The Hours Count by Jillian Cantor Read Free Book Online Page A

known the Rosenbergs for years—and, in fact, there was a whole world that Ed and Ethel and Julie belonged to that I did not. I was the one left out. It occurred to me that maybe politics wasn’t as large and distant as I’d once thought but that it was about connections and friendships, things I sorely lacked these days. “I’m sorry to sound like such a ninny,” I said. “I just haven’t been that involved in politics.” I hoped Ethel wasn’t going to think I was just some silly, stupid woman she couldn’t be friends with now.
    “I used to. Before John.” Ethel waved her hand in the air. “But who has time for that now, right?” She reached across the table, patted my hand, and smiled kindly, so I knew she wasn’t laughing at me—not in a mean way, anyway. “Julie’s having a get-together here next week. You should all come,” she said, and I promised her that we would.
    But the next week Ethel gave birth to another baby boy, and they would not have a get-together at her apartment again formonths.

June 19, 1953

    I run up the side of Route 9, past cars at a standstill, people honking on their horns, impatient. Where do they think they’re going? Why are they here? It can’t possibly be for the same reason I am. Mostly, they are here as onlookers or protestors, I think, or a strange combination of both. I hate them all for slowing me down, for blocking my way.
    I should’ve come sooner, but I never believed it would come to this. I never believed that Ethel would actually die for something that she didn’t do. I can’t wrap my head around it even now, in this moment.
Ethel will die by electricity.
Not a bomb, nor disease, but by current being forced through her body so hard that it will stop her heart.
    The thought nearly stops mine, and I have to stop running. The night air is so thick. I am breathing hard and sweating, but I stop to catch my breath and then I keep running. I hit a barricade. Policemen are lined up behind it, shining flashlights at the cars. Thankfully, mine is too far back for their lights.
    “Miss!” one of them yells at me, shining his light in my eyes, and I hold up my hands in an attempt to shield them. For a moment, I think he knows what I have done today, that it is spilled across my face. But, of course, he can’t possibly. That is not why he’s shining his light on me. “You can’t go past this point,” he says.
    “I need to!” I shout at him. “I have to talk to the FBI.”
    “Now, miss . . .” The police officer steps forward and places a large hand on my shoulder. I pull away.
    “I have information for them,” I say. One of the other officers laughs and I understand he is laughing at me: I sound insane.
    “Look,” I say, “Ethel is innocent. I have to—”
    “Miss,” the officer interrupts, pulling harder on my arm. “You need to stay back behind the barricade. No one is allowed past this line for any reason.”
    My face is wet, I realize, and it’s not sweat. I am crying. Crying so hard that I can’t see what is in front of me. The police officers, the barricades, the lights blur into fountains of black and orange and yellow. I hear laughter. They are laughing at me and they are laughing at Ethel. Somewhere, a church bell chimes. Seven fifteen
.
    And then there is a hand on my shoulder. Not the big, rough hand of an officer but a familiar, gentle hand.
    I hear his voice. “What are you doing here?”
    Jake.
    And everything else suddenly turns still and silent. Jake is here, just like I knew he would be. I close my eyes and see if I can smell the familiar scent of him, the pines, the cabin in the woods. But all I smell is smoke from the flares burning off to the side of the road. “Millie,” he says. “You shouldn’t have come.”

1948

7
    The air hung heavy in Ethel’s apartment, filled with cigarette smoke and excited voices. About a dozen people were crowded in, far too many for the small space. Julius, Ed, and the other men talked