4.2.12 WC: 191694 seeing my parents read anything but newspapers (The New York Post), until I went to college. They were just too busy making a living--both parents worked--and keeping house. There were no book stores in Boro Park, expect for a small used book shop that smelled old and seemed to specialize in subversive books. The owner, who smelled like his mildewed books, looked like Trotsky, who he was said to admire. We were warned to stay away, lest we be put on some "list" of young subversives. My parents, especially my mother, were terrified about “lists” and “records.” This was, after all, the age of “blacklists,” “redchanels,” and other colored compilations that kept anyone on them from getting ajob. “They will put you on a list,” my mother would warn. Or “it will go on your permanent record.” When I was 13 or 14, I actually did something that may have gotten me on a list. It was during the height of the McCarthy period, shortly after Julius and Ethel Rosenberg had been sentenced to death. A Rosenberg relative was accosting people getting off the train, asking them to sign a petition to save the Rosenbergs’ lives. I read the petition and it made sense to me, so I signed it. A nosy neighbor observed the transaction and duly reported it to my mother. She was convinced that my life was over, my career was ruined and that my willingness to sign a communist-inspired petition would become part of my permanent record. (Was there ever really a permanent record? It was certainly drummed into me for years that such a paper existed. I'd love to find mine and see what’s in it.)'” My mother decided that I had to be taught a lesson. She told my father the story. I could see that my father was proud of what I had done, but my mother told him to slap me. Ever obedient, he did, causing him more pain than me. In addition to the “subversive” book store, we had a library that was also tiny and somewhat decrepit, but when I was nearing the end of high school, a new, spacious li