Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

“I think you have your chronology slightly confused, Congressman. At the time of the offer, Czechoslovakia was a democracy, and President Benes was eager to participate. Subsequently, of course, they declined.”

Nick lost his father halfway through-it was Whigs and Jacobites again, too mixed up to sort out-and he could tell the audience wasn’t really following either. They could hear only the rhythm of Welles’s interrogation, the slow build and rising pitch that seemed to hammer his father into his chair. The momentum of it, not the words, became the accusation. The Congressman was so sure-he must know. It didn’t really matter what he said, so long as the voice rushed along, gathering speed.

“Round two,” the voice-over said, introducing another film clip. “And this time nobody was pulling any punches.”

“Mr Kotlar, I’m sure we’ve all been grateful for the history lessons. Unfortunately, anyone who changes positions as often as you do is bound to make things a little confusing for the rest of us. So let’s see if we can find out what you really think. I’d like to talk again about your background, if I may?” Welles swiveled his head to the other men at the long table, who nodded automatically, absorbed in the drama of where he might be going. “You are, I believe, a graduate of the Harvard Law School?”

For a minute Nick’s father didn’t respond, as if the question were so unexpected it must be a trick. “That’s correct.”

“And can you tell us what you did next? Did you join a firm or hang out your own shingle or what?”

“I came to Washington to work for the Government.”

“That would be, let’s see-1934. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Of course, jobs were tight then, so I guess government work was pretty popular,” Welles said, suddenly folksy and reminiscent. “Kinda the patriotic thing to do in 1934. Yes, sir, they used to say the Harvard Law School ran a regular bus service down here right after graduation.” This play to the gallery had the expected effect, and Welles, smiling slyly, waited for the laughter to subside. Then he looked back at Nick’s father. “But you didn’t come right away, did you?”

Nick’s father looked at him blankly, saying nothing.

“Mr Kotlar, is it not a fact that after Harvard Law School you offered your services to the United Mine Workers union during their illegal strike?”

“It was not an illegal strike.”

“Just answer the question,” Welles shot back. “Did you work for the UMW?”

“Yes.”

“And how much were you paid for this work?”

“It was unpaid.”

“Unpaid. Free, you mean. Well now, I’m just a country lawyer-I didn’t go to the Harvard Law School. They usually work for free up there? Or just the labor agitators?”

He rushed on, not waiting for Nick’s father to reply. “The Party often ask you to do union work, Mr Kotlar?”

“No,” his father said quietly.

“No.” Welles paused. “They had other plans for you. Washington plans. Seems a shame, considering. The strike went pretty well from their point of view, wouldn’t you say?”

“I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t working for the Communist Party.”

“No. Just the miners. Out of the goodness of your heart. What made them so special, I wonder. To work free of charge.”

Nick’s father waited, drawing the room to his side of the table, then let his lips form the hint of a smile. “My father was a coal miner. He asked me to help. I didn’t think I could refuse.”

There was a slight pause and then the room buzzed. Welles, visibly surprised and annoyed, covered the microphone with his hand and turned to an aide. The other members of the committee began to talk too, as if by looking away Welles had given them all a brief recess. When he turned back to the mike, the room grew still, expectant.

“I’m sure the members of the committee all appreciate a son’s devotion, Mr Kotlar,” he said, reaching again for sarcasm. But the momentum had gone. Nick wasn’t sure what had happened, but his father was sitting up straighter, no longer letting his shoulders hunch in self-protection. “Perhaps they’d also appreciate hearing that you didn’t confine yourself to legal services in that strike. It says here that the picket line at the Trousdale Colliery got pretty violent. You were arrested, were you not?”

“No. There was a scuffle with the company guards, that’s all. No arrests.”

“Mr Kotlar, we’re not talking about a speeding ticket here. Do you deny there was a violent incident in which you took part?”

“I don’t deny there was a fight. I deny I took part in it.”

“Oh? What were you doing?”

“I was trying to stay out of the way.”

Now there was real laughter, a wave that passed through the room, gathering force until it spilled onto Welles’s table, breaking as it hit his angry face.

“Mr Kotlar,” he said loudly, “I think I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough impertinence. This committee is charged with the serious business-the very serious business — of investigating Communist activities in this country. I’ve had enough of your Harvard Law School evasions. And I think the American people have had enough of high-handed boys who use their tax dollars while they sell this country down the river. You go ahead and laugh. But that was no scuffle, and you are no loyal American. When I look at your testimony start to finish, I see nothing less than an attempt to deceive this committee and this great country. Well, we’re not going to be deceived. This committee is here to look at un-American activities. In your case, I think the people of this country are going to be grateful we did.”

“Congressman,” Nick’s father said, his voice tight with scorn, “the only un-American activity I’ve seen is taking place right here in this committee room. I hope the people see that too.”

Another clip, the announcer’s voice more excited now. “But the sparring match drew to a close as Congressman Welles zeroed in on the sensational Cochrane testimony.” The clip must have been from another day, because his father was wearing a different suit, the gray double-breasted one Nick’s mother said made him look heavier.

“Mr Kotlar, Rosemary Cochrane testified that on several occasions she received government documents from you in her role as a courier for a Russian undercover operation.” The Congressman paused. “Do you recall that testimony?”

“Vividly.”

“And you denied these charges. In fact, you denied ever having met her, is that correct?”

“To the best of my knowledge, I have never met her.”

“To the best of your knowledge?”

“I am trying to be precise. I may have encountered her without my knowing it. Certainly I have no memory of having done so.”

“Is that your way of saying no?” Welles said. “Do I have to remind you that you’re under oath?”

Nick’s father managed a wry smile. “No, you don’t have to remind me.”

“Mr Kotlar, have you ever shopped at Garfinkel’s department store?”

For a moment Nick’s father looked blank. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Have you ever shopped at Garfinkel’s department store? The big store down on 14th Street. You’re familiar with Garfinkel’s?”

“Yes. I suppose so.”

“Shirts? Ever buy shirts there?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember. Now how could that be?”

“My wife usually does the shopping.”

The camera moved to take in Nick’s mother, sitting rigidly at the edge of the row behind, her eyes blinking in the unfamiliar light.

Nick felt Nora squirm beside him. “That’s it,” she whispered urgently. “We’re going.”

“No, when it’s over,” Nick said firmly, not moving his head. “I want to see.”