When I am looking for storylines, the strangest memories pop into my head. Some members of my family and my circle of friends question the fact that I can recall events in detail from when I was very young. Some jokingly remark that I can remember when I was born. Well, I cannot remember being born, but occasionally occurrences, from way back in my childhood, fill my mind. In 1953, I was six years old and the following story is as vivid to me as if it all happened yesterday.
Although the community of Branch had no paper delivery, my grandmother frequently received newspapers and magazines from her daughter who lived on the mainland and from nieces in St. John's. Mom Power (as we called her) recycled the written word, for when she had finished examining news articles, they found their way into our house. My mother and father were avid readers who often discussed items of interest. Thus, the story of the hapless Rosenbergs reached my young ears. The headlines said "Spies, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, To Die In Electric Chair." On the front page was a picture of a well-dressed, handsome young couple in handcuffs, separated by some sort of chain wall. They were of Jewish descent, but had been born in New York. The day of their electrocution was to be June 1, 1953.
Always being the one with an overactive imagination, I became preoccupied with their story. I was old enough to believe that a spy is a bad person, but I also felt very sorry for these two people. I had overheard my great-uncle, Andrew J. Nash, say that the Rosenbergs were going to the electric chair for passing secrets about the atomic bomb to the Russians. Only, he called it an atomic "bum." I didn't know exactly what an electric chair was, but I knew it wasn't good. The Rosenbergs were going to die and leave behind two young sons. At six years of age, I would have been terrified of losing my mommy and daddy.
I clipped the Rosenberg photo from the paper and stuck it up on our brick chimney, near the kitchen stove. I guess a psychiatrist would have a field day figuring out why I did this, but I have no idea. Every day, I would look at their picture, and wonder if they were scared, if they missed their children and if their children were missing them. Then I would count, on the calendar, how many days they had left. On the night of June 19, Uncle Andy said, "The Rosenbergs are gone." The news report had said that they had died at sundown. I cannot recall how I felt, but I remember going to the chimney and taking down the newspaper clipping. Then, as Daddy lifted up the damper on the big kitchen range, I threw the Rosenbergs into the fire. As is true of all situations, this event faded quickly from memory. I soon forgot about Jews and Russians, spies and atomic bombs. Isn't it ironic, then, that on June nineteenth past, when I was considering a topic for my Charter column, that the Rosenberg dilemma of 1953 came flooding back into my consciousness? It is funny how the human mind works.
Now I am curious to find out how many of my faithful readers, who lived through the 1950s, remember the Rosenberg spies and their dilemma.
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