Her Sister's Tattoo

by Ellen Meeropol

  “What’re you doing?” Maggie asked.

  Rosa wasn’t sure she could explain, could even talk. Her swollen fingers struggled with the scissors. Then she looked at Maggie. “Don’t you think my letters would make powerful cranes?”

  “No. Use these.” Emma handed Rosa a stack of origami paper. “Save the letters for Esther to read.”

  Rosa hesitated, then nodded and started folding the patterned papers. Deep blue with silver stars. Orange striped sunshine reflected in green seas. She wasn’t the artistic sister, but she could picture what these peace cranes would look like when they were done. And she could imagine the reaction on Esther’s face.

  CHAPTER 43

  Molly

  Fortified with layers of silk and down and fleece and wool, Evan and I emerged from the subway station into the brittle cold of Columbus Circle. The icy air sparkled with anticipation and pulsated with street music.

  It was still three hours before the scheduled start of the rally, but already the crush of people on the sidewalk threatened to overflow into the streets. At the top of the subway steps, I tugged on the sleeve of Evan’s jacket, pulling him off to the side to wait for my parents. I was worried about my mom.

  “She’s still not very strong,” Jake had warned that morning. He admitted that they had argued fiercely about the trip to New York, debating the dangers, health-wise and cop-wise and cosmic. Finally Jake gave in. I asked what made him change his mind, but he wouldn’t say. Not taking the bus was Esther’s concession to her weakened immune system. So we drove to the city, my parents peppering Evan the whole way with questions about his family and his work. Of course, they really wanted to know his “intentions” but would never ask. We parked on the Upper West Side and took the subway to Fifty-Ninth, Esther embarrassed behind the medical mask Jake insisted she wear.

  We huddled out of the wind in the shelter of a newsstand wall. I held Evan’s gloved hand in mine. Jake took Esther’s backpack and transferred it onto his shoulder.

  “Got any apples in there?” Evan teased.

  I frowned at him, but Esther laughed, shoving the mask into her parka pocket. “No way. Apples aren’t tough enough for this administration.” She looked at the helicopter patrolling the sky and added, “Just kidding.”

  “So, do we have a plan?” I asked.

  Evan opened the map he’d printed from the Internet. “The rally site is First Avenue and Forty-Ninth Street. We’re at Seventh and Fifty-Ninth, so let’s . . .”

  I interrupted. “I mean about meeting up with Rosa.”

  “Let’s get to the rally site first.” Jake pointed at the red circle on the map. “Then we’ll call her and figure out how to meet.”

  “No. Let’s call her first,” Esther said, speed-dialing her cell phone. She half-smiled at Jake. “I programmed her number last night. Is that pathetic?”

  “It’s hopeful. Scary but hopeful.”

  Esther listened, then whispered, “Voice mail.” She hesitated, then spoke into the phone. “It’s me. Esther. We’re at Columbus Circle, heading for the UN. Call me, okay? So we can plan a meeting place.”

  Evan looked around. “Let’s just follow the crowd.” He pointed to the people surging around a deep blue banner with white letters proclaiming Historians Against the War. “Everyone’s going to the same place.”

  We slipped into the cross-town flow along Central Park South, behind a woman in an ankle-length fur coat. She carried a poster with a peace sign and the message, Back by Popular Demand.

  “That’s real mink,” Evan whispered in my ear. “My great aunt had a coat just like that.”

  “Is that real Army?” The young guy walking next to mink lady—her son maybe—wore full army camouflage, boots, flashlight and walkie talkie hanging from his belt and all. I read his sign, FRODO HAS FAILED, BUSH HAS THE RING. I laughed. This was fun.

  Waiting for the traffic light at Sixth Avenue, I stamped my boots to restore feeling to my toes. My mom pulled off her thick mitten, dug in her pocket for a tissue, and blew her nose.

  “Are you okay, Esther?” Jake asked. “Should we stop and rest?”

  Esther shook her head. My mother would never ask us to slow down. When the light changed, we stepped into the street.

  People joined the crowd at every intersection, swelling our numbers, making it almost impossible to stay on the sidewalks. We tried anyway, reminded by marshals with armbands to obey the traffic laws and the cops. More cops than I had ever seen before. Dozens at every intersection, reinforced by police cruisers and vans and motorcycles, even this far from the rally site. But the crowd didn’t act intimidated. We chanted and sang. “Give peace a chance.” “No blood for oil.” “George Bush, military hack; out of Afghanistan, hands off Iraq.”

  We defied the debilitating cold, boogieing to the beat of drummers, clapping thick-gloved hands. All of us, an astonishing mix of ages and colors. Kids bundled in strollers and great-grandmothers pushed in wheelchairs. Even a clown on a unicycle riding tight circles in the street. A man wearing a business suit entirely covered in duct tape waved a sign announcing, DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY’S SPRING LINE. Next to him, a guy dressed in green with an ivy crown and a praying mantis hand puppet held a sign, Earth Be Weary of War. At Third Avenue, a troop of puppeteers with giant paper mâché effigies of Bush and Cheney and Rumsfeld zigzagged through the crowd, accompanied by a brass band playing a jazzy arrangement of “This Land is Your Land.” We clapped and shouted our appreciation. It got even more crowded. The four of us linked elbows to stay together.

  Despite the numbing cold, I felt intensely alive. Also frightened and woozy and tingly and angry and totally wired. I squeezed Evan’s elbow against my breast, excited through all those layers.

  I turned to my parents. “The energy is amazing. Was it like this in Detroit, that day?”

  “No,” Jake said. “It was damned hot.”

  “You weren’t there.” Esther pressed her lips together.

  “Was it, Mom?”

  “Yes.” Esther smiled. “It was amazing. Just like this.”

  I smelled something odd. Like firecrackers laced with hot peppers. “What’s that stink?”

  “Tear gas, right?” Evan asked.

  Esther nodded but didn’t speak; I was wordless too. Then she tightened her grip on my arm and pointed just ahead, at a group of young men and women—the age of my community college students—brandishing a red and black banner with three giant letters: SDS. “Stop the war, yes we can,” they sang. “SDS is back again!” She wiped a smudge of tear from her cheek.

  By Second Avenue, my toes were thick and numb despite fur-lined boots. A line of policemen prevented us from continuing east, even though the street was empty beyond them. Instead we were turned south, inching along, merging awkwardly with the thousands of people already filling the street in that direction. Our progress was glacially slow. At each block, the cops funneled us into an enclosure of metal police barricades. We stood, feet stamping, until we were released into the next pen.

  A woman nearby asked one of the cops why we were being herded like cattle.

  “For your own safety,” the policeman answered. “We’re on high terror alert.”

  “Bullshit,” the woman replied. Then she turned to the crowd and shouted, “Whose streets?”

  “Our streets,” the crowd answered.

  Back and forth, we asked and answered. The yelling kept us warm. Whiffs of tear gas came and went, along with another smell I couldn’t identify. It was earthy, like ripe barn.

  For a while, we walked behind the new SDS contingent. As they chanted, I watched my mother take off her mitten and dig again for a tissue. Jake kissed her forehead. Crossing Fifty-Third Street, inch by slow inch, I tried to imagine what this demonstration must have felt like for her.

  “Damn it. My mitten,” Esther said. “I must have dropped it.” We all looked down, trying to spot a blue mitten among shoes and boots.

  “We’ll share,” Evan said. “Wear mi
ne for awhile.” He offered his thick glove.

  Esther shook her head, slipped her hand into the deep pocket of my parka. I pulled my glove off and slipped my bare hand in the pocket to massage my mother’s icy fingers.

  Her phone rang. Esther looked at the caller ID for a moment, biting her lip, before handing it to me to answer.

  “Rosa? This is Molly.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Second Avenue, between Fifty-Third and Fifty-Second.”

  “We’re at the rally site,” Rosa said. “Good luck getting here. It’s crazy.”

  “Who’s with you?” I hoped to see Emma again.

  “Allen, Emma, her husband Jeff. And our friend Maggie.”

  I remembered Emma talking about Maggie. Her almost-aunt. “I hope we can get to you.”

  “It’s an astounding crowd,” Rosa said. “And this is so ironic. They wouldn’t give us a permit to march. But what do you call all those people on the streets?”

  I laughed. “I’m certainly no expert, but this looks like a march to me. How do we get there?”

  “Not easily. The cops are penning people into ‘protest zones,’ keeping them from getting to the rally.”

  “Yeah, that’s where we are, moving from one pen to another. Moo.”

  “They’re not letting anyone onto First Avenue. You might have to just hop across the barricades so you can walk east.”

  “Do what?”

  Rosa laughed. “You sound like your mother. Tell Esther I can’t wait to see her. And, I have a present for her. Call me again when you get closer, okay?”

  “Okay.” I snapped the phone shut and handed it to Esther. “She can’t wait to see you.”

  Jake put his arm around Esther. “What did she say about the rally?”

  “That it’s huge and the cops are trying to keep people away.”

  At Fifty-Second Street, we were stopped by a double row of barricades, fortified by a wall of police officers, standing shoulder to shoulder. Batons and plastic handcuffs were displayed in clear view in their gloved hands, a silent warning. I scanned their faces under fur-lined hats with earflaps. What were they thinking? Especially the guy on the end, with twin bars pinned on his uniform and a regular cap. His ears were bright red. They must have hurt.

  Esther pointed out a Loon Lake banner way to the left and we tried to get closer, but it was too hard to move.

  “Damn,” Jake said. “We’ll never get there on time. I really wanted to hear Richie Havens. He’s supposed to sing ‘Freedom.’ That’s how he opened Woodstock.”

  “Wow,” Evan said. “Were you there?”

  “No way,” Esther said. “That was for the counterculture types. We were serious revolutionaries.” Her smile was crooked—self-mocking and proud at the same time.

  “Harry Belafonte and Pete Seeger are supposed to sing, too.” I stood on tiptoe to see why we weren’t moving, but no luck. “Can you see anything?” I asked Evan.

  He jumped and craned his neck. His red wool hat bobbed above the heads and signs. “People,” he said. “People everywhere.” Then his grin faded. He pointed to the roof of a brick building where three uniformed men surveyed the crowd with sniper rifles and binoculars.

  By the official start time of the rally, we had made it to the corner of Fifty-First Street. The police seemed more agitated, and the fire cracker smell was stronger. The earthy smell was stronger, too, and I recognized it—horses—as a battalion of mounted police rode toward us. The crowd tried to make room but there was nowhere to go. Jake pulled us back, inch by inch, toward the metal barricades on the east side of the street. Maybe they would offer some protection.

  One of the young men holding the SDS banner shouted at the cops and stood his ground as the horses approached. The mounted officer on the end of the line raised his baton overhead in warning. I imagined the boy crumpling to the frozen asphalt.

  In my pocket, Esther’s fingernails dug into my wrist.

  The mounted cops were so close that I could see their deadpan faces. One horse glanced my way in passing. Chocolate brown eyes and a white star on the forehead.

  Evan’s hands gripped my shoulders, pulling me further back against the metal barricades, alongside my parents. Jake looked stunned. Esther held his arm, seemed to be whispering into his ear. The crowd surged forward, screaming at the mounted cops and the police in riot gear who followed them. The four of us inched back, away from the action. Esther pointed at the barricades and the block beyond, empty except for a few scurrying people taking advantage of the cops’ attention elsewhere. In one fluid moment, we climbed over the barriers and ran east.

  We snuck under barriers at First Avenue to rejoin the demonstration, avoiding the line of police in riot gear. Over loudspeakers and handheld radios, crackling with static electricity and interference and cheers, the voice of Archbishop Tutu welcomed the crowd. “We are members of one family, the human family,” he said. “What do we say to war?” “No,” the demonstrators roared. We roared.

  Esther called Rosa again. She turned slightly away and talked for a minute, then hung up. “They’re next to the BRING DOWN THE WAR MACHINE banner.”

  I could see the enormous sign near the stage, near the giant puppet of the President holding buckets of blood and oil. “Did she say anything else, Esther?” I asked.

  My mother stared at me, open-mouthed. I realized what I had said. “Esther,” I repeated.

  Esther smiled. “That she’s wearing a red wool hat.” “Like me,” Evan said.

  We locked elbows and pushed through the crowd. Evan led. “Keep your eye on that other red hat,” Jake said, bringing up the rear. With difficulty we snaked through the tightly packed demonstrators. “Please excuse us,” we murmured. “Sorry.”

  The Archbishop’s voice rose. “President Bush, listen to the voice of the people. They are asking you to give peace a chance.” The crowd exploded in applause as my family reached the double row of barriers around the stage. The banner whipped in the wind, tethered by a line of people holding the elaborate frame of ropes and grommets. Under the banner stood Rosa, with a red Speaker badge pinned to her coat, and Allen, his beard speckled with gray. Emma stood next to a blond man wearing a Siberian fur hat and a stocky woman who had to be Maggie. Emma waved, motioned us closer, then leaned to Rosa and pointed. Rosa waved, then turned away and walked backstage.

  Emma walked to the barrier and whispered something to the cop on guard. He moved the metal gate aside to let our family through. “Come,” Emma said to Esther. “My mom is waiting. She has something for you.”

  I took Esther’s hand and we followed Emma around the corner of the stage. A deep voice came over the loudspeakers, singing about government lying and drifting toward war. Jake walked close behind us, his mittened hands resting on our shoulders. “That’s Havens,” he said, “singing Jackson Browne’s song.”

  Rosa stood alone at the back edge of the stage. Esther dropped my hand and turned to Jake, her face questioning.

  “Go,” he said.

  Esther walked forward and faced her sister. Jake and I followed her, a few steps behind.

  “I made something for you,” Rosa said, reaching for Esther’s hand. “We all did.”

  “Now?” Esther asked.

  “It’s long overdue.”

  On the narrow platform behind the stage, Emma and Allen had opened two large trash bags. They grabbed handfuls of colored objects and flung them into the air so they fell onto Rosa and Esther. I climbed up next to them, and then Jeff and Jake and Evan and Maggie joined us, each of us burrowing our hands deep into the bags to launch folded bits of patterned paper into the icy air. Hundreds of wings shimmered. Pink sparkly birds tumbled over yellow striped ones and purple swirly ones and orange flowered ones and Kelly green paisley ones.

  Havens’s voice danced among the folded birds, powerful words about struggles around the world. Esther and Rosa stood face-to-face, clutching each other’s hands, eyes locked and cheeks glistening. Glittery birds s
peckled with crimson promises fluttered for a moment, then spiraled onto their parka shoulders. Clumsy ones made from poster paper that didn’t take the folds right plummeted onto the frozen ground. Over and over, until the bags were empty, our family flung paper birds aloft. An updraft caught a few flimsy ones made of thin notebook paper and carried them soaring over high in the air above the sisters, where they hovered before drifting out into the crowd.

  Acknowledgments

  This book has been twenty years in the writing, and many people have shared their memories and knowledge in support of the work. I am particularly grateful to Marnie Mueller and to Gail Hochman who both offered early encouragement to a very green writer, and to my Stonecoast MFA buddies, the “Vanettes”— Ginnie Gavron, Perky Alsop, Sarah Stromeyer, and Sharon Arms.

  The women in my critique group have read multiple versions of this manuscript over two decades with patience and care. Thank you so much, Jacqueline Sheehan, Lydia Kann, Rita Marks, Brenda Marsian, Maryanne Banks, Patricia Riggs, Kari Ridge, Celia Jeffries, Kris Holloway, and Dori Ostermiller. I am grateful to those who offered their expertise about the legal and political issues critical to this story, including Chris Pyle, Bill Newman, Karen Shain, and Rachel Meeropol. Many of my friends, writers and readers, have read and given feedback on the manuscript. Thank you, Ann Ferguson, Jon Weissman, Jane Miller, Karen Shain, Alice Levine, Holly Bishop, Céline Keating, and Liz Goldman.

  Once again, I deeply appreciate the experience, wisdom, and energy of publicist Mary Bisbee-Beek, and the team at Red Hen Press—Kate Gale, Mark Cull, Tobi Harper, Monica Fernandez, Natasha McClellan, and Rebeccah Sanhueza.

  An earlier version of the first chapter was previously published as a short story titled “Her Flammable Sister” in DoveTales, an International Journal of the Arts, in their 2013 “Occupied” edition.

  For readers interested in learning more about the anti-Vietnam War and second wave women’s movements, I recommend Sisterhood is Powerful by Robin Morgan; SDS by Kirkpatrick Sale; Underground by Mark Rudd; Fugitive Days by Bill Ayers; To Be of Use, poems by Marge Piercy; and the film She’s Beautiful When She’s Angry directed by Mary Dore.