The Plot Against America

by Philip Roth

“This is that goddamn Lindbergh!” my father said. “All you little fascists are in the saddle now!” “Shall I call the District police, sir, or will you take your bags and your family and leave immediately?” “Call the police,” my father replied. “You do that.” There were now five or six guests aside from us in the lobby. They’d entered while the argument was under way and they were lingering to find out what was going to come of it. It was then that Mr. Taylor stepped up to my father’s side and said, “Mr. Roth, you are perfectly in the right, but the police are the wrong solution.” “No, that is the right solution. Call the police,” my father repeated to the manager. “There are laws in this country against people like you.” The manager reached for the phone, and while he dialed, Mr. Taylor went over to our bags, swept up two in either hand, and carried them out of the hotel. My mother said, “Herman, it’s over. Mr. Taylor took the bags.”