“Hi,” Jack said around the stub of a smelly cigar.
“Pleased to meet you both,” Diana said. “What does the ‘E.A.’ stand for?”
Jack grunted laughter. E. A. Stuart sighed. “You really want to know? Ebenezer Amminadab,” he answered resignedly. “My ma read the Bible too darn much, you want to know what I think. But that’s how come I use E.A.”
“Amminadab,” Diana echoed in wonder, hoping she was pronouncing it right. “Well, now that you mention it, yes. About your mother, I mean.”
“He was the only kid in kindergarten who went by his initials,” Jack said.
“Oh, shut up,” E. A. Stuart told him, and Diana was sure the reporter had heard the joke way too many times before. Stuart turned back to her. “How many people you expect here?”
“Hundreds,” she said, more confidently than she felt. Where were they? She’d made phone calls. She’d sent wires. She’d got answers. No, more: she’d got promises. Satan surely fried people who said they’d do something and then didn’t come through. That wouldn’t do her any good, though. If this fizzles…I’ll try something else, that’s all, she told herself. Quitting never entered her mind.
Another woman wearing mourning got out of a car. The old De Soto drove off. The woman, who shouldered a sign as if it were an M-1, came over to Diana.
So did another reporter. He introduced himself as Chuck Christman, from the Indianapolis News. The photographer he had in tow might have been Jack’s younger brother. The way the newspapermen razzed one another showed they’d been covering the same stories for a long time.
The other woman was Louise Rodgers, from Bloomington. She was about Diana’s age-no big surprise there-and she’d lost a boy to a roadside bomb two weeks after the German surrender. “The papers and the news on the radio just whitewash everything,” she told E. A. Stuart and Chuck Christman.
“We’re here now,” Christman pointed out.
“Months late and how many lives short?” Louise Rodgers said. “Till I heard from Diana, I didn’t think I could do anything about David-that’s my son; no, was my son-except sit around the house and cry all day. But if we can keep other mothers from crying, that’s better.”
“You said it,” Diana agreed. The reporters scribbled.
More women drifted in. Some of them had lost sons after the Nazis allegedly gave up, too. Others hadn’t, but still hated the idea of so many soldiers dying after the war was supposed to be over and victory won. Some men joined them, too-not many, but some. Two were veterans who’d been wounded in France or Germany. Another, older, was like Ed; he’d caught a packet in 1918.
“They called the last one the war to end war. This time, the stupid war can’t even end itself,” he said. The reporters liked that. They both wrote it down.
Diana went back and opened the Pontiac’s rear door. She took her own picket sign off the backseat. BRING OUR BOYS HOME FROM GERMANY NOW! it said. “Come on,” she told the other demonstrators.
Heart thuttering, she led them to the sidewalk in front of the capitol. She’d never done anything like this before. Till Pat got killed, she’d never imagined doing anything like this. Nothing like a kick in the teeth to boot you out of your old routine.
HOW MANY DEAD? one sign asked. TOO MANY DEAD! another answered. WHY ARE THEY STILL THERE? another demanded. ISN’T THE WAR OVER YET? a sign inquired rhetorically. STOP THE WAR DEPARTMENT’S LIES! another said. 1000+ DEAD SINCE SURRENDER! another sign declared. Anybody who carried one without either a question mark or an exclamation point seemed out of place.
Another contingent of picketers came up the street. ILLINOIS MOTHERS SUPPORT BRINGING TROOPS HOME! announced the sign their leader carried. GERMAN OCCUPATION WASTES AMERICAN LIVES! another one said. A decorated veteran carried that sign.
“Good to see you!” Diana called to the Illinoisans. She could hear how relieved she sounded. Well, she’d earned the right, by God. They’d said they would come down. It was an easy train trip from Chicago. But promises were worth their weight in gold. She remembered what she’d thought a little earlier about the Devil and people who didn’t come through.
Now, where were the people from Ohio? They’d promised, too. Which meant…She’d have to see what it meant, or whether it meant anything.
A man driving a battered Model A Ford stopped right in the middle of Capitol Street. The bakery truck behind him almost rearended him, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He leaned out the window and shouted, “Communists! You’re all nothin’ but a bunch of lousy Reds!”
“We’re Americans, that’s what we are!” Diana shouted back. The demonstrators near her cheered. We have to carry flags next time, she thought, and wished she could write that down so she wouldn’t lose it.
“Communists!” the man in the Model A yelled again. He shook his fist at the people on the sidewalk.
The bakery-truck driver leaned on his horn. So did somebody stuck in back of him. The man in the Model A shook his fist once more, maybe at them, maybe at the picketers, maybe at the world. He put the decrepit old car in gear. It wheezed on down the road.
“Well, people are noticing us,” said the woman at the head of the Illinois group. Her name was Edna Somebody-right this minute, Diana couldn’t remember what.
She nodded. “That’s the idea. Now where are those folks from Columbus and Cincinnati? They said they’d be here.”
“Isn’t that them?” Edna Somebody pointed up the street. Lopatynski, that was her name. No wonder I couldn’t come up with it for a second, Diana told herself.
Sure enough, here they came, like the cavalry riding up over a hill in the last reel of a Western serial. OHIO SAYS TOO MANY HAVE DIED FOR NOTHING! their leader’s sign said. THE WAR DEPT. STILL WANTS WAR! declared another. And a haggard woman’s sign poignantly asked, WHAT DID MY ONLY SON DIE FOR?
Another car stopped on Capitol, this one with a screech of brakes. “Traitors!” yelled the man inside. His face was beet red; he all but frothed at the mouth. “They oughta string up the lot of you!”
Diana worked hard to stay calm. She’d feared-no, she’d known-people would shout things like that. She’d done her homework, too. “The Constitution says we can peaceably assemble and petition for a redress of grievances. My son got blown up months after the surrender. Isn’t that a grievance?”
The red-faced man’s arm shot up and out in a salute the Germans had made odious all over the world. “Heil Hitler!” he said. “You fools want the Nazis back again.” He drove off before horns blared behind him.
Edna Lopatynski’s laugh was shaky, but it was a laugh. “Well, Diana, are we Communists or are we Nazis?”
“No,” Diana answered firmly. “We’re Americans. If the government is doing something stupid, we’ve got the right to say so. We’ve got the right to make it stop. And that’s what we’re doing.” She looked around. Chuck Christman and E. A. Stuart were both close enough to hear what she’d said.
Yes, she’d expected to get called a traitor and a Communist. That anybody could think she was trying to help the Nazis after Heydrich’s lunatics murdered Pat…Her free hand folded into a fist. She wanted to clock that guy. The nerve!
Several cops stood around watching the picketers go back and forth. One of them ambled over to Diana and fell into step beside her. “You running this whole shebang?” he inquired.
“I organized it, anyhow,” she said. “I don’t know that anybody’s in charge.”
“Yeah, well, if it goes wrong you’re the one we’ll jug,” the policeman said. “Keep doing like you’re doing. Stay spaced out. Let people through. Stuff like that. Long as you play by the rules, we won’t give you no trouble. I think you’re full of hops myself, but that’s got nothin’ to do with what’s legal.”
“My son got killed for no reason,” Diana said tightly. “President Truman never has said why we still need to be in Germany. I don’t think he knows, either.”
“He’s the President of the United States.” The
cop sounded shocked.
“He was a Kansas City machine politician till FDR dumped Henry Wallace,” Diana retorted. “He’s only President ’cause Roosevelt died. He’s not infallible or anything.”
“Huh.” Shaking his head, the policeman went away.
Several men who looked like state legislators-they were mostly portly, they had gray hair, and they wore expensive suits-came out onto the Capitol steps to watch the demonstration. Some of them shook their heads, too. They must figure we’re a bunch of crackpots, Diana thought. Well, we’ll show ’em!
One of the legislators got into an argument with his colleagues. Another man ostentatiously turned his back on him. Diana wondered if the first guy was on her side. She could hope so, anyhow.
A car horn blared. The driver stuck his left hand out of the window, middle finger raised. He didn’t bother slowing down.
Lobbyists and lawyers with briefcases passed through the picket line on the way to doing business in the Capitol. “You should be ashamed,” one of them said, but he took it no further than that. More ordinary people went through, too-men in work clothes, women in dresses they’d got from the Sears catalogue or made themselves.
A couple of them said unkind things, too. But one fellow who looked like a mechanic said, “Give ’em hell, folks!” and flashed a thumbs-up. Diana wanted to kiss him. Not everybody hated them! She’d hoped that was true, but she hadn’t been sure.
A fat, middle-aged man stood on the sidewalk watching the demonstrators. Every time Diana turned around and got another look at him, he got hotter and hotter. Edna Lopatynski also saw it. “That fellow’s going to make trouble,” she said quietly.
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Diana answered. “But what can we do about it?”
They went back and forth twice more before the fat man blew a fuse. “Commies!” he yelled. “Nazis!” He didn’t know which brush to tar them with, so he used both. Then he charged into them, fists flailing.
A woman squalled when he hit her. Another woman stuck out a foot and tripped him as he rampaged past her. A man sat on him and kept him from doing anything worse than he’d already done.
The Capitol police came over in a hurry this time, and came over in force. The fat man yelled obscenities. “I dink he boke by dose,” said the woman he’d hit. Her nose was sure bleeding: red spotted the front of her white blouse. Jack and the photographer from the News both took pictures of her.
“You can’t haul off and belt a lady like that, buddy,” one of the policemen said. “You’re under arrest.”
“Lady?” The fat man found several other things to call her, none of them endearments. Then he said, “You oughta haul her off to jail for doing crap like this. You oughta haul every goddamn one o’ these yahoos off to jail, and you oughta lose the key once you do.”
“They may be jerks, but they aren’t breaking any laws,” the flatfoot answered. “Assault and battery, now…” He clicked his tongue between his teeth. “You should be ashamed of yourself. She ain’t even half your size.”
“A rattlesnake isn’t big, either, but it’s still poison.” The fat man had strong opinions.
So did Diana. She wanted to tell the cops to haul him off and lose the key. No matter what she wanted, she made herself go on marching without saying anything. The police didn’t like her. They wouldn’t appreciate her sticking her oar in. If she just let them do their job…
They did it. They got the fat man up onto his feet, cuffed his hands behind him, and led him away. He swore a blue streak all the way, which did him exactly no good.
“Bring our boys home from Germany!” Diana chanted. The other picketers joined her. Together, they made more noise than the fat man. Diana thought it was obvious they made more sense, too.
“Here you are, Congressman.”Gladys plopped the day’s papers onto Jerry Duncan’s desk.
“Thanks,” he said. “Could you bring me another cup of coffee, too? Can’t seem to get myself perking this morning.”
She grabbed the cup and saucer. “I’ll be right back.”
“Thanks,” he said again, absently this time. He was already starting to study the papers. You had to keep up with what was going on if you wanted any chance to keep your head above water. The New York Times came first. It was much more pro-administration than Jerry was, but had far and away the best coverage of foreign affairs.
Gladys brought back the fresh cup, steam rising from it. Jerry Duncan sipped without consciously noticing where the coffee’d come from. After the Times, he went through the Wall Street Journal for economic news, and the Washington Evening Star, the Post, and the Times-Herald to find out what was going on in his second home.
Those done, he reached for the Indianapolis News and the Indianapolis Times, then for the Anderson Democrat. You also had to stay current with what was going on in your district. If you decided Washington was your first home, not your second, the folks back in Indiana would likely throw you out on your ear next chance they got.
Right in the middle of the News’ front page was a photo of cops dragging off a wild-eyed fellow who could have dropped a few pounds, or more than a few. A woman with a picket sign and what looked like bloodstains on her face and on her blouse watched him go. Man arrested after attacking demonstrator, the caption said.
The story under the photo was almost studiously neutral. It identified the leader of the demonstration as “Diana McGraw, 48, of Anderson.” She was “moved to oppose government policy on Germany after her son, Patrick, was killed there in September, long after the formal German surrender.”
“Hmm,” Jerry said, and went to see what the Times had to say: it was the more liberal paper in town. Because it backed the Democrats, it looked down its nose at anyone presuming to protest against their polices. But even its tone was more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger. Its editorial said, “While we understand Mrs. McGraw’s grief and outrage, and those of other similarly afflicted, the United States must persist in its mission of returning Germany to civilization and democracy to Germany.”
As for the Anderson Democrat, it didn’t seem to know which way to jump. Its name told where its politics lay. On the other hand, Diana McGraw was a home town girl, doing something that got noticed beyond the home town’s borders-not easy, not if your home town was Anderson. “What would you do if it were your son?” she’d asked the Democrat’s reporter after the demonstration ended.
As far as Jerry was concerned, that was the sixty-four-dollar question. Even the Democrat and the Indianapolis Times seemed to understand as much. How could you condemn people who’d lost their boys in combat for wanting to know why? And wasn’t that all the more true when they’d lost boys in combat when there wasn’t supposed to be combat any more?
You might disagree with them-both papers plainly did. But you’d have a devil of a time calling them disloyal. A dead son gave someone carrying a picket sign a decided moral advantage.
Jerry realized he wouldn’t be the only Congressman reading these reports. Come to think of it, he might not have been the only Congressman Diana McGraw saw when she came to Washington. If he wanted to stay in front on this issue, he couldn’t sit on his hands. He had to stand up, or someone else would get ahead of him. His colleagues could and would draw the same conclusions he was drawing.
His own party desperately needed a club with which to clobber the Democrats. The other side had dominated Congress since the start of the 1930s. They’d just won the biggest war in the history of the world. That might set them up to keep winning elections forever if the GOP couldn’t find a shillelagh.
If over a thousand GIs dead since V-E Day weren’t a shillelagh…then the Republicans would never come up with one. Jerry started scribbling notes.
The House was debating a bill that would finish rationing by the end of the year. There wasn’t much debate, because nobody worth mentioning opposed the bill. The whole country hated rationing. The sooner it disappeared forever, the happier everyone would be.
When Jerr
y raised his hand that afternoon, then, he had no trouble getting the floor. Speaker Rayburn pointed his way and said, “The chair recognizes the gentleman from Indiana.” The wily Texan no doubt hoped Jerry would speak out against the bill. If a Republican wanted to commit political suicide, Sam Rayburn would gladly hand him a rope.
“Thank you, Mr. Speaker.” Jerry liked the House’s ritual courtesies. “Mr. Speaker, I rise to discuss a related kind of rationing-the rationing of our troops’ lives in Germany.”
Bang! Down came Rayburn’s gavel. “You are out of order, Mr. Duncan!”
“Our occupation policy is out of order, Mr. Speaker,” Jerry said.
Bang! “You are out of order, Mr. Duncan!” Rayburn sounded like God right after the children of Israel did something really stupid. If you could imagine God moon-faced and pouchy and bald, he looked like Him, too.
“Mr. Speaker!” “Point of order, Mr. Speaker!” The cries of protest came from a dozen Republican throats, maybe more. Jerry had wondered whether anyone else would back his play. There’d been a one-paragraph AP squib about the demonstration on page fourteen of the New York Times, nothing more. The same squib showed up in the Evening Star. The Times-Herald and the Post didn’t bother running it. Maybe the other Republicans had noticed anyhow.
Maybe Sam Rayburn had, too. He shook his head, glowering down from his high seat on the marble dais. “This has nothing to do with the measure under consideration, and the gentleman from Indiana knows it.”
“May I address that point, Mr. Speaker?” Jerry called.
“Briefly,” Rayburn growled.
“Thank you. It seems to me, Mr. Speaker, that the bill we were debating mainly has to do with how best to wind down from the war. That’s what I want to talk about, too, because the fighting in Germany’s gone on and on, even though the Nazis said they surrendered last spring. Don’t we need to wind that down?”
Rayburn scowled at Jerry from on high. Then the Texas Democrat said, “That damnfool woman who led her silly march comes out of your district, doesn’t she?”
The Man with the Iron Heart Page 11
