Robert Coover - Public Burning

“Hell, Sam, you got about as much respect for those fatuous Dixie gasbags as I’ve got — they’re not gonna get anywhere, and you know it. When you turn Hayden or Aiken or Saltonstall loose on me, I’ll start to worry, but for now I think I’ll just go for my walk. You coming along or—?”

“NO!” Uncle Sam blusters. His face is flushed, his white chinwhiskers are standing on end, his blue eyes blazing. “I–I promise you, mister, we’re gonna get you! One way or the other, you are going to be sorry!”

Justice Douglas stares for a moment at the irate Superhero. “Yes,” he sighs, shaking his head, “I suppose I will,” and wheels out of the room, nearly bowling over the janitor just coming in to clean up.

“Who you talkin’ to, boss?” asks the janitor, peering bug-eyed into the empty Supreme Court chamber. “You talkin’ to yo’self?”

“Yeah,” says Douglas without turning back. “It looks that way…”

I was sitting on the floor of my inner office, surrounded by every scrap of information I could find on the Rosenberg case, feeling scruffy and tired, dejected, lost in a surfeit of detail and further from a final position on the issue than ever, when the bell on my clock rang twice for a quorum call. It was late, goddamn late, I thought Lyndon Johnson had long since given up. I desperately wanted to get rid of this atom-spy affair and go home — if I left the damned thing now, I’d just have to come back, and then where would it end? Why the devil had Uncle Sam got me into this? Just to convince me of the enormity of their crime? But I was already convinced. How many Americans had died and would die because of what they had done? Would the Reds have dared invade South Korea, rape Czechoslovakia, support the Vietminh and Malayan guerrillas, suppress the freedom-hungry East German workers, if the Rosenbergs had not given them the Bomb? We were headed, truly, into a new Era of Peace after World War II, our possession of the ultimate weapon and our traditional American gift for self-sacrifice would have ensured that — and we might even have helped our friend Chiang return to the Chinese mainland where he belonged, loosened things up a little inside Russia to boot — but the Rosenbergs upset all that. When the Russians tested their first A-bomb in 1949, I was one of the first to hit at Truman’s failure to act against Red spies in the United States. And then when they got Fuchs in England in 1950, I called for a full congressional investigation of atomic espionage to find out who may have worked with Fuchs in this country — I moved quickly, caught most Congressmen napping, got most of the headlines. And deserved them. No, Dick Nixon knew what was going on all right, and was quick to say so, that’s how I beat that fancypants movie star for Senator that year, and even though finally I didn’t have all that much to do with the Rosenberg case itself, I always felt that — indirectly anyway — it was my baby.

All the more so when you considered that it was my successful pursuit of Alger Hiss which had given courage and incentive to the entire nation, made Communism a real issue, restored the dignity and prestige of HUAC, changed the very course of America and the Free World, and ultimately had made these electrocutions possible. In Whittaker Chamber’s new best-seller, Witness , he wrote: “On a scale personal enough to be felt by all, but big enough to be symbolic, the two irreconcilable faiths of our time — Communism and Freedom — came to grips in the persons of two conscious and resolute men…. Both knew, almost from the beginning, that the Great Case could end only in the destruction of one or both of the contending figures, just as the history of our times…can end only in the destruction of one or both of the contending forces!” And hadn’t I been the catalyst that gave Whittaker and the Free World victory? To hell with your goddamned “McCarthy Era”! I’m the one!

I’ll never forget the day that Hiss, beaten, walked over to the old davenport in Room 1400 of the Commodore Hotel in New York to examine Chambers’s molars: “Would you mind opening your mouth wider? I said, would you open your mouth!” What pathos! If these two were indeed, as Whittaker had suggested, the momentary Incarnations of the contending forces of the universe, there was something profoundly ironic about the Force of Darkness and Evil poking petulantly but almost tearfully among the dental ruins in the soft but firm jowls of the Force of Goodness and Light. I think he hoped that Whittaker would bite him so that he could cry from pain rather than humiliation. I had already guessed the real bond between these two guys, and Alger’s desperate scrutiny of the intimate details of Whittaker’s mouth, full of so much sadness and decay, began to embarrass me. I finally had to ask him: “Excuse me, before we leave the teeth, Mr. Hiss, do you feel that you, uh, would have to have the dentist tell you just what he did to the teeth before you could tell anything about this man?” From that moment on, Hiss was finished; like that snake that eats its own tail, he just couldn’t keep his foot out of his mouth after that. It mas maybe the most fun I ever had in politics, outside of elections, and when it was over I felt like one chosen. Like Whittaker said: “I do not know any way to explain why God’s grace touches a man who seems unworthy of it. But neither do I know any other way to explain how a man like myself…could prevail so far against the powers of the world arrayed almost solidly against him, to destroy him and defeat his truth.” Which was even more true of me, who unlike Chambers must struggle for a lifetime. Not that I’m unworthy. No, that’s just it, the powers arrayed against the good man are formidable and indefatigable, there are few who can stay the course. Defeat and disappointment dog every footstep. If old Hiss hadn’t been a liar, for example — and an eager one besides — I might have been destroyed before I could ever get started. So thank God at least for that: it gave me the power to prevail, it was a milestone in human history, and marked me once and for all as the greatest of the Early Warning Sentinels.

In short, my conscience was clean — so why had Uncle Sam brought this Rosenberg case up, especially so late in the ballgame? Of course, he’d only mentioned it in passing while washing his balls on the seventh tee, but I had long since learned that with Uncle Sam nothing was mere happenstance, you had to listen to him with every hole in your body. The case itself seemed cut-and-dried: a routine FBI investigation, a sequence of confessions from Fuchs to Gold to Greenglass, leading directly to Julius and Ethel Rosenberg. They denied all accusations, but then so did Hiss — in fact, their reactions were very similar, high and mighty sometimes, hurt and offended others — you could smell the ham in them. And they had a much more telling witness against them than a fat spooky slob like Whittaker Chambers. David Greenglass was also something of a fat slob, true, and a bit spooky as well, but he was more than that: he was also Ethel’s own brother. His story of his recruitment by Julie and Ethel, how he drew up the lens-mold sketches and lists of personnel, passed them on to Harry Gold, how he discussed these things with the Rosenbergs, with little details of family life mixed in, how Julie tried to help him escape — it was all very convincing. The only question remaining really was: who else was in the spy ring besides the Rosenbergs, Greenglasses, Gold, and the Russian Yakovlev? Uncle Sam had wanted maximum pressure to be applied to the Rosenbergs to make them talk, which was the reason Judge Kaufman had given them the death penalty, together with a hint that confessions might soften his heart. No one had to tell Kaufman this, he knew what he had to do, though he’d apparently sent Saypol down to Washington just to make sure. There had been a lot of evidence brought forward over the past two years to support some of the Rosenbergs’ minor testimony and try to damage David’s credibility as a witness, and having studied the case now, I could perceive a lot of backstage scene-rigging and testimony-shaping by the prosecuting team that deprived the courtroom performances of some of their authenticity and power, but there was no shaking off the basic conviction: the Rosenbergs were guilty as hell. So why—?