Julius and Ethel

I’ve recently become fascinated with—and riveted by—the case of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg. And this fascination came about in the most serendipitous (actually, quite ludicrous) way.

Normally, fascination with such a topic would be out of character for me, since, among other things, I’ve never had any real interest in American post-WWII politics/government issues—and what little interest I may have had at one time was squelched by a quick overview (via a PBS special on Nixon) of McCarthyism. And spies? Espionage? My knowledge of espionage begins with Get Smart and ends with James Bond.

So how did I come to the Rosenbergs? Well, it’s kind of embarrassing, but I tend to learn lots of interesting things by stumbling upon them inadvertently, so here it is:

I was looking through some bookmarked websites on my computer and deleting those that I haven’t used in order to declutter and free up some space. One of the bookmarked sites was labeled “Atomic-Age Color Schemes,” and I remembered that, about five years ago, I’d decided to change my letterhead and logo and their colors from a dated, sedated purple with block print to something more “me.” I wanted something hip but not trendy, something subtle but that definitely reflected a certain zeitgeist. Warhol/sixties/Woodstock would have been too pat, too in-your-face.

When it comes to style, color, and design, I have very diverse tastes, which include everything from true primitives and rustic to Victorian to psychedelic, and though I tend toward Old World wood-and-stone (I hate steel-and-glass) and classic earth-and-sun tones, I love some of the classic 1950s design elements: Eames and Noguchi; curvilinear, naturalistic, sleek but not “cold” silhouettes; and gorgeous, inventive, “atomic” color schemes (i.e., teal or turquoise with mustard-brown or black, seafoam green with pale, calamine-lotion pink, etc).

The site I had bookmarked was no longer working, so I Googled “atomic-age color” and, then just “atomic age,” and before I knew it, I’d stumbled on a site about the Rosenbergs. Of course, I’d heard of them and knew—or thought I knew—the basics: They were the couple who were “executed for spying” in the 50s, and they went to the electric chair at Sing Sing, which is located in Ossining, not far from where I live.

But on this site, there was a picture of Ethel and Julius Rosenberg, locked in a passionate embrace and, for the first time, I studied the vaguely familiar photograph. The people in it seemed so in love, so desperate for each other.

I did some reading, and then some more, and just could not pull myself away. I delved deeper into their story and, the deeper I delved, the more questions I had. I was intrigued. One image that really got to me was a photo of Ethel Rosenberg, standing by a sink full of dishes in a housedress and holding a towel. She looked so, for lack of a better word, innocent. I felt an overwhelming sense of pity for this woman, and for the two little boys I’d read she left behind. How could this diminutive, tenement-dwelling housewife and mother have passed secrets of the atomic bomb to the Soviet Union?

I’m on my second book about the Rosenbergs and my first documentary film, Heir to an Execution, by the Rosenbergs’ granddaughter, Ivy Meeropol. Since that documentary was made in 2004, though, it’s been pretty much confirmed and accepted that Julius was, in fact, a spy and, last year, the Rosenberg’s convicted co-conspirator, 92-year-old Morty Sobell, who spent nearly two decades in Alcatraz and other prisons for his part in the crime, “confessed”—after more than half a century of denials—to being a spy himself.

Still, the only real conclusion I’ve come to so far—I still have a lot more reading to do—is that Julius indeed spied for the Soviet Union, but Ethel was sent to the electric chair for three reasons: 1) because her brother, Soviet spy David Greenglass, sold her out to save himself and his lying, spying wife; 2) because the government played to the national hysterical “red scare” and paranoid anti-Communist sentiment of the time; 3) and because President Eisenhower apparently felt that if he spared Ethel merely because she was a wife and mother—the fact that she was most likely innocent of the crime for which she was charged was not an issue—the Soviets would take that as a sign of weakness and consider it a green light to begin using female spies!

According to admitted spy Morty Sobell, Ethel’s only crime was that she was married to Julius. In 1953, apparently, such a crime warranted execution. The fact is, while she may have known of her husband’s activities, all evidence indicates that she took no part in them. And on that day when the 12 FBI men came to their small, humble apartment and arrested Julius—in front of his two little boys, who were listening to The Lone Ranger with their parents—they couldn’t have cared less. They just wanted to get the Commies.

Chilling, compelling, maddening—and very sad.

Bob Dylan thinks so, too. Here are the lyrics to his song, Julius and Ethel, recorded in the spring of 1983 at New York’s Power Station:

Now that they are gone, you know, the truth it can be told;
They were sacrificial lambs in the market place sold --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.
Now that they are gone, you know, the truth it can come out;
They were never proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

The people said they were guilty at the time;
Some even said there hadn't a-been any crime --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

People look upon this couple with contempt and doubt,
But they loved each other right up to the time they checked out --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

Eisenhower was president, Senator Joe was king;
Long as you didn't say nothing you could say anything --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

Now some they blamed the system, some they blamed the man;
Now that it is over, no one knows how it began --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

Every kingdom got to fall, even the Third Reich;
Man can do what he pleases but not for as long as he like --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

Well, they say they gave the secrets of the atom bomb away;
Like no one else could think of it, it wouldn't be here today --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

Someone says the fifties was the age of great romance;
I say that's just a lie, it was when fear had you in a trance --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

Looking for Light in All the Wrong Places

I'm looking for a light read. You know, chick-lit. Something along the lines of The Nanny Diaries perhaps, or maybe even a Bridget Jones or an In Her Shoes--something I can put down without a bookmark, pick up whereever, and not miss anything important. Something that won't stay with me for days or weeks, something that won't haunt me, something that won't change my life or challenge my way of thinking. Something that won't break my heart.

Yes, I've been rethinking my reading list. It's getting me down. It's much too heavy. I need to lighten up, I know, at least when it comes to books. That's what I tell myself, but I've been through this before--it'll pass.

Here before me--in my living-room bookcases, sandwiched between Dostoyevsky and Oscar Wilde; in my bedside bookshelf, adjacent to Elie Wiesel's Night and Alice Miller's The Drama of the Gifted Child--are stacked and strewn the remnants of my past futile attempts to "lighten up" my book list.

Let's see...I've got Rachel Ashwell's pastel-infused Shabby Chic--in hardcover, yet--which I bought during my short-lived (and very laughable) "I can do it--I can be a suburban housewife!" period in 2003. Then there's The Bitch in the House, a collection of Erma Bombeck-on-steroids essay-rants written by disgruntled wives, mothers, etc., which I bought the same year, when I'd had enough of the suburban housewife thing and tried to gracefully ease myself out of it. The book's binding has barely a wrinkle and I don't remember a word.

Why do I bother? It never works out, this light-seeking thing. The truth is, when it comes to literary pursuits, darkness is much more compelling, whether truth or fiction. Reading the dark stuff helps me write better, too. Sometimes it makes me angry--and that helps me write. Sometimes it makes me sad--and that is a writing catalyst, too.

So, I'll go back to reading The Lovely Bones and, when I'm finished, I'll tear into The Brother by Sam Roberts, a well-received biography of David Greenglass, the scum-sucking pig whose testimony--largely lies, he admitted, told to save his own ass and that of his atomic spy wife--helped seal the fate of his sister, Ethel Rosenberg, who died in the electric chair in the early '50s. After that, there's a controversial bio of Rasputin that I've got wait-listed.

Dark? Yes. But much more interesting than Bridget Jones's white granny panties.