms and turning her to face him. They stand like that for a moment, then DAVID lets go of her arm.)

DAVID I’ve been trying all day to think of how beautiful you are—and I couldn’t. Why’d you marry me, Jane?

JANE Because I loved you.

DAVID And now?

(JANE stands motionless, without response. DAVID takes her by the shoulders, as if to kiss her, and she pulls away.)

All right——

(He starts back to the chair.)

Don’t tell me about it—oh, the hell with it!

(He sits down and picks up his drink.)

Here’s to everything.

JANE I might as well tell you, Dave. I’ve been fighting with myself all day—you don’t understand that, do you? But the funny thing is I didn’t make any decision. You made it for me last night.

DAVID What in hell are you talking about?

JANE (coming closer to him) You and me, Dave—can’t you understand? Or did you figure that after that business last night, everything went on just as it had before?

DAVID I still don’t know what you’re talking about.

JANE Because it’s not easy to say, Dave.

(She moves closer to him, shaking her head. Her voice is almost flat, yet awfully urgent.’)

It’s the worst thing I’ve had to say—ever. That we’re through. We’re through.

DAVID (standing up) Are you crazy, Jane?

JANE Maybe I am. If I am, it’s the only way I can be.

DAVID Just let it make sense—that’s all I ask! You don’t come to something like this in two hours! Last night wasn’t the first fight we’ve had! What in hell are you doing to me, Jane?

JANE David——

DAVID (taking her again by the shoulders) Jane, we’ve been together a long time. You don’t wipe it out like this. You know what I am. You’ve always known what I am.

JANE That’s it; I haven’t. I didn’t know until last night—until you sold out Agronsky.

DAVID (His arms drop.) Until I sold Agronsky——

(He begins to laugh, a trace of hysteria in it. He turns and walks away from her, turns to face her again.)

Until I sold Agronsky. My God, that’s beautiful—that’s just beautiful. Now I’m Judas—only there’s no thirty pieces of silver!

(He drops into a chair, his face in his hands.)

JANE (with pity) Dave——

DAVID (not looking up) We’re through, huh? This is my day. You’re through with me, and so is the government. All to-day, everything to-day.

JANE Dave—what happened?

DAVID (looking up at her) Why? Are you going to feel sorry for me? I sold out Agronsky, didn’t I? That’s, your decision. Nothing’s going to change that, is it? And to-day that fat swine Carmichael called me in and told me I could either resign or face a loyalty board. Because I knew Agronsky.

JANE David—no.

(LORRY comes running in now.)

LORRY You said we’re going to have a party.

(pulling at DAVID’s hand)

We’re going to have a party, don’t you understand?

DAVID (rising and picking her up in his arms) Sure—sure, honey. We’re going to have a party and we’re going to celebrate everything.

(He walks out with her. JANE stares after him a moment, then starts to follow.)

Curtain—End of Act II

ACT III

The scene for Act III is the same as the previous scene, the living-room of the Graham home. It is about ten o’clock of the same day as the previous act. As the curtain rises, HILDA enters through the dining-room archway. JANE GRAHAM, who is at the foot of the stairs, turns and looks at HILDA, who stops uncertainly, HILDA stands there, a few feet into the room, and then JANE goes over to her and takes her hand.

JANE I’m sorry, Hilda. I’m so sorry.

HILDA (more evenly and coldly than she ever said anything before) Why, Mrs. Graham? Why are you sorry? You said that before. Why do you keep telling me that you’re sorry?

JANE (puzzled) For you, Hilda——

HILDA (angry suddenly) Well, keep it!

JANE I don’t understand you, Hilda.

HILDA Don’t you? Why don’t you understand me, Mrs. Graham? I said something plain enough. Keep your sorrow, I said. I don’t need it. I don’t want anything, Mrs. Graham! Know why—I’ll tell you why, my dear. I’ll tell you why plain. Look at my hands——

(She holds them out. JANE stares, surprised, even frightened.)

—it’s going to dirty them, anything you give me. Sympathy’s going to dirty them. Everything in this house will rub off dirt.

JANE Hilda!

HILDA Yes, Hilda! Hilda! Hilda! Every time I open my mouth, it’s like that, Hilda! Hilda, come here! Hilda, do this! Hilda, stop! Hilda, behave—be a servant, Hilda!

JANE My God, Hilda—what are you saying? That’s not true. My own world is falling down around my head——

HILDA Is it? Oh, you’re full of tragedy, aren’t you, Mrs. Graham? Just like you were full of equality every time you tried to forget I was black and treat me like a human being. Only, you never did—never like any human being, Mrs. Graham. Shall I tell you something truthful—something damned truthful?

JANE Tell me it—you might as well, Hilda.

HILDA Just this, (full of fury now) I like better the way Mr. Graham talks. I know him. I know him plain and simple. But you—I don’t know you, and there’s nothing in you that’s plain and simple to know. You get inside of me, I find myself being sorry, sorry—crying for that little girl of yours. Well, where are my little girls, Mrs. Graham? Just one of you—just one white woman, younger than I am, strong and healthy, never been sick, never had less than enough to eat, always a belly full—but what have you done, Mrs. Graham? Justify yourself! Justify yourself, Mrs. Graham, instead of being so damned righteous!

JANE Don’t talk to me like that, Hilda!

HILDA Why not? I’m fired. Why not? If I was a black man, you could holler rape and have me strung up by the neck. But I’m a woman, Mrs. Graham. Why not? I clean this house, cook your meals, bathe your child, dress your child, wash your clothes—all that I did, but you don’t do nothing, do you? But you’re so full of equality. And now you’re full of tragedy. Why, Mrs. Graham, you wouldn’t know tragedy, even if it comes and slaps you straight in the face. You wouldn’t know it at all. Not a blessed bit. You want me to cry for you? Well, I got no tears in me to cry for you. I watched white folks too long to want to cry for them—too long.

(JANE has moved back from HILDA during this. She moves back until she stumbles against the stair railing, and suddenly she grips it, bends convulsively and begins to weep. HILDA watches her, at first without moving—and then HILDA’s anger breaks and she goes toward JANE. JANE draws away from her.)

JANE Leave me alone, Hilda.

HILDA That way. You never talked to me that way before.

JANE Leave me alone.

HILDA Why don’t you ask me to be a friend? My God, white woman, why don’t you ask me? Where you going to turn for friends? You know what you’re doing?

(JANE shakes her head.)

No, no—how could you? You seen just a little dirt in people around you. Jane—now I call you Jane—Jane, I been rubbing that dirt off them all my life. But where are you going? What are you doing? It takes strength to do what you’re thinking to do. It takes understanding. Where you going to get it, child? Where?

(JANE shakes her head dumbly, looks at HILDA again for a moment, and then turns and walks up the stairs slowly. From behind, she looks like an old woman. HILDA makes a suggestion of a movement toward her, then stops and stands watching her. Then the doorbell rings. JANE doesn’t hear it; all sounds are blocked out for her at this moment. Nor does HILDA respond at first. When the bell rings again, HILDA turns and slowly walks to open the door. She comes out of the entranceway after FULLER, who enters, hat in hand.)

FULLER Good evening. I took the chance of finding Mr. Graham in.

(HILDA just stands there, watching him.)

I said good evening.

HILDA I heard.

FULLER Where’s Mr. Graham?

HILDA He’s out.

FULLER When do you expect him?

HILDA I don’t expect him. Maybe you expect him. I don’t. Makes no difference to me if he stays out or comes back.

FULLER (staring at her, turning his hat over in his hands) Then you don’t mind if I sit down and wait—Hilda? That is your name, isn’t it?

HILDA (who turns on another lamp as FULLER seats himself) No.

FULLER What?

HILDA You asked, is that my name. I said no. That ain’t my name. My name is Miss Smith—Smith. That’s my name.

FULLER What are you talking about, girl?

(He hardens. This is a breath of the real FULLER. He is shedding his softness, his cheap veneer.)

HILDA You know what I’m talking about, Mr. Fuller. That’s your name, isn’t it?

FULLER Where I come from——

HILDA (interrupting savagely) I know—just let it drop! I know. Where you come from, black people don’t talk like that to white people. What makes you think it’s any different here than where you come from? But I’m talking like that to you, Mr. Fuller. Plain, ordinary English. Only when I use it, you don’t understand it, do you? Just such a pity! When I say something, it makes no sense, does it? You got to ask what I’m talking about.

FULLER Real trouble, girl. You’re going to find a lot of real trouble, behaving this way.

HILDA I’m used to trouble. Trouble’s an old friend of mine. Pity is, I never stopped to think about it until these past few days.

FULLER You don’t know who I am, do you, girl?

HILDA Oh, I know, all right. That’s easier than knowing ABC, and I even know that. It’s an old gift of my folks to smell a policeman.

FULLER (controlling himself very carefully) I don’t know what’s eating you, girl, but it never pays to make enemies of those who could be your friends.

HILDA You a friend of mine, Mr. Fuller?

FULLER I could be, Hilda.

HILDA And then I could go everywhere and say, Ain’t no harm coming to me. Mr. Fuller, he’s my friend.

FULLER If you wished, Hilda.

HILDA And what do I have to do to get that kind of fine friendship?

FULLER Just be civil, Hilda. Politeness is cheap enough. Just answer my questions when I ask them.

HILDA Like what?

FULLER Like where’s Mrs. Graham now?

HILDA (All of her responses now, when not hostile and bitter, are merely flat, almost toneless.) Upstairs—lying down.

FULLER Is she ill?

HILDA I don’t know.

FULLER We’re not in court, Hilda. We could be in court, you know. But we’re not. I ask questions—I expect answers.

HILDA You’re getting answers.

FULLER (who rises and ambles toward HILDA, taking on now the approach of that kind of Southerner who sheds all humanity in his relationship with Negroes) You surprise me, Hilda. I misjudged you—misjudged you completely. Here you are, all full of piss and vinegar——

HILDA Don’t use that kind of language to me!

FULLER (cupping his hand under her chin) Bad talk, Hilda?

HILDA Take your hand away. Don’t touch me!

FULLER (standing hack and folding his arms) Why Hilda, so help me, I think you’re just a bad ni——

HILDA Don’t use that word either!

FULLER —and I don’t like that kind, Hilda. I don’t like it at all, not one bit. l’m a Southerner, Hilda. I know you. Just talk plain and polite to me.

HILDA (turning to leave) I don’t intend to talk any way at all to you.

FULLER Just one minute, Hilda.

(A knife edge is in his voice. HILDA halts and turns around.)

Don’t play games with me, Hilda. I’m polite. Don’t let my politeness fool you, Hilda. I represent the Department of Justice, Hilda. Don’t under-estimate me; don’t underestimate the department, Hilda. I want to ask you some questions. Don’t dig a grave for yourself, Hilda. Talk polite to me.

HILDA And call me Miss Smith.

FULLER Very well, Miss Smith. Now first of all—why did Mr. Graham go out and where did he go?

HILDA He went to buy a newspaper.

FULLER Why don’t you sit down, Hilda? Be more comfortable.

HILDA I’ll stand, Mr. Fuller;

FULLER As you wish. But don’t play games with me, Hilda. Mr. Graham didn’t just go out to buy a newspaper. He went out to read about Agronsky. He’s keenly interested in Agronsky, isn’t he?

HILDA I don’t know what he’s interested in, Mr. Fuller. I don’t even care what he’s interested in.

FULLER So that’s the way it’s going to be, Hilda—and where did you learn your style, from Agronsky and his friends?

HILDA I’m very tired, Mr. Fuller. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have things to do.

FULLER And so have I, Hilda. How long have you been with the Grahams?

HILDA I haven’t been with them. I’ve been working for them two years or so.

FULLER You like working for them?

HILDA I don’t like working for white folks. I wouldn’t even like to work for you, Mr. Fuller.

FULLER (containing himself with effort) No? But I’m an American, Hilda. I shouldn’t think you’d want better than to work for Mrs. Graham.

HILDA Why?

FULLER She’s a Red, isn’t she?

(HILDA begins to smile.)

What are you laughing at?

HILDA You.

(FULLER steps forward suddenly and slaps HILDA across the face. She doesn’t move and the smile doesn’t leave her face.)

FULLER Get out of here!

(But HILDA doesn’t move. She stands there, and now JANE speaks from above.)

JANE Hilda—who’s there?

(HILDA stands rigid. FULLER turns away from her, drops into a chair and lights a cigarette.)

HILDA!

HILDA (pulling herself together and going to the foot of the stairs) It’s that gentleman who was here yesterday, Mrs. Graham.

(JANE comes down the stairs now. She is wearing a dressing-gown, and her face is drawn and nervous. She comes into the room and stops, facing FULLER, who rises to greet her.)

FULLER (graciously) How do you do, Mrs. Graham. I hope I didn’t take too great a liberty to drop in like this.

JANE You can’t really take any liberties, can you, Mr. Fuller? Whatever you do is all right, isn’t it, Mr. Fuller?

FULLER (diffidently) I hardly think that’s fair.

JANE Do you always do what’s fair, Mr. Fuller?

FULLER I try to. That’s all any of us can say, isn’t it?

HILDA (with controlled irony) May I go and finish packing, Mrs. Graham?

FULLER (unctuously) Is your girl leaving, Mrs. Graham?

JANE (speaking with almost tortured concentration) Yes. And she’s not a girl. A woman, Mr. Fuller. Look at her. Do you understand—a woman.

(HILDA exits. JANE walks over to the piano, watching FULLER, who drops into a chair again.)

FULLER They’re all the same, aren’t they? The mind of a child and the responsibility of a child.

JANE I don’t think so, Mr. Fuller. I said that before. But you don’t listen to what you don’t want to hear. You’re full of your own questions, aren’t you, Mr. Fuller?

FULLER (raising his brows) I see. I almost forgot——

JANE (interrupting) Yes, Mr. Fuller, you forgot about my political views. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.

FULLER (a note of anger in his voice) I don’t think I’ve ever done anything to be ashamed of, Mrs. Graham.

JANE What a colossal ego. Have you ever done anything to be proud of?

FULLER (rising and forcing a smile in return) I owe you an apology. I’m sorry, Mrs. Graham.

JANE They train you to be polite, don’t they? I’ve been thinking all day, like in a hotel—European plan, American plan. How do they do it? Do they have a printed set of instructions? Or do they have classes in how to behave before women—different classes of course for white women and for black women.

FULLER (with abiding patience) I shall have to repeat myself, Mrs. Graham. I hardly think that’s fair.

JANE (taking a few steps toward him) I’m hardly concerned any more with what you think or what you don’t think, Mr. Fuller. Does that hurt your feelings?

FULLER It doesn’t hurt my feelings; Mrs. Graham, because I understand your reactions completely. On the other hand——

(The bell rings, and JANE goes to open the door. DAVID enters, carrying a paper, which he opens for JANE before he sees FULLER.)

DAVID (exhibiting the paper, the headlines of which proclaim: AGRONSKY CALLED AS STAR WITNESS) There it is.

JANE We have a guest, David.

FULLER Good evening, Mr. Graham. I took the liberty of dropping in. I felt it was fairly important—important enough for me to do away with formalities.

DAVID (halting uncertainly) How do you do, Mr. Fuller.

FULLER I suppose you didn’t expect to see me so soon.

DAVID No.

FULLER At least I come with better tidings than last time.

DAVID I don’t know that it matters a hell of a lot now, Mr. Fuller.

FULLER (alert and easy-going) And that’s just where you’re wrong, Graham. Your wife was taking me over the coals before you arrived, and I can’t say I blame her. She has every right to have it in for me—and so do you. That’s what I was trying to explain to her just now, but I must admit——

(He laughs appreciatively.)

—she didn’t give me half a break. Well, she’s a fighter, and I like a fighter, but I can’t say I like being cast as a villain.

DAVID What are you talking about, Mr. Fuller?

FULLER Couldn’t we talk better if we sat down? I’ve had a hard day, and yours hasn’t been a bed of roses. I mean that whole stupid unpleasantness that took place this afternoon. Why don’t we all sit down?

JANE Why don’t you say whatever you want to say, Mr. Fuller, instead of beating around the bush?

FULLER (sitting down, although DAVID and JANE remain standing) Because it’s a little more than a word or two, Mrs. Graham.

DAVID I think I ought to tell you, Mr. Fuller——

FULLER (interrupting) About Carmichael? I know that. I saw Carmichael at six o’clock to-day. I saw Selwin. I saw the chief over at the department. I’ve spent four hours on the phone, and just let me tell you, Mr. Graham, that phones have been ringing on the Hill as well as elsewhere.

(He leans lack, stretching out his feet and looking from face to face. He lights a cigarette.)

That’s why I think I deserve to sit down and to talk about this in a civilized, fashion. I think we all deserve it.

(most earnestly)

And I just want to put myself on the record for one thing. I consider what happened between you and your chiefs this afternoon a God damned shame, a fine demonstration of stupidity and lack of co-ordination. If anything in this whole business is un-American, it’s precisely that kind of an action, trying and condemning a man on hearsay and the flimsiest kind of rumour—I know what you must have felt about me. But now that’s straightened out—and I think we’d all do best to forget about it, wouldn’t’ we?

(JANE does not relax; she stands and watches FULLER, but DAVID takes a few steps toward him and gingerly sits down, shaking his head uncertainly.)

DAVID You mean—there’ll be no resignation, no hearing?

FULLER That’s right.

DAVID (staring at FULLER for a long moment, then turning to his wife. His uncertainty is still with him.) Did you hear that, Jane?

(She doesn’t react, and he turns hack to FULLER.)

I have to get used to that, Mr. Fuller. (He laughs nervously.) I was trying to figure out—where do I go from here? Now——

FULLER I would have felt the same way in your place; Mr. Graham. It’s funny, isn’t it, how a man like Agronsky, even though you hardly knew him, can become such a determining factor.

DAVID It is. (He stands up.) I think I need a drink. Will you have one, Mr. Fuller?

FULLER No, thank you.

DAVID Jane?

(She shakes her head. DAVID goes to the tray and pours himself whiskey and water. He turns back to FULLER.)

I guess I’m no hero. You look like Santa Claus to me, Mr. Fuller.

FULLER (smiling and shaking his head) I don’t feel quite that joyous, Mr. Graham. It’s your good fortune that you can step in and out of a thing like this, but for me, it’s a continuing grind. That’s one of the facts I impressed on my chief when I had him step into your case. I pointed out to him that if all people were as co-operative as you, he could fire a few of us. At any rate, our work would be a lot easier.

(He rises and picks up his hat from the piano. Then he halts himself, as if he has just recalled something of no great importance.)

Oh yes, there’s a brief deposition here which I’d like to have you sign before I leave, Mr. Graham.

(He fumbles a moment in his breast pocket, pulls out an envelope and extracts a folded, legal-sized paper.) 88

DAVID (He takes the paper and reads it. JANE watches him, remaining where she is. He reads through the paper and then glances up at FULLER, who is standing calmly, almost disinterestedly, by the piano. DAVID walks over to the piano and sets his drink down. He reads the paper again. When he speaks, the momentary elation is gone from his voice.) I don’t understand this.

FULLER Why, Mr. Graham? It couldn’t be more simply stated, could it?

DAVID According to this——

(He stares at the document again, groping for words.)

Well, it puts me in a funny position, Mr. Fuller. It says here that I know Leonard Agronsky is a member of the Communist Party and that I’ve seen his party card. It even gives the number of the card here. I haven’t seen his party card, Mr. Fuller.

FULLER (casually) What difference does that make, Graham? If the number is there, it means the card exists.

DAVID But—well, it puts me in a funny position. I don’t know that much about Agronsky. I tried to help you with everything I know about him. But I don’t know——

(He breaks off and turns to JANE, who is watching him evenly and levelly.)

JANE (very flatly) Don’t look at me, David. Unfortunately, I haven’t seen his party card either.

FULLER Isn’t this much ado about nothing, Graham?

(He picks up DAVID’S newspaper, points out the headline, and then tosses it aside.)

Agronsky is in for it, and whatever you do won’t change that one bit. Now, I’ve tried to play fair with you, Graham, but are you playing fair with me?

DAVID (staring at the deposition miserably) It isn’t that I don’t want to help you any way I can.

FULLER (The hard-edge creeping into his voice.) Then what is it, Graham? It doesn’t look to me like you’re trying to be particularly co-operative. The department isn’t asking you to perform miracles. This is a very simple matter, and I can’t think of any red-blooded American who wouldn’t go along with it.

(Miserably, staring at the paper which he has now put down on the piano, trying to fight it through on grounds which are totally unfamiliar to him, DAVID stands there without moving. Both FULLER and JANE watch him, neither of them moving. A long moment passes.)

Well, Graham, are you going to sign it?

(Still DAVID doesn’t react. FULLER speaks more softly.)

Agronsky has no call on your sympathies, that I can tell you. The sooner we rid ourselves of his kind, the better off we will be. His loyalty isn’t to our country, and it isn’t to our way of life. If you consider it a matter of principle, then ask yourself where is their principle in their slave camps and their torture chambers? If I were in your place, Graham, I would sign that and consider it a good day’s work in the service of my country. You ought to understand what service means. You were in the service, weren’t you?

(Now DAVID looks up at him. He stares at FULLER directly, his face twitching slightly. Then he looks at JANE. There is a sudden warmth in JANE, a flicker of a smile that just breathes on her face. There is a suggestion that she would move toward DAVID, hut that she is caught and held hack. She stands there. DAVID turns hack to FULLER.)

DAVID And if I don’t sign it?

FULLER Why raise that possibility at all, Graham? I’m here as your friend, don’t you understand that?

(His voice softens and becomes intimate.)

We’re not working at cross purposes, Graham. I’m not going to raise threats about your job, about a blacklist, about what it means to go out through a loyalty hearing. Because I don’t see any of that in the picture at all. You said something to Carmichael about your people coming over here to this country a long time back. Well, how many real white Americans are there? Christ Almighty, Graham, I shouldn’t have to persuade you——

(He glances at JANE. She is staring at her husband.)

DAVID (turning to JANE) You can see his point, Jane.

(She makes no answer. DAVID stands and looks at her. Then, compulsively, he walks to the piano, takes a pen that FULLER holds out to him, and signs the letter. JANE doesn’t move. FULLER smiles as he folds the document.)

FULLER I’d like to shake hands with you, Mr. Graham. I consider it a privilege.

(DAVID shakes hands with him.)

Good night, Mrs. Graham.

(JANE does not move or answer.)

Good night, Mr. Graham.

(He starts to the door, stops at the vestibule and turns back to DAVID.)

Also, just let me say this, Mr. Graham. From here on, you have a few damn good friends in damn good places. That’s something to hang on to.

(He exits. DAVID now looks at JANE, who meets his gaze. He looks away. The silence becomes intense, painful. Then, suddenly, JANE’S face is contorted. A sob, visible, not audible, wracks her body. She bends her head, so that DAVID should not see her face.)

(DAVID goes over to her and tries to lift her head. She tears away.)

JANE (vehemently) Don’t touch me!

DAVID Jane—Jane, won’t you listen to me?

(She looks up at him now, on her face the searching, uncomprehending expressions of a stranger.)

I did what was right. I had to do it.

JANE (very softly) I suppose you did, David. I suppose you did. I suppose there was no other way for it, was there?

DAVID (trying to stimulate an emotional anger to match hers) What in hell is your stake in Agronsky?

(JANE stares at him. Her face twitches, and then she begins to laugh, half hysterically. The laughter turns into sobs. She walks to the staircase, facing away from DAVID, her body wracked again. Then it passes.)

JANE What is my stake in Agronsky?

(She turns to him.)

What is my stake in you, David?

(Her face contorts and she speaks softly.)

Oh, my God!

(Wow HILDA enters. HILDA looks from one to the other. JANE speaks to her very gently.)

What is it, Hilda?

HILDA (looking at her for a long moment before answering. She is making a determined effort to be unaffected by what is happening between these two people. She wants to cut it off from herself. Hers is one world. Theirs is another.) My bag is packed, Mrs. Graham. I’m going now, and there’s some money coming to me.

JANE (fighting for control) Of course. My bag is upstairs. Do you have a place to go, Hilda?

HILDA (ironically) Even now—do I have a place to go? My God, Mrs. Graham, even the dogs have the warmth of their own kind, but you won’t admit me even there. Do I have a place to go? Don’t you think I have people, friends? Do you live in a jungle? I’ll go to my people, and even if I didn’t know a soul, there’d be doors open to me. There’d be some food and a place to sleep the night. That’s what people are, but you’ve stopped being people.

DAVID Who are you talking to?

JANE To us, David. Listen to her. Yes, listen to her. I thought and thought, but it’s so simple.

(very slowly and with great inner fear)

We’ve stopped being people. That’s just it, Hilda.

HILDA Yes, Mrs. Graham?

JANE Can I go with you? I have no place to go. And no doors open to me. And no place to sleep the night. Can I go with you?

HILDA With me?

JANE Yes—please. Please, Hilda.

HILDA How can you go with me, Mrs. Graham? How can you? You’re one world. I’m another. You want to go into my world? Then all he’d have to do (nodding at DAVID) is to phone the police. Then, do you know what would happen?

JANE Yes—I think I know.

HILDA Poor kid.

JANE (looking slowly from DAVID to HILDA) Those are the first two words. Now we talk like people, don’t we, Hilda? Two words—poor kid. But I’m not poor, and I’m not a kid any more. This house is dirty, and I’m dirty, But I’m going to take my child and become clean, and she’s never going to be dirty.

DAVID What in hell are you talking about?

JANE Lorry and me—we go away from here to-night.

DAVID And I have nothing to say about that?

JANE Nothing.

DAVID Well, you’re crazy—crazy—pleading to go with that damn——

JANE (interrupting savagely) Don’t say it David! Don’t say it. Look at me! Try to understand! I’m dangerous now.

DAVID What’s gotten into you?

JANE Nothing—nothing that I can tell you. I’m no different. I haven’t learned anything. Or have I? I have a million questions but very few answers. But there are answers, David.

(pointing to HILDA)

She has some of them. And I’m going to take Lorry and find other answers.

DAVID Damn you, if you want to go to Agronsky, don’t wake the child up now——

JANE David, with you, really, nothing changes. You make things in your own mind, and they become real. Then perhaps I shouldn’t blame you. It may be that by now you really believe that what you said about Agronsky was the truth. You could believe this. What is true in your life? Agronsky never touched me—never made a motion toward me, more’s the pity. More’s the pity, David.

DAVID All right. Wherever you want to go, you can, with or without your high yellow friend here. That’s you. But Lorry stays here.

JANE (very calmly now) No, David—Lorry goes with me. And don’t try and stop us. Don’t make trouble, David. I told you, I’m dangerous. Think of what you did to Agronsky. What kind of a world do you live in, David? If you did it to Agronsky—someone could do it to you, do you see? So don’t make any trouble, David, and don’t try to stop us.

(she turns to HILDA)

Will you wait for me; Hilda—Hilda, as a friend? Will you wait for me while I pack some things? Will you, Hilda? And then can we walk out of here together, as friends? And Lorry won’t be afraid, because we’ll be on either side of her. Will you, Hilda?

HILDA Yes—I will.

JANE You’re not afraid of him, Hilda?

HILDA No.

JANE And neither am I. We’re not afraid, David. This is the beginning of something, not the end. We are both dangerous now, David. Keep your hands off. Leave us alone. We’re in our own land—ours as well as yours and Fuller’s. So leave us alone. Hands off, David.

(She starts up the stairs as she says this, and with her words, the curtain falls for the end of Act III.)

A BIOGRAPHY OF HOWARD FAST

Howard Fast (1914-2003), one of the most prolific American writers of the twentieth century, was a bestselling author of more than eighty works of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and screenplays. Fast's commitment to championing social justice in his writing was rivaled only by his deftness as a storyteller and his lively cinematic style.

Born on November 11, 1914, in New York City, Fast was the son of two immigrants. His mother, Ida, came from a Jewish family in Britain, while his father, Barney, emigrated from the Ukraine, changing his last name to Fast on arrival at Ellis Island. Fast's mother passed away when he was only eight, and when his father lost steady work in the garment industry, Fast began to take odd jobs to help support the family. One such job was at the New York Public Library, where Fast, surrounded by books, was able to read widely. Among the books that made a mark on him was Jack London's The Iron Heel, containing prescient warnings against fascism that set his course both as a writer and as an advocate for human rights.

Fast began his writing career early, leaving high school to finish his first novel, Two Valleys (1933). His next novels, including Conceived in Liberty (1939) and Citizen Tom Paine (1943), explored the American Revolution and the progressive values that Fast saw as essential to the American experiment. In 1943 Fast joined the American Communist Party, an alliance that came to define—and often encumber—much of his career. His novels during this period advocated freedom against tyranny, bigotry, and oppression by exploring essential moments in American history, as in The American (1946). During this time Fast also started a family of his own. He married Bette Cohen in 1937 and the couple had two children.

Congressional action against the Communist Party began in 1948, and in 1950, Fast, an outspoken opponent of McCarthyism, was called before the House Un-American Activities Committee. Because he refused to provide the names of other members of the Joint Anti-Fascist Refugee Committee, Fast was issued a three-month prison sentence for contempt of Congress. While in prison, he was inspired to write Spartacus (1951), his iconic retelling of a slave revolt during the Roman Empire, and did much of his research for the book during his incarceration. Fast's appearance before Congress also earned him a blacklisting by all major publishers, so he started his own press, Blue Heron, in order to release Spartacus. Other novels published by Blue Heron, including Silas Timberman (1954), directly addressed the persecution of Communists and others during the ongoing Red Scare. Fast continued to associate with the Communist Party until the horrors of Stalin's purges of dissidents and political enemies came to light in the mid-1950s. He left the Party in 1956.

Fast's career changed course in 1960, when he began publishing suspense-mysteries under the pseudonym E. V. Cunningham. He published nineteen books as Cunningham, including the seven-book Masao Masuto mystery series. Also, Spartacus was made into a major film in 1960, breaking the Hollywood blacklist once and for all. The success of Spartacus inspired large publishers to pay renewed attention to Fast's books, and in 1961 he published April Morning, a novel about the battle of Lexington and Concord during the American Revolution. The book became a national bestseller and remains a staple of many literature classes. From 1960 onward Fast produced books at an astonishing pace—almost one book per year—while also contributing to screen adaptations of many of his books. His later works included the autobiography Being Red (1990) and the New York Times bestseller The Immigrants (1977).

Fast died in 2003 at his home in Greenwich, Connecticut.

Fast on a farm in upstate New York during the summer of 1917. Growing up, Fast often spent the summers in the Catskill Mountains with his aunt and uncle from Hunter, New York. These vacations provided a much-needed escape from the poverty and squalor of the Lower East Side's Jewish ghetto, as well as the bigotry his family encountered after they eventually relocated to an Irish and Italian neighborhood in upper Manhattan. However, the beauty and tranquility Fast encountered upstate were often marred by the hostility shown toward him by his aunt and uncle. "They treated us the way Oliver Twist was treated in the orphanage," Fast later recalled. Nevertheless, he "fell in love with the area" and continued to go there until he was in his twenties.

Fast (left) with his older brother, Jerome, in 1935. In his memoir Being Red, Fast wrote that he and his brother "had no childhood." As a result of their mother's death in 1923 and their father's absenteeism, both boys had to fend for themselves early on. At age eleven, alongside his thirteen-year-old brother, Fast began selling copies of a local newspaper called the Bronx Home News. Other odd jobs would follow to make ends meet in violent, Depression-era New York City. Although he resented the hardscrabble nature of his upbringing, Fast acknowledged that the experience helped form a lifelong attachment to his brother. "My brother was like a rock," he wrote, "and without him I surely would have perished."

A copy of Fast's military identification from World War II. During the war Fast worked as a war correspondent in the China-Burma-India theater, writing articles for publications such as PM, Esquire, and Coronet. He also contributed scripts to Voice of America, a radio program developed by Elmer Davis that the United States broadcast throughout occupied Europe.

Here Fast poses for a picture with a fellow inmate at Mill Point prison, where he was sent in 1950 for his refusal to disclose information about other members of the Communist Party. Mill Point was a progressive federal institution made up of a series of army bunkhouses. "Everyone worked at the prison," said Fast during a 1998 interview, "and while I hate prison, I hate the whole concept of prison, I must say this was the most intelligent and humane prison, probably that existed in America." Indeed, Fast felt that his three-month stint there served him well as a writer: "I think a writer should see a little bit of prison and a little bit of war. Neither of these things can be properly invented. So that was my prison."

Fast with his wife Bette and their two children, Jonathan and Rachel, in 1952. The family has a long history of literary achievement. Bette's father founded the Hudson County News Company. Jonathan Fast would go on to become a successful popular novelist, as would his daughter, Molly, whose mother, Erica Jong, is the author of the groundbreaking feminist novel Fear of Flying. (Photo courtesy of Lotte Jacobi.)

Fast at a bookstand during his campaign for Congress in 1952. He ran on the American Labor Party ticket for the twenty-third congressional district in the Bronx. Although Fast remained a committed leftist his entire life, he looked back on his foray into national politics with a bit of amusement. "I got a disease, which is called 'candidateitis,'" he told Donald Swaim in a 1990 radio interview. "And this disease takes hold of your mind, and it convinces you that your winning an election is important, very often the most important thing on earth. And it grips you to a point that you're ready to kill to win that election." He concluded: "I was soundly defeated, but it was a fascinating experience."

In 1953, the Soviet Union awarded Fast the International Peace Prize. This photo from the ceremony shows the performer, publisher, and civil rights activist Paul Robeson delivering a speech before presenting Fast (seated, second from left) with the prestigious award. Robeson and Fast came to know each other through their participation in leftist political causes during the 1940s and were friends for many years. Like Fast, Robeson was called before the House Un-American Activities Committee during the McCarthy era and invoked his Fifth Amendment right not to answer questions. This led to Robeson's work being banned in the United States, a situation that Robeson, unlike Fast, never completely overcame. In a late interview Fast cited Robeson as one of the forgotten heroes of the twentieth century. "Paul," he said, "was an extraordinary man." Also shown (from left to right): Essie Robeson, Mrs. Mellisk, Dr. W.E.B. Du Bois, Rachel Fast, and Bette Fast. (Photo courtesy of Julius Lazarus and the author.)

Howard and Bette Fast in California in 1976. The couple relocated to the West Coast after Fast grew disgruntled over the poor reception of his novel The Hessian. While in California, Fast temporarily gave up writing novels to work as a screenwriter, but, like many novelists before him, found the business disheartening. "In L.A. you work like hell because there is nothing else to do, unless you are cheating on your wife," he told People after he had moved back East in the 1980s. Of course, Fast, an ardent nature-lover, did enjoy California's scenic beauty and eventually set many of his novels—including The Immigrant's Daughter and the bestselling Masao Masuto detective series—in the state.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 1954 by Howard Fast

cover design by Jason Gabbert

This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media

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