I arrived home from school, to find my mother carrying an armload of books up the stairs. I put my flute case and music on top of the piano, and carried my bookcase and lunchbox out to the dining room.
As I returned to the living room, Mom said to me, “We have to move some books around. You can help. Come upstairs to your father’s and my bedroom, and I’ll tell you which ones to carry down.”
I did as I was told, and she handed me about six books from a jumbled pile of them on the bed.
“Put these downstairs in the top shelf, please,” she said to me.
I went back downstairs with the six paperbacks, and placed them in the shelf next to the other paperbacks. Then, I climbed the stairs once again.
In their bedroom, mom had the closet door open, and said to me, “Okay, start reading titles from that pile on the bed, and I’ll tell you whether they need to go back downstairs, or onto this pile in the closet.”
Since she was making a pile, I decided to select the largest ones first, to go on the bottom. I picked up an oversized thick volume and read the title aloud, “The Second Sex.”
“I’ll take it,” was her reply.
“The Gathering Storm.”
“That one can go back downstairs”
"The Hinge of Fate"
"All those books by Winston Churchill can go back downstairs."
“Less miserables”
“That’s Lay Mee-zir-AH-ble” she said. “It’s a story about a poor person in France, who was put in jail for stealing a loaf of bread, and started a revolution. Um. I’d better keep that one up here.”
“No Exit, and Three Other Plays”
“Up here.”
“Republic”
“Here”
“Marx and Engels Com …”
“Up here,” was the terse reply.
“The Glass Key”
“Let’s see. That one’s by Dashiell Hammett. I’d better keep it up here, even though it’s just a fictional mystery.”
We went on this way for nearly half an hour, with the pile in the closet getting larger and larger, and the pile to be returned to the living room growing only by ones and twos.
After we had sorted all the books, Mom had me gather the ones that went back downstairs, and place them on the shelves. To my eye, used as I was to seeing the bookshelves jammed to overflowing, with books stacked on their sides on top, they looked almost barren.
That’s when I asked her, “Why are you hiding all those books, Mom?”
“Your father’s boss is coming to dinner tonight, and those books are ones that, if they knew we had them, might upset some people.”
I don’t remember anything at all about the dinner, except that we had steak, which was something I considered a luxury.
Sometime later – I don’t remember how long – it may have been a few days or a few weeks, or even as much as a year, my parents insisted that I stay in the living room and watch what was on television. All I recall of itwas a bunch of men sitting around a long table, all wearing suits, and other men in suits answering questions. Most of the time, the men asking the questions did more talking than the ones answering.But I remember the answers, because they all said the same thing.
It was repeated over and over. “Upon advice of counsel, I decline to answer that question, under the rights accorded me by the fifth amendment.”
“What’s the fifth amendment?” I asked my parents.
My father stood up from the couch, and crossed over the living room to the (refilled) bookshelf, and took out a volume. I didn’t see the title, but I saw the author’s names on the spine were Charles and Mary Beard. He opened it to the back and flipped back a few pages into the Appendix, and began reading:
No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in actual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.
“That’s from the Constitution of the United States,” he said. “It means that no one has to admit to anything unless he is charged with a crime by a court. So he does not have to incriminate himself.”
“Why are those men asking those other men to do that?” I asked.
“See that heavy-set man, Senator McCarthy?” my mother asked. “He is accusing all those other men of being Communists, and he is hoping to have them put into prison.”
I looked over at the bookshelves. I remembered having seen the word, “Communist” on one of the books, and I gazed at it again. “What’s a Manifesto?” I asked.
Dad said, “That’s a declaration of purpose, or in the case of the Communist Manifesto, a statement of what those two men, Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, thought was the best way for people to live, and to distribute their food, money and property.
Well, those answers were sufficient to satisfy a fourth-grader’s curiosity, but I was always intrigued by those books we had hidden, and later replaced on their proper shelves.
About five years later, when I was in the ninth grade, we had to write an expository essay. I wrote an essay on how I thought the education system should be set up. I got a B on it, but that is not what is important. My teacher, Mr. Ricketts, had written in the margin, “Read Plato’s Republic.”
As soon as I got home from school that day, I asked my mother, “Do we have something called Plato’s Republic?”
“Sure. Why do you ask?”
“Mr. Ricketts wrote on my paper that I should read it.”
“Do you remember when we moved all those books from the living room?
“Because Dad’s boss was coming to dinner?”
“Yes. Well, The Republic was one of them. So if you want to read it, you’re welcome to. You may read any book we have. If you decide it doesn’t interest you, that’s okay. You can put it back on the shelf without finishing it.”
That summer, I read Plato, Socrates, Victor Hugo, Jean Paul Sartre, Sir Winston Churchill, Much Ado About Nothing, and started Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex . But I didn’t finish that last, because it wasn’t at all what I was expecting, judging from the title.
Many, many years later, I figured out what was going on, the day we moved all the books. Dad’s boss was coming to dinner, because Dad was being investigated. He had a Top Secret clearance for his work at Westinghouse, and he and mom were members of the ACLU, and attended the Baltimore Ethical Society Sunday meetings. Both of those things were considered highly suspect during the height of the McCarthy witch hunt era and are still considered a little subversive in some circles, today. But that’s a topic for a different essay.
Oh, and yes, somewhere along the line, I did finish reading The Second Sex, too.
As I returned to the living room, Mom said to me, “We have to move some books around. You can help. Come upstairs to your father’s and my bedroom, and I’ll tell you which ones to carry down.”
I did as I was told, and she handed me about six books from a jumbled pile of them on the bed.
“Put these downstairs in the top shelf, please,” she said to me.
I went back downstairs with the six paperbacks, and placed them in the shelf next to the other paperbacks. Then, I climbed the stairs once again.
In their bedroom, mom had the closet door open, and said to me, “Okay, start reading titles from that pile on the bed, and I’ll tell you whether they need to go back downstairs, or onto this pile in the closet.”
Since she was making a pile, I decided to select the largest ones first, to go on the bottom. I picked up an oversized thick volume and read the title aloud, “The Second Sex.”
“I’ll take it,” was her reply.
“The Gathering Storm.”
“That one can go back downstairs”
"The Hinge of Fate"
"All those books by Winston Churchill can go back downstairs."
“Less miserables”
“That’s Lay Mee-zir-AH-ble” she said. “It’s a story about a poor person in France, who was put in jail for stealing a loaf of bread, and started a revolution. Um. I’d better keep that one up here.”
“No Exit, and Three Other Plays”
“Up here.”
“Republic”
“Here”
“Marx and Engels Com …”
“Up here,” was the terse reply.
“The Glass Key”
“Let’s see. That one’s by Dashiell Hammett. I’d better keep it up here, even though it’s just a fictional mystery.”
We went on this way for nearly half an hour, with the pile in the closet getting larger and larger, and the pile to be returned to the living room growing only by ones and twos.
After we had sorted all the books, Mom had me gather the ones that went back downstairs, and place them on the shelves. To my eye, used as I was to seeing the bookshelves jammed to overflowing, with books stacked on their sides on top, they looked almost barren.
That’s when I asked her, “Why are you hiding all those books, Mom?”
“Your father’s boss is coming to dinner tonight, and those books are ones that, if they knew we had them, might upset some people.”
I don’t remember anything at all about the dinner, except that we had steak, which was something I considered a luxury.
Sometime later – I don’t remember how long – it may have been a few days or a few weeks, or even as much as a year, my parents insisted that I stay in the living room and watch what was on television. All I recall of itwas a bunch of men sitting around a long table, all wearing suits, and other men in suits answering questions. Most of the time, the men asking the questions did more talking than the ones answering.But I remember the answers, because they all said the same thing.
It was repeated over and over. “Upon advice of counsel, I decline to answer that question, under the rights accorded me by the fifth amendment.”
“What’s the fifth amendment?” I asked my parents.
My father stood up from the couch, and crossed over the living room to the (refilled) bookshelf, and took out a volume. I didn’t see the title, but I saw the author’s names on the spine were Charles and Mary Beard. He opened it to the back and flipped back a few pages into the Appendix, and began reading:
No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in actual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.
“That’s from the Constitution of the United States,” he said. “It means that no one has to admit to anything unless he is charged with a crime by a court. So he does not have to incriminate himself.”
“Why are those men asking those other men to do that?” I asked.
“See that heavy-set man, Senator McCarthy?” my mother asked. “He is accusing all those other men of being Communists, and he is hoping to have them put into prison.”
I looked over at the bookshelves. I remembered having seen the word, “Communist” on one of the books, and I gazed at it again. “What’s a Manifesto?” I asked.
Dad said, “That’s a declaration of purpose, or in the case of the Communist Manifesto, a statement of what those two men, Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, thought was the best way for people to live, and to distribute their food, money and property.
Well, those answers were sufficient to satisfy a fourth-grader’s curiosity, but I was always intrigued by those books we had hidden, and later replaced on their proper shelves.
About five years later, when I was in the ninth grade, we had to write an expository essay. I wrote an essay on how I thought the education system should be set up. I got a B on it, but that is not what is important. My teacher, Mr. Ricketts, had written in the margin, “Read Plato’s Republic.”
As soon as I got home from school that day, I asked my mother, “Do we have something called Plato’s Republic?”
“Sure. Why do you ask?”
“Mr. Ricketts wrote on my paper that I should read it.”
“Do you remember when we moved all those books from the living room?
“Because Dad’s boss was coming to dinner?”
“Yes. Well, The Republic was one of them. So if you want to read it, you’re welcome to. You may read any book we have. If you decide it doesn’t interest you, that’s okay. You can put it back on the shelf without finishing it.”
That summer, I read Plato, Socrates, Victor Hugo, Jean Paul Sartre, Sir Winston Churchill, Much Ado About Nothing, and started Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex . But I didn’t finish that last, because it wasn’t at all what I was expecting, judging from the title.
Many, many years later, I figured out what was going on, the day we moved all the books. Dad’s boss was coming to dinner, because Dad was being investigated. He had a Top Secret clearance for his work at Westinghouse, and he and mom were members of the ACLU, and attended the Baltimore Ethical Society Sunday meetings. Both of those things were considered highly suspect during the height of the McCarthy witch hunt era and are still considered a little subversive in some circles, today. But that’s a topic for a different essay.
Oh, and yes, somewhere along the line, I did finish reading The Second Sex, too.
