Gift of the Golden Mountain

by Shirley Streshinsky

  On that same trip I danced with a young Naval officer until all hours and then we walked barefoot on the beach to watch the sunrise. May and I stopped over in Honolulu for a day to go to the Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor. My dashing young officer went down with that ship and I have always meant to make a pilgrimage. When I mentioned it to May she insisted we go together; we found his name engraved on the wall and ran our fingers over it, and had to share my handkerchief to blot our tears.

  The scene was made even more poignant by the presence of two young men in uniform, on leave for a few days before shipping out to Vietnam. One was black and one was white with flushed pink patches on his cheeks. They were wearing highly polished boots which seemed too large, too clumsy, and all I could think was that they were playing soldier. They are so very young, Faith. And worst of all, they have no memory of the names that are etched in marble at the military cemetery at Punchbowl, names that still catch in my throat: Tarawa and Guadalcanal and Truk and New Guinea, all those battles where so many boys, just their age, died.

  It has been twenty-five years now, but it seems only yesterday. When we listen to the evening news I can only wonder if the names we are hearing now—Khesanh and Quangtri and Dakto—will evoke the same chilling effect on May's generation.

  And now that LBJ has removed himself from the fray, I think we can assume Bobby Kennedy will step forward. In confidence, I can tell you that his people tracked me down here yesterday to see if I would, as they put it, 'come on board.' I said yes. I think Bobby may be the man we need at this critical juncture in our history.

  May has unlocked all manner of memories for me. I can't tell you how good it is to be with her, to be accepted by her. I know you always believed it to be possible, but I have to confess I was skeptical. For so many, many years she resented me because she was convinced I had sent her mother away. I was sure those feelings, so long harbored, would be corrosive. I expected, at best, a kind of civilized rapprochement.

  On the mountain one night, when we were tucked into our sleeping bags after a long trudge and were just about to float off to sleep, May asked: "Do you know about whipping boys, Kit? They were companions to little princes or noblemen's sons, and when the royal brat did something wrong, the whipping boy took his punishment for him. I think that's what you've been—a whipping boy." That was all she said, but perhaps it is enough to explain how she could become, with such seeming ease, so genuinely fond of me. To me, that is the miracle.

  The girl at the front desk greeted me in that lovely straightforward way the Hawaiians have by saying, "You look so happy." The manager, whom I have known for some years, also remarked on my glowing good health and I found myself telling him, "My niece and I have just had the most wonderful outing on the mountain."

  May has suggested she be introduced as my "niece," which of course delights me. More important, she trusts me enough now to begin to ask questions. Yesterday she wanted to know what happened to the nurse her father had fallen in love with during the war. I explained that Porter had gone to Georgia to see her, and that when he came back all he would say was that it had all been a matter of "time and place." May shook her head and frowned, but later she said she could understand. I hope that she can. She is so mature in so many ways, she seems more thirty-five than twenty-five.

  I admit to being concerned that her memory of her father might be diminished by the letters. I don't think it is time, yet, for me to offer any opinions—to try to explain how her father, who was so wonderful in so many ways, could have been so naive about women and love. Porter had so many disappointments in his life, but May was his great joy. She must know that, must have it to hold on to. But as you say, she must also give up any schoolgirl idea that he was a saint, and infallible. She has not yet asked me about her mother, though we both know that painful subject is there, in the wings, waiting.

  I expect May will return to Hawaii this summer to do her required field work. She is mesmerized by this Big Island, as it is called, and the volcanoes which created it, especially the two which are still active: Mauna Loa and Kilauea. The scientists at the USGS (United States Geological Survey) have agreed to allow her to work out of their observatory which is perched on the rim of the great caldera of Kilauea. The truth is, she is fascinated by volcanoes. It is wonderful to see her so rapt, so totally immersed in the subject.

  May must leave tomorrow, but I am staying on for a few days, perhaps even a week. It has been such a long time since I have been able to relax this completely, and I am going to hold on to it for a while. Think of me lying under a palm tree, the scent of frangipani in the air.

  I hope your gift from May is proving as enjoyable as is mine.

  My Love,

  Kit

  My gift from May had changed my life more than any of us could have dreamed. My "new mobility"—as we called the van and driver May had provided—combined with the gathering storm of events to bring my old and rather comfortable reclusive life to an end.

  There are times, I honestly believe, when the powers that be conspire in ways that are wonderful to behold. Surely that is the only explanation for my having had the great good luck to acquire as my driver one Israel Dobbs, a large, middle-aged, and wonderfully good-natured black man who was part preacher, part performer, and, when it came to moving me and my chair about, a veritable magician. Israel viewed his position with extreme professionalism. No doctor could have been more attentive to a patient, no lawyer more concerned that a client be accorded her full civil rights. Israel's mission in life was to take me wherever I could safely go, without creating so much as a stir. He would never simply ask anyone to let us through; rather he would boom out in his deep basso profundo: "All give way for Faith and Israel," followed by, "We thank you so very much and hope you have a simply glorious day." He was courteous and he was humorous; he caused people to be happy to have us in their midst. So it was Israel who made it possible for me to go out in the world again. Without him, I would not have been at the epicenter.

  You could feel the forces gathering, hear the rumble of the troop trains as they made their way across the country to the Oakland Army Depot where protesters tried to stop them. On the evening news I watched the crowds swell in numbers, saw them march with flags flying, passing out pamphlets, burning and looting, and straining against the old order throughout the summer and into the fall of 1968. And nowhere were the seismographs more sensitive than at Sproul Plaza at the entrance to the University of California at Berkeley.

  I had lived through two world wars; I knew it had to stop and I had to do my part, I could not retire to the small world of my cottage, my garden. There are no small worlds, and no excuses given my new mobility. At first I volunteered one day a week for a group called "The Peace Coalition," which was attempting to act as a clearinghouse for the various peace groups in the community. Before long I found myself running the Berkeley office in a battered old apartment above a shoestore on Bancroft Avenue. From this vantage, I could look down on Sproul Plaza, which had become the epicenter of political activity.

  Karin and Sam dropped into the office to see me almost every day. May's visits were less frequent because most of her waking hours were spent in the Life Sciences Building on the far side of the campus, where she had immersed herself in such arcane subjects as stratigraphy and tectonics, sedimentary petrology, and the structural analysis of deformed rocks. Sam and Karin could sometimes be coaxed into an hour or two of typing or collating the lists of schedules of rallies, demonstrations, and teach-ins. Since so many of the leaders of the antiwar groups fed us information, we became a central clearinghouse of sorts. When the press made its way to our door, our status was confirmed.

  By late morning a crowd would begin to gather in Sproul Plaza. The rallies started about midday with the amplified sounds of voices raised in passionate challenge, backed by strumming guitars and sometimes the pure high quiver of a folksong. And the students came; they emptied out of classrooms and filled the plaza, bringing with th
em a sense of purpose, a belief that they were, here and now, going to change the way the world worked. Wars were madness, they said; the military machine had to be dismantled, they said; the Third World must be addressed.

  Not everyone was convinced that the student movement would succeed. Sam was not. "As far as the Great American public is concerned," he liked to say, "the college kids who are demonstrating are just a bunch of ungrateful brats who ought to be kicked out of school."

  Hayes Diehl wasn't convinced that the movement could succeed, either. I met Hayes when he came into the Peace Coalition office. Sam introduced us, making a point to tell Hayes about my connection to May and Karin. Hayes explained that he would represent the Boalt Hall law students in the Peace Coalition. Later, Sam told me that Hayes had left the Gene McCarthy camp to become a West Coast campus coordinator for Bobby Kennedy's campaign.

  Whenever Hayes came by he would stop to say a few words to me, either sitting or kneeling beside my chair so that we were face to face and he wasn't towering over me. I liked him for that. Israel liked him, too. Everyone else in the room might be talking revolution, but Israel and Hayes would be in a corner talking basketball. Israel told me later, "That white boy knows whereof he speaks when he's discussing the NCAA, but he's definitely soft on the big boys, the pros, oh yes, quite definitely soft."

  Karin walked in one day, bent to kiss me, but before I could say 'Hello,' she spotted Hayes and blurted "Do you remember me?" The question raised a chorus of catcalls from several of the young men in the room at the time, and one of them suggested that if Hayes could forget Karin he must deviate from the sexual norm. Karin blushed, and then laughed as Hayes went into a teasing "Was it in Paris?" routine. Awhile later I noticed the two of them talking quietly in a corner.

  Karin waited until the office emptied to tell me about their first meeting with Hayes. "It was strange," she began, "I think May and I took it for granted we would be seeing him again—I know we wanted to. But there was something awkward about it, with Sam I mean. We didn't make any attempt to get in touch with Hayes, and I suppose he must have felt the same way, because he didn't make any moves, either." She nibbled on a fingernail. "Somehow that doesn't seem right, does it? Holding back because of some third person? Just now I asked him out for coffee, but he had to go to class. That's what he said, anyway. What he didn't say was, 'Can I have a rain check?' I think he figures that Sam has staked us out as his territory, and that he should stay away. And it just makes me . . . sad. And a little bit mad, too."

  "That you can't get to know Hayes, or that Sam should have 'staked you out,' as you say?" I probed.

  Karin's face registered a small, thoughtful frown, and then she said deliberately, "Both. And the truth is, if Sam had been around today, I'm not sure I could have been so friendly with Hayes. And that makes me mad at myself. Suddenly, today—meeting Hayes again and having that same feeling that here is somebody worth it—if you know what I mean—well, it just seems very wrong to me. Giving in to Sam like that."

  "What makes you think Sam wants you to give in?" I asked. "After all," I went on, "Sam was the one who brought him round in the first place. Sam was willing to 'share'—the cottage, and presumably his friendship with you and May."

  "Possibly," she said slowly. "We thought it was because he needed the money, but maybe . . ."

  I broke in, "When I see the two of them together, the feeling I get is that Sam resents Hayes, but he wants to impress him at the same time."

  "Or wants his approval?" Karin asked.

  "Maybe," I answered. "Hayes does seem to mean something to Sam."

  Karin sighed. "Sam is so . . . volatile . . . I think he would do anything for us. When May was gone and I was so worried, he sat up with me all night. The three of us get along well enough, but sometimes I think it is because May and I are careful not to rock the boat."

  "It's your boat, you know," I told her. "Maybe you should try a little careful rocking." She squeezed my hand and bent to nuzzle me in that easy way she had. I hugged her back, caressing the thick blond hair that fell loose to her shoulders, and thought once more what a warm, dear girl she was.

  Other campuses erupted that spring, and there was rioting in cities across the country. At Berkeley, a momentum was gathering until at times it seemed the very earth vibrated with all of the amplified speakers set up on campus. There were political rallies now, in advance of the summer conventions, and Hayes Diehl was keeping what Sam called a "high profile" for the Kennedy campaign.

  What was called a "Vietnam Commencement" ceremony was held in Sproul Plaza that May, though Governor Reagan had warned that to hold it would be "so indecent as to border on the obscene." Sam and I watched from across the way and I moaned, "I would give anything to get down there and photograph that."

  I had, in fact, brought my Leicas into the office, hoping that there might be a vantage point from which I could do some long shots. I knew it was hopeless, but the urge was there and wouldn't seem to go away. I wanted to get into the crowd, close up, to show the young, intense face of this antiwar movement. Israel outdid himself scouting possible locations, but in the end agreed with me, there was no way for me to photograph in the crowd.

  It surprised me when Sam said, "Can I take the photographs for you?" When I didn't answer right away, he added, "I know a little about cameras, maybe you could tell me what you want and I could try to get it."

  I thought for a while. Sam didn't understand that I needed to be behind the camera myself, moving with the action, interpreting it in my own way. And yet he was eager to help, to do something for me. "I could preset the cameras for you, we could try it at least," I told him.

  The next day was foggy and gray. "I'm setting a basic exposure—500 at 8," I explained to Sam, showing him how to focus, using the rangefinder to bring the split image together. I put a 35mm lens on one camera for wider shots and a 90mm on the other for closeups on faces. "Get as near as you can without drawing attention to yourself," I told him. "You want to be invisible, but you also want to be involved," I added, loading the cameras with black and white film. "Watch for gestures, for intensity. And remember to compose each frame so that the design adds to the tension."

  From my office window, I could see him work his way into the crowd, pushing forward, moving up close. Sam did not hesitate and the students made way for him, dressed as he was in jeans and an old surplus jacket decorated with peace buttons. That first day he shot three rolls of Tri-X film. When it was developed and printed onto contact sheets, I looked them over carefully and found five strong photographs—pictures which were sharp, well composed, and with strong content. I looked at Sam in amazement. For a first time out, he had done remarkably well.

  After that, Sam went out every day and, as soon as his film was developed, we would study the contact sheets together. I have never known a student so eager for criticism. "This is very good," I would say, and he would come back with, "Why?" And then he would insist I tell him what he did wrong and what he should have done.

  Near the end of November, when what was to have been a peaceful sit-in at the Student Union erupted into violence and police dragged off student leaders, Sam was up front, close enough to photograph one student's face contorted with pain as his arms were pinned behind him. That night the photo went out over the AP wire, with Sam Nakamura's credit line.

  We celebrated Sam's success with pizza, beer, and Louisiana hot links—Israel's contribution to the party. My desk became the table, the young people sat on the floor, their backs against the wall. Sam was looking through one of my cameras as if to photograph May. She held a rib between two fingers, studying it as if in preparation to bite into it, and looking directly into the camera said: "Faith thinks you're a natural."

  Sam came out from behind the viewfinder.

  "I don't know what there is about it," he said, "I just know I like doing it. There's something so immediate—the picture is there but just for a second, and you have to see it and get it. It's all so fast
, you don't really have time to think, you just have to react and it's both exacting and, well . . . terrifically exciting."

  He stopped, surprised at himself.

  "So what now?" Karin asked.

  "I'm thinking about a change of careers . . ." Sam answered, looking at me, "and my teacher here has offered to help."

  "I offered to give you a few contacts," I corrected him, "and to loan you my equipment until you can get your own. Other than that, you're on your own."

  "Are you thinking about leaving school?" Karin broke in.

  "Are you crazy?" Sam answered. "And lose my deferment? I might be willing to shoot some film in Vietnam, but that's all. What I need is for Faith to get me in with her friends at Time-Life, and then I'll have it made."

  I laughed and reached to pull Sam's ear. "You've only just begun, boy-o," I told him, "and you've still got a whole lot to learn."

  "You said I was good enough to be a pro," he came back, an edge of accusation in his voice.