The following is a 900-word excerpt from Lauren Kessler’s new book, Clever Girl. (www.clevergirlthebook.com.)

In mid-October 1938, Comrade Brown instructed Bentley to meet him in Greenwich Village in front of a little restaurant on University Place. He had a new contact for her, a top man in the communist movement, he told her, a man she could trust. They rendezvoused at the appointed hour and began walking slowly toward Eighth Street when, at the corner, a small, stocky man in a shabby suit and scuffed brown shoes suddenly appeared. Bentley was taken aback. Brown merely nodded and introduced the man as “Timmy.” Timmy had a car parked around the corner, an old Dodge sedan. He knew a restaurant on lower Second Avenue, an out-of-the-way little place where they could sit and talk over dinner.

On the drive over, Bentley stole glances at Timmy, sizing him up. He was a short, homely man, probably in his late forties, with broad shoulders, large hands and a short, thick neck. He had a high, wide forehead and small, closeset eyes. His nose was small for his face, his mouth, generous, with full, shapely womanish lips. There was a hint of the Slavic in his high cheekbones and his soft, rounded jaw. He was not, she thought to herself, an impressive-looking man.

But she soon discovered that he was impressive in other ways. As they sat and talked through a two-hour dinner, she saw that he had a quick, sharp mind. He had a way of listening that was thoughtful yet intense and alert, a way of paying attention that made her feel what she said was important. So she said a lot.

After they had lingered as long as they could, Timmy suggested they take a drive and continue their conversation. As he maneuvered the big sedan uptown, he told her of the misery and suffering he had seen in Europe and of the new society that he hoped would replace it. Everywhere the communists were working to create a better world, a more humane place. But it was very hard work, and many people, although they started off as good communists just weren’t strong enough to stay with their commitment, to weather the hardships. Timmy was giving her a pep talk, but he seemed also to be giving one to himself.

“Our movement is like a buggy overcrowded with people going up a steep and rocky road,” he told her. “At every curve someone loses his hold and falls off.”

Bentley felt as if this man, this stranger, could see right through her. Was she one of those people who would fall off? Did she have what it took to be part of this great new enterprise?

Now Timmy was telling her that her job was “vitally important to the Party.” That’s what she had thought. You must stay there at all costs, he told her. Watch what goes on. Bring out any documents you can.

Timmy was overplaying his hand, but Bentley didn’t know that. What was important to Timmy was not Bentley’s current position but that he take advantage of the situation, that he capitalize on an opportunity that had been handed to him. He needed to encourage this woman, who seemed bright and more than willing to work for the good of the Party. She had initiative and guts. He could see that clearly.

“You are now no longer an ordinary communist,” he told her. “You are a member of the underground.” He told her that she must cut herself off completely from her old communist friends. No more socializing, no more cell meetings, no more going to demonstrations or rallies or fundraisers. If she happened to run into someone who knew her from the Party, she was to say that she had dropped out. Her only contact with the Party would be through him.

Bentley wasn’t sure what to think. It was thrilling to be singled out like this, to be selected, to be told she was of special value. Timmy was telling her that she could play a new role in this struggle for a new society. He was telling her she was too important to be merely a Party drudge. He was telling her that on that overcrowded buggy that was going up the steep and rocky road, she had a place up front. This appealed equally to her ego and her idealism. It also sounded exciting. She should have stopped to consider what going underground would mean emotionally and psychologically, how it would feel to give up the warmth and camaraderie of the Party, the comfort and sense of belonging. But she didn’t. Here was a mysterious, older man who had seen things. He had lived. And he believed in her commitment, in her strength, her perseverance. It seemed she should, too.

“I know this is going to be hard for you,” he was saying. “You will be completely alone except for me. Your fellow comrades may even think you’re a traitor. But the Party would not ask this sacrifice of you if it were not vitally important.”

There was something that appealed to her about this, too, this notion of a tough job that called for self-sacrifice. Wasn’t this part of her New England upbringing? Didn’t her ancestors make sacrifices for what they believed in? Timmy pulled the car over in front of her apartment building and watched her as she thought this through. Then his hard look softened, and he smiled. Bentley found herself drawn to him.

“Good night,” he said. “Sleep well.” Of course, she didn’t.