Doodle."
"You don't have to be a communist to be blacklisted. Lots of ordinary people have been blacklisted. You know, like the Hollywood Ten."
"What's the Hollywood Ten? Sounds like a baseball team."
"You dope," Sophie said, laughing. "It's been in the newspaper for years. They're screenwriters from Hollywood who the government wants to put in jail for refusing to answer questions about maybe being communists. I mean, some guy asks them questions that are none of his business, and when they say, 'It's none of your business,' bingo, they're criminals, and they can't work because no studio will hire them. That's blacklisting."
"But if they weren't communists, why wouldn't they just say so?"
"It's a matter of free speech. People have the right to speak and the right not to speak."
"And if they
are
communists, shouldn't they go to jail?"
"Being a communist is not a crime in this country, Francine," said Mr. Bowman, coming in the front door and shaking water off like a wet dog. "Not yet anyway." He took off his hat and brushed his hair back.
At the door of his study he turned and said, "This anti-communist madness, like all madness, will get out of control. Mark my words. Yesterday I heard that a butcher on Melrose was picketed for advertising Polish hams." He gave a barklike little laugh, but I wasn't sure whether it was a joke or not.
Why wasn't being a communist a crime? Except for Sophie and Mr. Mandelbaum and maybe Mr. Bowman, people seemed to think communists were dangerous and un-American, that they would use any means, even the movies, to betray and destroy us. We had to be vigilant. "This movie we're seeing on Saturday isn't about communists, is it?" I asked Sophie, being vigilant. "You said it was a musical."
"It's about a boy and girl trying to win a dance contest. His father is a dentist."
"That should be okay, then." I didn't think there were communist dentists, but still I was anxious. Sister once said that most movie people were communists. I hoped there wouldn't be communists at the benefit, kidnapping people and shipping them to Russia or East Germany.
"What kind of movies does your father write?" I asked Sophie, worried that she'd say communist propaganda films about the glories of Russia.
"He's a serious drama kind of guy."
"Like what? I've never seen 'Written by Mr. Harry Bowman' up on the screen."
"That's because there's no movie yet with his name on it. He says he writes a script, someone is brought in to rewrite, someone else to mutilate, and someone else to destroy. And the destroyer gets the screen credit."
That couldn't be true. I was certain that movie people were as wonderful as the movies. Maybe Mr. Bowman just wasn't a very good writer yet. "What if he wrote a movie for Montgomery Clift someday? Wouldn't that be too much?" I rocked quietly for a minute, relishing the thought. "What about you?" I asked her finally. "Do you think you'll be a writer, too?"
"You bet. I'm going to be a crusading reporter and expose injustice wherever I find it." She leaned over and picked up the shiny wooden nut bowl from the coffee table. After examining all the nuts carefully, she selected one. "I'll never get marriedâno husband, no kids. Just dogs. And a green convertible." The nutcracker closed on the nut with a sharp sound. "What about you?"
Be an actor,
Miss Velma had said, but I wasn't ready to tell anyone about that yet, not even Sophie. "Probably I'll just live with my parents all my life," I told her. "Maybe they'll let me get a cat or a parakeet or something." I thought about it while Sophie continued demolishing nuts. Catholic girls who didn't become nuns were supposed to be Catholic wives and mothers. I didn't want to be a nun, but I couldn't imagine getting married. I still hadn't spoken a word to Gordon, much less had a date. I'd have to get a job somewhere.
My father worked for a company on Wilshire Boulevard that built housing developments in the San Fernando Valley. He was a
"You don't have to be a communist to be blacklisted. Lots of ordinary people have been blacklisted. You know, like the Hollywood Ten."
"What's the Hollywood Ten? Sounds like a baseball team."
"You dope," Sophie said, laughing. "It's been in the newspaper for years. They're screenwriters from Hollywood who the government wants to put in jail for refusing to answer questions about maybe being communists. I mean, some guy asks them questions that are none of his business, and when they say, 'It's none of your business,' bingo, they're criminals, and they can't work because no studio will hire them. That's blacklisting."
"But if they weren't communists, why wouldn't they just say so?"
"It's a matter of free speech. People have the right to speak and the right not to speak."
"And if they
are
communists, shouldn't they go to jail?"
"Being a communist is not a crime in this country, Francine," said Mr. Bowman, coming in the front door and shaking water off like a wet dog. "Not yet anyway." He took off his hat and brushed his hair back.
At the door of his study he turned and said, "This anti-communist madness, like all madness, will get out of control. Mark my words. Yesterday I heard that a butcher on Melrose was picketed for advertising Polish hams." He gave a barklike little laugh, but I wasn't sure whether it was a joke or not.
Why wasn't being a communist a crime? Except for Sophie and Mr. Mandelbaum and maybe Mr. Bowman, people seemed to think communists were dangerous and un-American, that they would use any means, even the movies, to betray and destroy us. We had to be vigilant. "This movie we're seeing on Saturday isn't about communists, is it?" I asked Sophie, being vigilant. "You said it was a musical."
"It's about a boy and girl trying to win a dance contest. His father is a dentist."
"That should be okay, then." I didn't think there were communist dentists, but still I was anxious. Sister once said that most movie people were communists. I hoped there wouldn't be communists at the benefit, kidnapping people and shipping them to Russia or East Germany.
"What kind of movies does your father write?" I asked Sophie, worried that she'd say communist propaganda films about the glories of Russia.
"He's a serious drama kind of guy."
"Like what? I've never seen 'Written by Mr. Harry Bowman' up on the screen."
"That's because there's no movie yet with his name on it. He says he writes a script, someone is brought in to rewrite, someone else to mutilate, and someone else to destroy. And the destroyer gets the screen credit."
That couldn't be true. I was certain that movie people were as wonderful as the movies. Maybe Mr. Bowman just wasn't a very good writer yet. "What if he wrote a movie for Montgomery Clift someday? Wouldn't that be too much?" I rocked quietly for a minute, relishing the thought. "What about you?" I asked her finally. "Do you think you'll be a writer, too?"
"You bet. I'm going to be a crusading reporter and expose injustice wherever I find it." She leaned over and picked up the shiny wooden nut bowl from the coffee table. After examining all the nuts carefully, she selected one. "I'll never get marriedâno husband, no kids. Just dogs. And a green convertible." The nutcracker closed on the nut with a sharp sound. "What about you?"
Be an actor,
Miss Velma had said, but I wasn't ready to tell anyone about that yet, not even Sophie. "Probably I'll just live with my parents all my life," I told her. "Maybe they'll let me get a cat or a parakeet or something." I thought about it while Sophie continued demolishing nuts. Catholic girls who didn't become nuns were supposed to be Catholic wives and mothers. I didn't want to be a nun, but I couldn't imagine getting married. I still hadn't spoken a word to Gordon, much less had a date. I'd have to get a job somewhere.
My father worked for a company on Wilshire Boulevard that built housing developments in the San Fernando Valley. He was a
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