He found himself biting his perfect little nails.
How glorious today would be—his ultimate triumph!
When they brought Kolles out, with the newsmen trailing along behind (and that hideous sob-sister from the New York paper, with her frock much too gay for this occasion) something seemed to frazzle inside Matthew. For as Kolles emerged out of shadow, he stuck his tongue out at Matthew Carty.
Carty was too surprised to be flabbergasted.
It was very much like that time in Alaska, up past White Horse, when he had had to thaw out the hemp in a bucket of boiling water before he could do the job. Or the time in Kansas when the fall had been too great and had pulled the prisoner’s head off. He had been unnerved then, too, but he had been much younger and his confidence had returned, buoyed up.
But now…
Was he getting old, unsure of himself? Had he lost his confidence in his talent?
He swallowed heavily, and strung Kolles up.
Kolles stuck his tongue out once more.
“Stop that!” Matthew hissed under his breath, but Kolles just smiled cherubically.
The execution would be accomplished by the fracturing or dislocating of the first three cervical vertebrae, hence crushing the vital centers in the spinal cord.
Matthew heard the music of lyre, sackbut and dulcimer.
He placed the knot behind the ear for the most symmetrical garrote. It was more artistic than the method favored by lesser talents—under the neck.
(In point of fact, Matthew favored the thuggee three-knot method as used in India. He had made an extensive study of choke methods in his exuberant youth, but had, in later life, realized the truth of tried and true old-fashioned approaches.)
His joy was constrained, but enormous. His fingers sang at their work.
He did not notice the knot slip around, as he moved away.
Perhaps it was unsteadiness of hand.
Perhaps the glory of this event in his career had discautioned him.
Perhaps he was not aware of the stress on the rope.
Perhaps Kolles jiggled a bit, out of spite.
Any of these are possibilities.
In any case, when the lever was thrust home, and the trap sprang open beneath Kolles, and he plummeted the eight feet to twaaaang at the end of the line, he did not break his neck. He did not die. Obstinately!
The sob-sister screamed and messed her gay frock.
The newsmen’s faces screwed up hideously in expressions of compounded horror, as their eyes moved click and click, back and forth, as though they were watching a tennis match in slow motion.
The jailer turned puce, then gray, and fled.
The chaplain began praying.
And Dr. Kolles twisted and writhed and bounced and danced and flopped and tumbled about at the end of the hemp. The hanging was a ghastly fiasco…obstinately endless…it went on for a lifetime and a half, in Matthew Carty’s mind. The condemned man seemed determined to kill himself slowly. The corpse was not a corpse for a very long time.
Everyone stood transfixed, not moving, almost blind with the ghastliness of it all. Except the jailer, who continued running till he spanged against a barred door some distance down the hall and was knocked totally unconscious.
After a while, someone croaked, “Get a kn-knife…cut him d-d-down…”
But no one did. They just stood and watched the airborne gavotte.
In actuality, it was a mere three minutes, but it was a week to each of the horrified observers.
The newspapers called him an “incompetent.”
Eric Sevareid referred to him as a “butcher.”
One Sunday morning egghead commentator labeled him a “male Ilse Koch!”
The women’s leagues impeached him as a “paid murderer.”
In all, it was a serious blow, a killing blow to Matthew Carty’s career. For Matthew Carty knew the truth; the truth that lived inside simple appearances. He was not inept. Till Dr. Kolles, he had never felt one way or the other about his “participants” in the act. They had merely been utensils, specified by the authorities as the correct instrument for the assignment. Till Dr. Kolles. He had made the mistake of meeting the man, and from Kolles’ loathing of what Matthew Carty did for a living, had been born the first stench-weed of hate in the little man.
Matthew Carty had allowed himself to become personally involved with Kolles. He had hated, and that had thrown him off his stride. He knew he was washed up. Hung up, really. He knew he had lost his touch. His time had come and gone. He had met each challenge with skill, with pride in his profession, but all that was dust now.
He was a has-been.
Because it was a rather small room, and because he had closed and locked all the windows, and because it was a very hot August, and because he had done it to excess, and because the cleaning woman didn’t come for a week, putrefaction had progressed considerably and, when she came to clean Matthew Carty’s apartment, the smell was overpowering. When she called the custodian and he unlocked the door, and they entered, they began to gag and had to step back into the hall to tie handkerchiefs over their noses.
It was the cleaning woman who first entered the bedroom. When she saw him, she tried to jam her fist into her mouth to stop the screams, but the handkerchief prevented the movement and her hysterical shrieks brought the custodian.
Even the police were shocked and surprised.
He had done it to excess. The bloodstains and brownish material he had vomited were all over the bed. The mouth was corroded and scarred, as well as the throat. He had convulsed so terribly that he was arched back into a perfect bow, the entire weight of his small body resting on the heels and back of the head. His skin was very gray and in places dark blue. The final grimace was the one most commonly associated with lockjaw. The hands had ripped the bedsheets.
Everyone knew who he was, what he was famous for, and none of them could understand the kind of fierce, unrelenting pride in his profession a man could possess that would cause him—as was revealed in the autopsy—to drink a bottle of household ammonia, swallow a diluted half-box of DDT-laden plant poison, and swallow eleven grains of strychnine sulphate.
That hanging man was dead. Pride in his profession. Not even at the end had he compromised his craft; he had poisoned himself.
THE CHILDREN’S HOUR
Don’t say it didn’t happen. Of course, it happened! Don’t you ever learn? I was there when it happened. It was a thing of quiet terror, and in its own way, beautiful. How can you ignore the fact that it happened!
The United Nations building stands on the edge of the East River. It is an incredibly thin, wondrous structure all glass and fine stonework. Beside it is a smaller structure, the General Assembly building. If you were to look down from a window in one of the offices of a building on, say, East 45th Street, the top of the General Assembly building might look to you like a fat man with goggles in a bathtub. The dome and stacks do it very nicely.
But the Secretariat Building, that nearly unbroken face of windows that reflects back the Manhattan skyline on clear days, is nothing humorous.
In it, the work of the world is done. In it, the plans and dreams and frustrations of billions of men and women are studied and catalogued and interoffice memoed. I work in that building.
For the record—and there will be a record, I’m certain—my name is Wallace Edmondson. I am an interpreter. I speak three languages in addition to English: Italian, French and German, all three flawlessly, idiomatically. My job with the UN has been a simple one, nothing romantic, nothing full of intrigue and disaster. I have never been outside the United States, and so my curiosity about the rest of the world has gone untended, save for information culled from periodicals and the people around me.
Unfortunately, I was present at the greatest disaster that ever befell the human race. I’ll tell you about it; there is truth in what I say; and perhaps truth will help.
God knows—nothing else will now.
&
nbsp; The General Assembly that day—it was a Tuesday, the 3rd of June, 1995—was a madhouse. The agenda was up to its title page in trouble. We had ten different, imperative conflicts on our hands, and any one of them could have been the one to start the big war. The big war that would make World War II seem like a street fight.
We had been drunkenly teetering on the razor-edge for years. June 25th, 1950 had been the starting date, as well as anyone could remember. That was the day the Republic of Korea was overrun by 60,000 North Korean troops spearheaded by 100 Russian-built tanks. It lasted till 1953 and no one really won. We didn’t know it till 1954, but the first hydrogen device explosion had taken place at the AEC Eniwetok proving grounds. In August of 1953 the USSR detonated theirs. Dien Bien Phu and its French garrison fell to Ho Chi Minh’s army in May of 1954. And it all began to accelerate. 1956: the Polish revolution in Poznan; Egypt seized the Suez Canal; the Hungarian uprising; Israel invaded the Sinai Peninsula. Not even the establishment of our UN international police force in November to supervise the Middle East truce could slow the rush toward war.
1957: racial violence in Arkansas; 1958: Arab nationalist rebels seized the Iraqui government and killed Faisal; 1959: the civil war in Cuba came to a bloody end and Castro assumed power; 1960: the U-2 reconnaissance plane piloted by Francis Gary Powers was shot down in the USSR; 1961: the terrible Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba by American CIA-subsidized rebels ended in slaughter; East Germany built the Wall across Berlin; Dag Hammarskjöld, our beloved Secretary-General, our best hope for peace, was assassinated in a rigged air crash; nuclear blasts of 25 and over 50 megatons were set off by the USSR; 1962: the Cuban missile crisis, and war was narrowly averted; by the end of 1963: 15,000 US troops in Viet Nam and the war was on; John Kennedy was assassinated; 1964: civil rights workers murdered in Mississippi; the Communist Chinese exploded their first atomic bomb; 1965: civil rights violence in American cities culminating in Watts riots in Los Angeles; minority white regime took power in Rhodesia; Dominican Republic revolution; 1966: Charles Whitman sniping from a Texas tower killed 14; Nkruma overthrown in Ghana as the African continent began to seethe; 1967: brush wars in sixteen separate locations; my wife and daughter were killed in an auto accident; the 6-day Israeli-Arab war: Johnson and Kosygin met to try to avert further saber-rattling; 1968: Pueblo seized; further white-black violence in America; Martin Luther King assassinated; French students rioted and civil violence reigned for a month; Soviet Union and other Warsaw Pact nations invaded and crushed Czechoslovakia.
Between 1969 and 1975, a mere six years, the noose was drawn tighter and tighter: two million lives were lost in the Nigerian civil war as millions more starved to death in Biafra; the Manson murders set the tone of the times; civil war in East and West Pakistan; Brazil systematically proceeded with the slaughter of their native Indians; India invaded Pakistan; the religious war began in Northern Ireland; Watergate set the tone of the times; Black September terrorists machine-gunned Olympic athletes in Munich; upheavals and political murders in Afghanistan, Greece, the People’s Republic of China and nine emerging African nations; the fourth and biggest Arab-Israeli war in 25 years; violence escalated in Japan, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, the Spanish premier was assassinated in Madrid, Israel and Egypt poised on both sides of the Canal, Iran and Iraq clashed, rebellion in Portugal, slaughter in Turkey, Argentina, Northern Ireland, Ethiopia, Cyprus…
And on and on. Tuesday, June 3rd, 1995.
It all broke loose at once. The people’s Republic of China invaded Japan. The United States sent atomic subs to within miles of tie Russian seaport of Murmansk and shelled coast defenses. The Israelis moved back into positions they had recently vacated in the Sinai and did not stop. Six nations declared war on Israel.
It was as if a platoon of giants had suddenly gone mad. And as if…if it was going to be war, then all the little countries, all the secondary powers…they wanted their shares.
Everyone attacked everyone else. Suddenly, the world was one vast battlefield, from pole to pole. From South Africa to Tanzania, from Somalia to Ghana, the African continent was aflame with black and white tearing out each other’s throats. Russia, even while massing its defenses in the north, moved on Finland in the west. Argentina invaded Chile.
Who could doubt: it was the apocalypse.
Madness prevailed. Men who had formerly been cool and logical now screamed for the death and destruction of the men and states that would kill them if given the chance.
It was more than panic that ruled the UN that day: it was a sense of impending terror and death that would overrun the world like nothing since the hordes of Genghis Khan. Every man there was stark of face; every face there held threats and warnings and accusations and most of all—fear.
The Secretary General—a Latvian named Rezekne—used his gavel, and the session was brought to order. I won’t trouble with the affairs that were taken up during the first two hours, except to note that the Russian delegation made a surprise move and did not walk out when the Ethiopian representative made his appeal for justice and peace for his land. What happened during those first two hours does not matter any longer.
I was translating M. Louperc’s harangue against the German Triumvirate, a few minutes into the third hour of the session, when we all heard a great sound from the hall outside the chamber. I was not alone in hearing it; heads began to turn in the delegations as the sound grew louder. M. Louperc stopped speaking, and turned to the men beside him for some explanation. I saw Montgomery of England spread his hands in confusion. I took off my earphones, and stood up so I could see through the window of my booth more clearly, and just then the huge doors at the rear of the chamber flew open, and they came in, by the hundreds.
I might have expected anything.
Striking workers, or invading Martians or conquering armies, any of them might have seemed apropos. But not what came through that door.
Children.
Of all sizes and colors, clad in every conceivable style of ethnic dress, all different; but none older than ten or twelve, as best I could tell; and the only thing they shared beyond their presence in that hall was their solemnity. There was not one smile, one laugh, no jostling or childish games as they flooded into the General Assembly chamber. Some time I will ponder at length on how they got together. There were obviously Berber children and French schoolgirls and fur-clothed children from Lapland and little imitation Russian cossacks from the Steppes in that great herd. How they got together, perhaps no one will ever know; how they got to the UN buildings, perhaps no one will ever know.
But there they were, and they were jammed into the aisles with their faces quite clean, and their eyes quite bright, and their little hands quite still.
They were quietly terrible. For these were not the children we had known; there was no singing among them, and no whispering, and no giggling between even the closest friends, and no shying of eyes and no shuffling of feet.
They stood very, very still, and they looked at the Secretary General.
Then one of them came forward. It is fitting that I tell this story; I knew the child who came forward. My name is Wallace Edmondson, and the child was mine. My son, Barry. Ten years old; who had been reading comic books the night before, and—yes, now that I thought of it—looking at his toybox full of guns and war weapons with a strange light in his eyes. My son, Barry, who now walked forward and mounted the steps to the speaker’s platform.
I could not speak. I could only watch, as all the others watched, as this one-child from among so many went to the front of the chamber and climbed those stairs.
When he was behind the speaker’s podium and had taken down the microphone and had moved aside—for the podium quite blocked him off from sight—he began to speak.
This is what he said…and I interpreted into German, as my colleagues interpreted into other languages.
“We want you to stop fighting. We are scared, and we have waited and waited, but no one will do anything. If you knew
how you scare us all the time with your fighting, you wouldn’t do it. But you do, and we are here to tell you, if you don’t stop right now, right away, we are leaving.”
That was all Barry said.
He put down the microphone, and he left the platform, and the children began to mill around as he descended. Then he joined them and, as a unit, they left the General Assembly chamber.
In a few minutes, they were gone, as quickly as they had come.
What happened next was pandemonium. A pandemonium of laughter. The Russian delegation began, and in a few moments it had spread till the entire room was a bonfire of mirth. The Russians begged to speak and when their representative rose he said this was a poor, shabby trick for the Americans to pull, and that it changed no one’s mind, except that perhaps the Yankees were greater fools than the world had thought.
The US representative accused the Russians.
The Chinese accused the British.
The French accused the Germans.
Bedlam was the order of the day.
And the next day…
And the next…
But on the fourth day, there was no bedlam, because the wars in Europe, Africa and Asia simultaneously escalated. They didn’t last long, however. On the same day, wherever anyone might have been…whether in a bathtub, or on a desert, or in a jungle, or on a mountaintop, they heard the sounds.
The sound that came from everywhere, and nowhere and no place all at the same time. The sound that might have been monstrous ships of space, though no one ever saw them, or saw fire trails in the sky, or anything else. The sound that might have been space tearing and shifting and warping to allow passage.
The sound might have been anything.
Though no one cares too much to find out; no one has been able to think straight since it happened.
On that day, they left.
Where, we do not know. How, we do not know. But they made good their warning. We played the Pied Piper, and we played the wrong tune.
Our children have gone.
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