The Unwitting: A Novel [NOOK Book]

Overview

In CIA parlance, those who knew were “witting.” Everyone else was among the “unwitting.”  
 
On a bright November day in 1963, President Kennedy is shot. That same day, Nell Benjamin receives a phone call with news about her husband, the influential young editor of a literary magazine. As the nation mourns its public loss, Nell has her private grief to reckon ...
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The Unwitting: A Novel

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Overview

In CIA parlance, those who knew were “witting.” Everyone else was among the “unwitting.”  
 
On a bright November day in 1963, President Kennedy is shot. That same day, Nell Benjamin receives a phone call with news about her husband, the influential young editor of a literary magazine. As the nation mourns its public loss, Nell has her private grief to reckon with, as well as a revelation about Charlie that turns her understanding of her marriage on its head, along with the world she thought she knew.
 
With the Cold War looming ominously over the lives of American citizens in a battle of the Free World against the Communist powers, the blurry lines between what is true, what is good, and what is right tangle with issues of loyalty and love. As the truths Nell discovers about her beloved husband upend the narrative of her life, she must question her own allegiance: to her career as a journalist, to her country, but most of all to the people she loves.
 
Set in the literary Manhattan of the 1950s, at a journal much like the Paris Review, The Unwitting evokes a bygone era of burgeoning sexual awareness and intrigue and an exuberance of ideas that had the power to change the world. Resonant, illuminating, and utterly absorbing, The Unwitting is about the lies we tell, the secrets we keep, and the power of love in the face of both.
 
Praise for The Unwitting
 
“The first notable thing about this book is the narrator’s voice: it is snappish, confident, argumentative, literate. I fell for it from the beginning. . . . The Unwitting is vibrant, sassy, informative, a page-turner, absorbing, and swift. I am a woman, so maybe it is a women’s book, but I seriously doubt it, and hope that male readers will give it a shot. Surely they too will appreciate the research that went into it. Surely they too will be fascinated by its bold and thorough review of the American twentieth century.”—Kelly Cherry, The Los Angeles Review of Books
 
“Compelling enough to take its place with the best of crime fiction, Feldman’s language is loving, bright and sharp while her storytelling abilities are unquestionable. . . . The Unwitting cuts us into an interesting time, then ramps things up. . . . Feldman is clearly a writer who is going places, [and] The Unwitting brings that home: it’s a terrific book.”January Magazine

“A story of love and intrigue during the Cold War, The Unwitting plumbs not only the secrets of spies, but those of the human heart. Moving, witty, and thoroughly intelligent, it is an absorbing and deeply satisfying read.”—Kevin Baker, author of The Big Crowd
 
“Unforgettable . . . The Unwitting compelled me from the first page and through every unexpected twist and turn. This look into the dark places in human nature cries out to be read, re-ead, and discussed.”—Lynn Cullen, author of the national bestseller Mrs. Poe
 
“Through the lens of a passionate, complex marriage, Ellen Feldman brings the Cold War back to life. The Unwitting is a wise and irresistible portrait of fascinating people in a tumultuous time.”—Roger Straus III, former managing director, Farrar, Straus and Giroux


From the Hardcover edition.
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Editorial Reviews

Library Journal
03/15/2014
During the most feverish and frightening years of the Cold War, the thuggery, domestic oppression, and international ambitions of the Soviet Union were evident. Less evident, however, were the various American responses to the Soviet threat. In this gripping, meticulously researched historical novel, Feldman returns to these dangerous times and the troubling moral questions that arose in conjunction with the increasingly sinister activities of the CIA in its efforts to counteract the global aspirations of the Soviets. As the novel unfolds, Feldman's young, idealistic, and skillfully drawn protagonist, Nell, an investigative reporter who writes for a prestigious New York intellectual journal, the Compass, begins to uncover some of these unsavory criminal activities. It turns out that the Compass itself is funded by the CIA, and her husband, its editor, has been complicit with this arrangement. The novel examines the complex, shifting emotional landscape of Nell's marriage, along with her increasingly conflicted relationship with her country and her ideals. VERDICT A deep and disarming book about politics, human relationships, and love, from a writer renowned for her historical novels (Next to Love; Scottsboro; Lucy) that fans of literary fiction will enjoy. [See Prepub Alert, 11/3/13.]—Patrick Sullivan, Manchester Community Coll., CT
Publishers Weekly
02/17/2014
The witch hunts of McCarthyism and the Cold War provide an appropriate backdrop for the this intelligent but overly detached novel from Feldman (Next to Love) about the betrayals and secrets of a marriage. Cornelia and Charlie Benjamin are part of New York City’s liberal intelligentsia: he edits Compass, a left-wing magazine in which her writing often appears. But when Charlie is killed in an apparent mugging on the day of John F. Kennedy’s assassination, Cornelia learns he was living a double life. She narrates the story of their relationship in retrospect, hinting at but not disclosing Charlie’s secret, relying on clumsy foreshadowing to supply tension: “Looking back at it now...”; “Later I found out...”; “We should have known…” The novel moves from 1948 to 1971, and its impressive scope keeps the story emotionally distant—readers familiar with the era may appreciate the many high points mentioned, but Cornelia often seems to be recounting historical events rather than personal ones, telling her own story with the distance of a historian rather than the involvement of a participant. Still, there are poignant moments when she considers the way both personal and political memories shift with revealed knowledge, comparing recollection and truth to a reversible coat: “If I wore it on one side, it looked a certain way. If I turned it inside out, it was an entirely different animal.” (May)
From the Publisher
Praise for The Unwitting
 
“The first notable thing about this book is the narrator’s voice: it is snappish, confident, argumentative, literate. I fell for it from the beginning. . . . The Unwitting is vibrant, sassy, informative, a page-turner, absorbing, and swift. I am a woman, so maybe it is a women’s book, but I seriously doubt it, and hope that male readers will give it a shot. Surely they too will appreciate the research that went into it. Surely they too will be fascinated by its bold and thorough review of the American twentieth century.”—Kelly Cherry, The Los Angeles Review of Books
 
“Compelling enough to take its place with the best of crime fiction, Feldman’s language is loving, bright and sharp while her storytelling abilities are unquestionable. . . . The Unwitting cuts us into an interesting time, then ramps things up. . . . Feldman is clearly a writer who is going places, [and] The Unwitting brings that home: it’s a terrific book.”January Magazine

“A story of love and intrigue during the Cold War, The Unwitting plumbs not only the secrets of spies, but those of the human heart. Moving, witty, and thoroughly intelligent, it is an absorbing and deeply satisfying read.”—Kevin Baker, author of The Big Crowd
 
“Unforgettable . . . The Unwitting compelled me from the first page and through every unexpected twist and turn. This look into the dark places in human nature cries out to be read, re-ead, and discussed.”—Lynn Cullen, author of the national bestseller Mrs. Poe
 
“Through the lens of a passionate, complex marriage, Ellen Feldman brings the Cold War back to life. The Unwitting is a wise and irresistible portrait of fascinating people in a tumultuous time.”—Roger Straus III, former managing director, Farrar, Straus and Giroux
 
Praise for Next to Love
Ladies’ Home Journal Book of the Month
An O: The Oprah Magazine Summer Reading Pick
 
“Haunting and profoundly moving . . . Feldman’s characters live and love with breathtaking intensity, and her deft juggling of several zigzagging plots makes the pages flow past with the force of a slow but mighty river.”Booklist (starred review)
 
“A lustrous evocation of a stormy period in our past . . . Feldman’s scathing prose intensifies the daily routines of these families and makes readers fearful and worried along with them.”Library Journal (starred review)
 
“Disquieting originality . . . Feldman’s specialty is emotional ambivalence [and her]discernment of the shades of domestic gray . . . Breath-warm, intimate.”—Times Literary Supplement
 
“A deftly revealing . . . portrait of the changing face of America.”—Marie Claire
 
“A powerful, haunting deeply ambitious novel about love and war, impeccably executed, impossible to put down.”—Stacy Schiff, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Cleopatra: A Life

Kirkus Reviews
2014-03-05
A conspiracy-theory novel about spies, lies and personal loyalty set within the insulated world of left-liberal New York intellectuals during the Cold War era. Feldman (Next To Love, 2011) begins her novel on the day Kennedy was shot in 1963, tying narrator Nell's personal marital drama to national events. Something bad has happened to Nell's husband, Charlie, but before revealing exactly what that something is, Nell relives their relationship: The two meet in 1948 as college students (Barnard and Columbia), both attending on the GI Bill. From the beginning, Nell, who joined the military to escape a difficult home life, is more the leftist firebrand than Charlie, whose Jewish awareness of the Holocaust has strengthened his patriotism. After Charlie lands a job at the (fictional) magazine Compass, an avant-garde, anti-Stalinist, left-leaning intellectual journal not unlike Commentary or the Partisan Review, he and Nell marry. Before long, he becomes editor in chief; Nell becomes a staff writer. They rent a big apartment on the Upper West Side, send their daughter to private school, attend literary soirées with the likes of Mary McCarthy and Robert Lowell. While Nell pushes Charlie to be less timid as an editor, they survive the McCarthy era and subsequent Communist witch hunts only mildly scathed. They support civil rights; Charlie is the first to publish King's "Letter From a Birmingham Jail." By Kennedy's election, cracks have appeared within both their marriage and their intellectual circle. It's to Feldman's credit that until Nell jumps to the aftermath of the 1963 tragedy, readers will suspect without being sure which of several characters, including Charlie, are not exactly who they seem. Perhaps the strongest section of the novel is Charlie's journal, in which he struggles through moral dilemmas without Nell's penchant for self-righteousness. While the role of what Charlie calls "the left-wing Jewish intellectual mafia" during the Cold War remains fascinating (at least to liberal intellectuals), the schematic quality of Feldman's plot and characters limits the reader's engagement.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780679645511
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 5/6/2014
  • Sold by: Random House
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 304
  • Sales rank: 153,614
  • File size: 3 MB

Meet the Author

Ellen Feldman is a Guggenheim Fellow and the author of four novels, including Next to Love and Scottsboro, which was shortlisted for the Orange Prize for Fiction. She lives in New York City.
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Read an Excerpt

One

I hadn’t planned to go to the party that night, but as my roommate, Natalie, was leaving for the evening, she stopped in the doorway, turned back, and said, “Fine. Don’t go. Stay here and feel sorry for yourself.”

Until then, I’d thought she didn’t know me at all.

Sometimes I torture myself with the idea of what my life would have been like if I hadn’t gone that night. Charlie always said he would have found me somehow, but life is a tricky proposition. Happenstance trumps fate every time.

The apartment on 119th Street was packed with young bodies in search of one another. The heat they gave off cooked the temperature to a tropical high, despite windows open to the rainy January night. Smoke from forty or fifty cigarettes swirled through the air. The fumes made me queasy, and the queasiness revved up my fear until my pulse raced like a hopped-up engine. Could you have morning sickness at ten o’clock at night?

On the record player, Billie Holiday was warning that love could make you drink and gamble and stay out all night long. And Charlie, though I didn’t know his name at the time because I hadn’t been listening when he’d introduced himself, was leaning over me with one hand propped against the wall half a foot northwest of my head. It was a proprietary stance, but I was too preoccupied to care. All I knew was that he was not my type. Beneath a trim dark mustache, his mouth was wide but thin-lipped, a sign of a lack of generosity, I thought. His mouth made me remember kissing Woody.

Love will make you do things that you know is wrong, Billie sang.

He was talking about the antidraft rally on campus the day before and getting incensed about the unconscionable insanity of gearing up for another war. Under different circumstances, I would have agreed, but the draft was the last thing on my mind that night.

I could tell he was a vet. The war had been over for three years, but the campus was still swarming with them, though not still in their uniforms as they had been that first year. Correction: the campus was swarming with male vets. As far as I knew, I was the only girl.

I stood with a rag of a smile on my face, pretending to listen, while I berated myself for my naïveté. I should have been wary of Woody the day I met him. But all I’d noticed was his creamy milk chocolate skin and the sign he was carrying on the picket line protesting the revival of the movie.

birth of a nation

preaches race hatred

naacp

We had been perhaps ten protesters apart in a picket line of about twenty, which meant that we kept passing each other as we circled the sidewalk in front of the theater. I was the first to smile. It took me five or six passes to work up to it. When he smiled back, it was like the beam of a headlight swerving by. After a few more passes, we began exchanging comments. The demonstration broke up early, when a contingent of American Youth for Democracy arrived. Everyone knew they were a communist-front group, and the last thing the NAACP wanted was to be associated with communists. That was when Woody asked if I wanted to go for coffee. I said I did.

I’d assumed we’d go to a diner around the movie theater, but Woody was less naïve. He steered me to an out-of-the-way place on the border between the Columbia campus and Harlem. I suppose I should have known then that the romance was doomed.

Love is just like the faucet, Billie sang. It turns off and on.

Charlie was still talking. Beyond his shoulder, rain streaked down the window and made dark stains on the brownstones across the street. In the distance, the reflected lights of Broadway hung like a halo in the mist. I wanted to be away from the party, away from New York. I imagined myself roaming the world, an unwed mother with a beautiful mocha baby in tow. Only I knew I never would. The story would be too close to my mother’s, though she had married and stayed put with her white baby. Some of the more worldly girls in the dorm whispered about a reliable doctor in Pennsylvania. He performed the procedure on principle, unlike the back-alley butchers who were in it for the money, though he was not cheap, despite his principles. Woody had said he would get the money somehow. He wasn’t behaving badly. He had gone home to Philadelphia for the weekend to see his brother who would probably lend him whatever was necessary.

We hadn’t discussed the possibility of having the baby. If Woody wanted to save the world, he had to finish Columbia, then law school. I didn’t blame him for that. I’d fallen for him for that. But rationality did not enter into it. My sore heart, my fragile ego, my punctured pride wanted him to offer to throw it all over for me. Then I could stand on principle and refuse to ruin his life.

The sheer unholy injustice of it rankled. We had known each other for three months, but our entire sexual history consisted of two furtive, though protected, late-night encounters behind the locked door of the veterans’ affairs office, where he had a part-time job.

The thin ungenerous mouth was still moving. It made me think of kissing Woody again, and the memory made my stomach turn over on itself.

Sometimes when you think it’s on, baby

It has turned off and gone.

I felt the dampness between my legs. It took me a moment to realize that the sensation was not recollected passion. It was unmistakable, but it was probably a mistake. I was three weeks late and had had half a dozen false alarms. Only I could tell this was real. Maybe the nasty little discovery that love had turned off and gone had shocked my body into action, the way an icy bath or a fall down the stairs was supposed to but never did. A trickle of dampness was seeping down my thigh.

I mumbled an excuse, ducked under Charlie’s arm, and, clutching my handbag containing the sanitary pad and belt that I’d been carrying around for a month, started down the hall. That was the logical place for a bathroom, unless it was off the kitchen. You never knew in the makeshift apartments for vets and graduate students that had been hacked out of the respectable brownstones built for the solid families of another century.

I pushed opened the first door in the hallway. A bed heaped with coats seemed to be writhing in the darkness. A couple took shape. I slammed the door and kept going down the hall. The second door opened onto more beds and coats. I reached the third door just in time. As I slammed it behind me and pulled down my pants, several drops of blood hit the yellowing floor tiles. The relief made me sit down on the toilet seat hard.

Charlie was waiting in the hall when I emerged from the bathroom.

“Are you okay?”

I told him I was fine.

“You mean it wasn’t the booze or a sudden case of the vapors that sent you running, just my company?”

“No. I’m sorry. I mean . . .”

“It was a joke.” He hesitated for a moment. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.” He started to turn away.

Perhaps it was the euphoria of my escape, but the idea that anyone would worry if I was all right made me want to cry. “Thank you.”

He stopped, turned back, and stood staring down at me. For the first time, I noticed his eyes. They were brown, nothing to write home about, but if you looked hard, you saw green lights going off like pinpricks of curiosity.

“I mean it,” I said. “That was kind.”

“Ouch. Kind is for Boy Scouts and maiden uncles.”

“So think what happens when it comes in a different package.”

I was flirting. I could not believe it. I had either a fierce drive for survival or no scruples at all.

He leaned his right shoulder against the wall. “If that’s an invitation to stay, I accept.”

I leaned my left shoulder against the wall, mirroring his stance. He was coming into focus now. He had the long lean look of a man who lopes through life carelessly. The look, I would learn, was a lie. His hair, like his eyes, was dark. It was also receding, leaving two half-moons of skin above his high forehead. Maybe that was why he still wore a mustache. Most of the men who had come home from the war with them had shaved them off by now. His face was long too, with sharp cheekbones and that thin-lipped ungenerous mouth.

The image of what he was seeing in return suddenly occurred to me. For weeks I had been walking around in an un-made-up face to reproach the world for the mess I had gotten myself in. But even as I stood worrying about my appearance, I looked back with pity on that girl who had worn her misery like a billboard, and with a shameful hard-hearted glee that I was no longer she.

He was talking again. Now I could follow what he was saying. He was asking if I wanted to get out of there and go somewhere quiet.

The idea was indecent. How could I go larking off with someone new when my heart sat in my chest like a piece of cracked china? But someone had put on the Billie Holiday record again, and I was tired of hearing what love could make me do.

His coat was in one bedroom, mine was in the other, with the writhing couple.

“I’m not sure I ought to go in there,” I said. “When I opened the door before, I think I caught someone in flagrante delicto.”

“Can someone be in flagrante delicto?” He asked me what my coat looked like.

“A camel polo.”

“Right. There shouldn’t be more than ten or twenty of those.”

“Peck & Peck label,” I said and immediately regretted it. The coat was the most expensive article of clothing I owned, and my relationship with it was as complicated as any I’d ever had with a man. The fabric was soft and beautifully cut, and I loved being inside it, but my mother had wheedled it out of Mr. Richardson as a going-away present for me.

“Ah, the rich girl,” he said. “With apologies to F. Scott Fitzgerald.”

I winced. He took it for bewilderment.

“ ‘The Rich Boy.’ It’s a long short story by Scott Fitzgerald.”

“I know what it is.” I was wondering if it was too late to change my mind about leaving with him.

Before I could, he pushed open the door. “Coming through,” he shouted and stepped inside. He was back in a minute with a polo coat in each hand. I took the longer one from his right hand. He hung the other on the doorknob, then helped me on with mine. We fought our way through the crowd in the living room and started down the stairs.

Outside, the rain had let up. The night was mild for January, but mist hung from the streetlights and steamed up from the pavement. Trees dripped overhead.

He had a long stride, and I had to stretch mine to keep up with him. When we reached Broadway, he took one hand from the pocket of his Navy-issue trench coat and closed his fingers around my arm to steer me across the street.

As we made our way south, signs flashing drinks, breakfast lunch dinner, chemists, and hardware burned through the haze. Tires of cars speeding past sizzled on the wet pavement like cartoon electricity. When we reached the West End Bar, I expected him to turn in, but he kept going. Several blocks farther, he stopped in front of a plate-glass window with two neon blue cocktail glasses tilting toward each other.

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