“It wasn’t the other kids. About Dad. It was Miss Smith.”

“Oh.” His mother stopped, flustered, her shoulders sagging. “Oh, honeybun,” she said, and then, as if she had finally run out of answers, she turned and went out the door.

After that, he didn’t go to school. “At least for a while,” his mother said, still pretending that things were normal. Now, after his parents left, the house would grow still, so quiet that he would tiptoe, listening for the sharp whistle of Nora’s kettle in the kitchen, then the rustle of newspaper as she pored over his father’s troubles with one of her cups of tea. He was supposed to be reading Kidnapped. His mother said he was the right age for it, but after the wicked uncle and the broken stairs in the dark it all got confusing–Whigs and Jacobites, and you didn’t know whose side you were supposed to be on. It made no more sense than the papers. His father was a New Dealer but not a Communist, and not a Republican either, according to Nora. Then why was he on trial? Some terrible woman had said he was a spy, but you only had to look at her, all made up the way she was, to know she was lying. And a Catholic too, which made things worse. It was the Jews who loved Russia, not people like his father, even though she’d hate to think how long it had been since he’d seen the inside of a church. Still. And the things they said. But when Nick asked her to see the newspapers himself, she’d refuse. His mother wouldn’t like it.

So he sat in the deep club chair in the living room, pretending to read but listening instead. While Nora had her tea there was no sound but the ticking of the ormolu clock. Soon, however, he’d hear the scraping of a chair in the kitchen, then the heavy steps in the hall as Nora came to peek in before she began her chores. Nick would turn a page, his head bent to the book he wasn’t reading until he felt her slip out of the doorway and head upstairs. After another few minutes, the vacuum would start with a roar and he could go. He would race down the back kitchen stairs, careful not to hit the creaky fourth step, and get the newspaper from behind the bread box, where Nora always hid it. Then, one ear still alert to the vacuum, he would read about the trial. KOTLAR DENIES ALLEGATIONS. COMMITTEE THREATENS CONTEMPT. MUNDT SET TO CALL ACHESON. NEW KOTLAR TESTIMONY. It always gave him an odd sensation to see his name in print. His eye would flash down the column, “Kotlar” leaping out as if it were in boldface, not just another word in a blur of type. But it was Kidnapped all over again. Whigs and Jacobites.

The newspapers became part of the spy game. The point at first was to see how many rooms he could visit without Nora’s knowing–from the kitchen up to his father’s study, then past the bedroom where she was working (this was the best part) to his mother’s dressing room, then back down the stairs (carefully now, the vacuum having gone silent) and into the club chair with the open book before she appeared again. Not that she would have cared if he’d left the room–it was just the game. Stuck in the house, cocooned against the cold outside that kept promising snow, he learned its secrets, the noisy parts, the bad floorboards, as if they were bits of Braille. He could even spy on Nora, watching through the crack in the door, crouching halfway down the stairs, until he felt he could roam the house at will, invisible. His father, he knew, could never have done this. You always knew where he was, clunking down the hall to the bathroom at night, all his weight on his heels. His mother said you could feel him a block away. It was Nick who knew how to spy. He could stand absolutely still, like one of those movie submarines with the motors off, on sonar silence, waiting to hear something.

Then one day, by accident, he finally saw his father at the hearing. Nora had taken him downtown to the movies, a My Friend Irma picture with Martin and Lewis. She crossed herself when the newsreel began with the Holy Year in Rome, long lines of pilgrims forming at the churches, some from Germany, some even from as far away as America. A crowded open-air mass. A year of new hope for a century half old. Fireworks exploded over St Peter’s. Then, abruptly, the newsreel shifted to Washington, and the announcer’s voice turned grim.

“A different kind of fireworks on Capitol Hill, as the House Committee on Un-American Activities and combative congressman Kenneth Welles continued the probe into Communist subversion in our State Department. In the box again, Undersecretary Walter Kotlar, named by Soviet spy Rosemary Cochrane as one of the members of an alleged Washington ring.”

He felt Nora move beside him and covered her hand to keep her still as the screen filled with his father walking down a corridor to the hearing room, wearing the familiar hat and herringbone coat. The reporters were more animated now, battering him with questions, as if they had finally thawed out from their morning vigil in the cold. Then he was seated at a polished table, several microphones in front of him, facing a long dais filled with men in suits who kept turning to whisper to aides who sat behind them like shadows, away from the lights.

The man at the center, surprisingly young, was taller than the others, with a thick football player’s neck bursting out of a suit that stretched across his wide shoulders like a padded uniform.

“Mr Kotlar, in 1945 you were a member of the American delegation that attended the Yalta Conference, were you not?”

“Yes.”

“In that capacity did you offer views on the political future of the countries of Eastern Europe?”

“No. My views were not solicited.”

“But you are Czechoslovakian, are you not?”

“No, sir, I am an American.”

“Well, Mr Kotlar, that’s fine. I meant by origin. Would you tell the committee where you were born?”

“I was born in what was then Bohemia and is now part of Czechoslovakia,” Nick’s father said, but the carefulness of his answer had the odd effect of making him seem evasive. “I came to this country when I was four years old.”

“But you speak Czechoslovakian?”

Nick’s father allowed the trace of a smile. “Czech? No.” But this wasn’t true. Nick remembered his grandmother talking in her kitchen, his father nodding his head at the incomprehensible words. “I know a few words,” his father continued. “Certainly not enough to use the language in any official capacity. I know a little French, too.”

This seemed to annoy the Congressman. “This committee isn’t interested in your knowledge of French, Mr Kotlar. Is it not true that as a member of the Yalta delegation, you had access to information the Russians considered very valuable?”

“No. I was there strictly as an adviser on Lend-Lease and postwar aid programs. My information wasn’t classified–it was available to everyone.”

Welles looked the way Miss Smith did when someone in class was being fresh. “That remains to be seen, Mr Kotlar,” he said. “That remains to be seen.” He paused, pretending to consult a paper but really, Nick knew, just allowing his words to hang in the air. “Lend-Lease. We’ve all heard about your generosity during the war. But after the war, you went right on being generous, didn’t you? Isn’t it true you wanted to give Marshall Plan aid to Czechoslovakia?”

“The United States Government offered the Marshall Plan to all European countries.”

“Maybe it would be more accurate to say that certain officials of the United States Government offered that aid. Officials like yourself. Or maybe you disagreed. Did you feel that such an offer was in the best interests of the United States?”

“It must have been. They turned us down.”

This time there was real laughter, and Congressman Welles, leaning into the microphone, was forced to talk over it, so that when it stopped he seemed to be shouting. “May I remind our visitors that this is a congressional hearing?” There were a few flashbulbs. “Mr Kotlar, you may consider this a laughing matter. I assure you, the American people do not. Now, this aid you were so eager to hand out. A little money for the old country–even if it was now a vassal state of the Soviet empire.”