But Max said: “Last summer I spent working these peace booths at state fairs. We’d go around in this bigole pickup with this knocked-down booth in the back and boxes of literature. People’d come up to me and hear me talking about colonialism or the bomb or who was responsible for the Cold War, and they’d start railing on Communists. Communists, these damn Communists. And I’d say hey, hold on now, you’re talkin’ about my mother. They’d look at me like I’d turned into a Russky before their very eyes. It certainly shut ’em up.” He smiled to remember, delighted. “They were good people. Country people. Didn’t want to say anything bad about a fellow’s mom.”
Saul was a city kid from Chicago, but he and Max were both red-diaper babies, they said; their parents had been involved all their lives in what they called progressive politics. Saul Greenleaf’s earliest memory was being wheeled in the May Day parade in Chicago. Kit listened, thinking of the May Day processions she had walked in, to crown the Virgin Mary Queen of the May.
“Oh yeah,” her roommate, Fran, said dismissively when Kit tried to taxonomize these specimens unknown to her. They weren’t unknown to Fran, who’d gone to the Little Red Schoolhouse in the Village (“the ‘little pink schoolhouse,’ everybody called it”) and had known the type well at her Manhattan high school, which she called the High School of Music and Ott. “Oh sure. Solidarity. The peace-loving peoples of the world. Ban the bomb. Oh all the time.”
So they were real after all, and there were lots of them, and there were others who took what they said seriously or with the easy contempt that comes with familiarity, but who still themselves held what seemed to Kit to be children’s opinions: they said things that no grown-up she had known, her relatives and teachers and parents, the priest and the principal, ever said plainly, that war was criminally stupid and bombs were insane, that fairness was better than cruelty, and that people were all basically the same, at least in their claims on the means of life: convictions that she had unconsciously supposed you had to give up or at least keep quiet about in order to grow up yourself.
Jackie laughed and shook his head at her naiveté, delighted to lecture her about the jealousies and hatreds that in fact divided these people, the deep and narrow gulfs fixed between CP and Trotskyists, between the Young People’s Socialist League and the Young Socialist Alliance, the War Resisters League and the Student Peace Union, and which were the fronts of which others, who took orders from whom and who didn’t: an encyclopedic knowledge that seemed at odds with his general approbation of people like Max and Saul, people who think and sharp minds.
“So which one do you belong to?” she asked him.
He regarded her as though, a child, she had made a coarse faux pas she couldn’t have understood. “Oh,” he said. “I ain’t a joiner.”
It was evident to Kit that the FBI had nothing to fear anyway from these people. They had the cheerful contempt for Russian Communists that a smart young pony might have for an old gelded cart horse. They acknowledged the Russians’ primacy, and allowed only one another to slight them or make fun of them; in any face-off with the United States they were quick to point out where their own country was in the wrong. But their heroes were different ones: Trotsky, fallen eagle, murdered in Mexico; Mao in Yenan, writing poetry; Joe Hill, the bosses couldn’t kill him; above all Fidel and Che and their young bearded men, stripped to the waist cutting cane alongside the people, teaching kids to read. They talked of how when Fidel came to New York to speak at the United Nations, instead of the Waldorf-Astoria he went up to Harlem to stay at the Hotel Teresa; how he joked in English with the students at Johns Hopkins. The young men at East North Street seemed to feel about Fidel and the Cubans the way so many she knew felt about Kennedy: whatever else they were or might become, they weren’t old and sick and stuck.
The group formed a Fair Play for Cuba Committee chapter and held meetings in the living room at North Street. Delegates came from some of the alphabet-named groups on campus, and some refused to send one, but it was Max and Saul who ran the meetings, read from the literature sent out by the national committee, answered the questions.
Was it true that the Soviets were sending military help to Cuba?
“Sure,” Saul said. “And isn’t that reasonable? I mean the U.S. invaded the country. But the U.S. line is that anybody who thinks our intentions are anything but sterling is either falling for Communist propaganda or is paranoid. Right. Sure. Look at Arbenz, for Christ’s sake. Look at Lumumba.”
Did he think that the United States would actually invade Cuba again? The cigarette smoke was thick in the room. Kit didn’t know the persons who were asking.
“Yes. Absolutely. They’ll invade as soon as they think they can get away with it. But as long as they still care about world opinion, they might hold off. That’s why we’re here. That’s why we’re doing this.”
And so then will the United States be able to overthrow the Castro government? Or not?
“That depends,” Saul said, and lifted his head.
“Depends on what?” Kit said.
“It depends on whether, right now, History needs a martyr, or needs a hero,” he said. The shine on his glasses hid his eyes, and Kit couldn’t tell if he was wholly serious; but a kind of premonitory black triumph arose in her own breast that amazed her. Martyr or hero.
The delegates agreed on an open letter about the U.S. threat to the existence of Cuba as an independent nation, to be sent to whoever might print it and signed by as many important people on campus as they could persuade. And they went on talking, talking. At last Kit tugged Jackie’s sleeve: she had to get back to her dorm.
“You ought to take that open letter to your friend Falin,” Jackie said. “He’s the kind of name it needs.”
“Oh sure,” she said. “I’m supposed to ask him that?”
“Why? You think he wouldn’t agree? Wouldn’t want to sign? What makes you think that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Just because you got a crush on him,” Jackie said. “Don’t mean you know him.” At that she decided to take offense, and said nothing more the rest of the way home.
“Anyway,” Jackie said, letting her out at her dorm. “You keep it with you. That letter. Keep your eyes open and wait for a good time to ask him. Learn a little about him meanwhile. You owe it to yourself.”
A crush, an obsession with a magnetic teacher: she couldn’t believe that it was actually a category of feeling, a very common one around here, Jackie said. She did think about Falin a lot, but it was because she knew nothing of him, of his self and his past; only of his future, which she knew just to the extent that it was hers too, American. What she didn’t and probably couldn’t know about him gripped her, it was a fascination that seemed to her pure, almost impersonal, like a scientist’s obsession with the source of a river or the unseen side of the moon.
She watched for him. She did do that. There was always the possibility that he might appear near her or in her view on campus or at lectures or elsewhere and some tiny thing more would be revealed. When she did see him she could often not keep from following him, unseen, shadowing him, which was easier to get away with than she would have thought; all it took was alertness and a heart quiet enough to make the right smooth movements so that the other’s peripheral vision was not alerted. She had measured Fran’s peripheral vision in Psychology, where she had learned the term; one day it would become the title of a book of her poems. She kept the open letter in her bag, a sort of so-there to Jackie, she was only doing her part as Jackie had said she should: but she didn’t tell Jackie or anyone.
She came upon him on a March night taking his long strides across the old campus, and she followed not far behind, ready to turn away and be no one that he knew if he turned toward her, if he felt her glance on his back and his high head, which he wouldn’t, because it was so light, so nonexistent. She lost him, though, from being too carefully inattentive, and she slowed uncertainly; she could see down all the lighted paths, he couldn’t have gone far.