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members. Windows were smashed and employees harassed and when my father brought in his strikebreakers—men every bit as rough as the men they replaced—the death threats began, first in the form of crude anonymous letters to my father at his office, and then obscenely to the house, terrifying my mother and infuriating my father. By then, my father’s good friend Sheriff Tom Felsen had suggested he arm himself for his own protection, and gave him the long-barreled Colt .32, a box of ammunition, and the crimson duffel.
    My mother wanted him to give in, settle the strike or sell the business, so we could live in peace. She was afraid to answer the telephone. She was afraid to work in her garden or meet friends for lunch. You should show some consideration for your family, she said.
    It was late April. We were at dinner, my father picking at his food and saying very little. He was at his usual place at the head of the table, looking through the den to the French doors that led to the terrace.
    I hate it, she said.
    You can’t give in to them, my father replied.
    Why not? she said.
    For one thing, they’re Communists.
    I don’t care who they are, my mother said.
    They’re trying to destroy me, he said with sudden passion. Destroy me, destroy my business. They hate our way of life.
    Why are the Communists interested in a little printing plant in Illinois? What interest do they have in your stationery? Answer me that.
    Not so little, Jo. We grossed three-five last year.
    You know what I mean, she said.
    But my father looked away, irritated, poking at his pork chop, then murmuring something about his strikebreakers, tough men, good workers when they weren’t drinking. Some of them had been threatened also and were carrying firearms provided by the sheriffs office. Strikebreakers cost more when they had to arm themselves, sort of like combat pay in the army. He said, It’s just a hell of a mess for everyone.
    You don’t need it, she said.
    I don’t want anyone to get hurt. But god damn it, if they push me—
    Teddy,
you don’t need it.
    Need what? said my father.
    Don’t be obtuse, my mother said. Your business. You have other interests, your investments downstate. You’re doing fine without Carillo & Ravan, so you could sell it and give someone else the headache. Let someone else fight the Communists.
    I don’t like sarcasm, Jo.
    I can’t bear another of those telephone calls, my mother said, more softly. That voice, the breathing—
    I said, What did he say exactly?
    Keep out of this, my father said, and abruptly the room was so silent you could hear the clock tick.
    It was a woman this time, my mother said.
    A woman? my father said.
    Vile language, my mother said. And, she continued but did not finish her thought.
    And what? my father said.
    She mentioned Wils, my mother said curdy.
    What did she say? I said.
    My mother shook her head. She would add nothing further.
    A threat? my father said.
    What do you think, Teddy? Do you think she wished him health and happiness? She said if you weren’t careful Wils would end up
in a ditch.
There was more but I will not repeat it.
    There was a note of triumph to my mother’s voice, a note I had never heard. She had the look of a card player with a pat hand. Whatever it was, I was at that moment on my father’s side, and taking obvious pleasure from my sudden notoriety. I was an object of Communist treachery no less than my father and his business, or the entertainment industry. What had Sassoon called such heroics? A mention in dispatches.
    We will talk about this later, my father said quietly, but I knew he was alarmed at what he had heard. He glanced at me briefly and offered a hopeful wink.
    We certainly will, my mother said.
    That’s enough, my father said.
    I’ll give you chapter and verse, my mother said.
    I said, that’s
enough,
my father replied sharply, more sharply than I had ever heard him