Rosa pushed open the door to Angell Hall and scanned the conference board. There she was, under “Honor Our History: Anti-War Leaders from the Vietnam Era Speak Out 35 Years Later,” 10:00 a.m. Auditorium B. Her first anthropology class had met in that room in 1961.
How pathetic, getting so nostalgic about this moldy old place. She checked her watch. She had time for a walk, which was what she had told her student minder after breakfast. “I’m going to wander around campus a bit.” She had slid from the booth and grabbed her parka.
“A stroll down memory lane?” the student asked.
“Something like that.” Rosa tried to smile. He didn’t mean to be snide, and he couldn’t help being so young.
Rosa untangled the misshapen scarf Emma had knit her for Chanukah the year she was released from prison, and wound it twice around her neck. She walked across the Diag toward the Engineering Arch. It could be a mistake, returning to the university, but she was intensely curious to see Ann Arbor again. Allen had urged her to accept the conference invitation, saying you didn’t often get a chance to return as a hero to a place you left in the back of a police van. The campus looked so different now, ringed by chain bookstores and yuppie coffeehouses. The expansive windows of the Fishbowl were bricked up. The Diag looked small.
Her steps slowed as she reached the Engineering Building and passed under the Engine Arch, where the Ann Arbor police broke up a draft resistance rally with tear gas and billy clubs during her last semester at the university. It had been the first time she saw unprovoked cops attack demonstrators. Methodically, brutally. She had never forgotten the way blood gushed over the face of Esther’s friend Nathan, or that he never returned to school after being released from the hospital. At the edge of the wide sidewalk, a tall stone monument with a metal plaque had been erected. For a moment, Rosa imagined that the memorial was for her SDS comrades. She must really be losing it—they didn’t build monuments for student activists. Without reading the inscription, she turned back toward Angell Hall and her panel.
Allen was right: it was fun to be treated as a hero and an expert, although truthfully she had spent much of the Vietnam War protest years in court, underground, and in prison. Still, the students at the conference took a break from their anti-Iraq War organizing to ask her probing questions about how to stop a war-mongering bully in the White House. Heady stuff. Her afternoon panel was even more satis fying. Following talks by a Black Panther lieutenant and an ex-political prisoner from the American Indian Movement, Rosa was introduced as a distinguished alumna and winner of the 1978 Prison Activist of the Year award. She described how Counter Intelligence agents targeted anti-war activists.
“I was sentenced to fifteen years,” she said. “COINTELPRO is responsible for a big chunk of that time. They fabricated evidence, perjured testimony, and conspired with local cops and prosecutors to manipulate the legal system.”
“Weren’t you responsible for a large part of that fifteen-year sentence?” a student asked during the Q & A. “After all, you threw rocks and injured a police officer.”
“Apples,” Rosa said. “Not rocks.”
The student pushed on. “Was that right? Was throwing anything at people or animals justified?”
“I’m not positive it was right.” Rosa tried to keep her voice low and even. Tried not to let the student’s words burrow into the bloodstream of her own doubts. “We were attempting to stop an unjust war. And right there, right then, we had to stop mounted police from brutally beating unarmed, peaceful demonstrators. Kids, really. Maybe our tactics were wrong, but when you watch people being hurt, sometimes you just react to stop the violence.”
“Do you think fighting violence with violence is still okay, in our world today?”
Rosa shook her head. “In 1968, I did what felt right. We did stop the mounted police assault on Grand River Street in Detroit. Our movement did help end the war in Vietnam. But would I do it today? Or advise my daughter to? I’m not sure. Maybe not. I’m planning to demonstrate against the invasion of Iraq on Saturday in New York City, and I don’t plan to throw apples or rocks.”
That got a ripple of laughter, and the student sat down. Rosa sighed. Did she believe her own words? Had throwing the apples been justified, in that context? She no longer knew.
“That’s liberal bullshit,” a woman’s voice called out from the back of the auditorium. “The problem wasn’t your puny little apples. The problem is that we want change, but we’re afraid to meet the violence of the US government and their corporate buddies head on. Until we’re ready to do that, nothing will change.”
Rosa couldn’t see the speaker’s face. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said mildly. “Many of us in this auditorium probably disagree about tactics. But there’s room in the anti-war movement for all of us.”
The woman hooted. “That’s a cop-out. There’s no room for chickens.”
Chicken. That’s the reason Danny gave for going to Vietnam. “Because I’m no chicken,” he’d said. Rosa’s face flamed as she remembered her reply: “Fine. Go shoot civilians and napalm babies.” If only she could take back her words. I’m sorry, Danny. She turned away from the podium.
After the panel, a group of young women wearing Code Pink sweatshirts crowded around Rosa and invited her to join them for pizza before the evening session.
“I’ll meet you later.” Rosa scribbled the address of the restaurant on the back of her program. Making her excuses also to her student guide, Rosa walked back to the hotel and fifteen minutes later lowered herself slowly into a hot bathtub. Her arthritis was worse in the frigid Michigan air, pregnant with the damp promise of snow. She let her hands soak for a few minutes, then dried them and reached for her phone. She dialed Mama’s number.
“I’m in Ann Arbor,” she said, “at that conference I told you about.”
“So close. And you’re not coming to see me?”
Mama never changed. “Not this trip. Allen and I will visit in March.”
“I’m eighty-three years old, Rosa. Don’t keep me waiting too long.”
“March is just next month.” Rosa turned the knob to add more hot water. “I have to get back to the city. It’s only two weeks until the anti-war rally, and they’re still fighting us on the permit. And Maggie’s coming to town next week to get an award.”
There was a pause. “That’s not what I mean and you know it. I want you girls to make things right with each other. That’s what I’m waiting for.”
After years of insisting she would never “meddle,” Mama had started nagging Rosa about forgiving Esther, contacting her. Rosa preferred the old hands-off policy. Did Mama nag at Esther too?
“Got to go, Ma. There’s an evening session soon and I’m still in the bathtub.”
“Rosa? Promise?”
“I’ll try.”
Rosa dropped the phone on the bath mat. She balanced her notebook across the white metal tub tray.
Dear Esther,
I just talked to Mama. She made me promise to contact you.
I’m in Ann Arbor for a conference. You’d hate the way this place has changed. Your old art school is gone, moved to a new complex somewhere. I looked but I couldn’t find it. And remember the giant black cube in Regent’s Plaza where we splashed blood-red paint on the administration building? I pushed it around and around, but couldn’t begin to summon up our ghosts. The whole damn square was filled with gray-haired people in Tai Chi positions.
And that house near the hospital, where you and Jake rented the basement apartment the year after Allen and I moved back to the city—it’s gone. Demolished. Replaced by a Ronald McDonald House.
So much has changed. We were so young when we lived here, so certain we knew the answers to the big political questions that had eluded our parents and grandparents. Now I’m less sure. Oh, we’ve learned some things. At least I have. And having several hundred college anti-war activists listening to your every word is good for the ego, but when I think about how far from jus
tice we still are in this country, I feel worn out.
My joints are worn out too. They ache and throb. It’s a souvenir of prison—I could never get warm there. The constant damp of the concrete walls invited the dank cold deep into the marrow of my bones. Corroded my joints from the inside out. The specialist claims that the arthritis is an autoimmune disease and has nothing to do with damp. He says my body is attacking itself. He’s wrong; this illness is my legacy from prison. There are some things you don’t need a rocket scientist for. Or a rheumatologist.
My hands are affected the most. Stiff stick bones connected by swollen knobs of knuckles. On bad days, hot water massage is the only thing that gets me going in the morning. I think of you sometimes when I’m in the bathtub. All I have to do is look down at my left breast, at my drooping red star. Don’t worry—I mean that literally, not metaphorically. The tattoo is stretched out with my sagging boobs. Has time been kinder to you, little sister?
Are you okay? I know you had cancer, but I heard you were cured. Sometimes, I’d like to rip my crown of correctness off my head—which is more gray than red, by the way. Sometimes, I wish I were the kind of person who could let it go, could give up the certainty that has protected me from doubts all these years. Then I could forgive you.
But that doesn’t sound like me, does it?
Besides, if I weren’t steadfast, I might have to conclude that those years in prison were meaningless. I don’t think I could face that.
I want to make it clear: I still think what you did was utterly, absolutely, irrevocably wrong. But I miss you. So here I am. Back to a letter that I’ve written dozens of times in my head but will never, ever mail.
Did we find those answers we searched for on these streets? Would I do it again? I know we made a difference in our world. Our efforts helped end the war, I absolutely believe that. But what a price I paid.
Nine years in prison.
Not being there to raise my daughter.
Missing Pop’s funeral.
Losing a sister.
CHAPTER 40
Esther
The new round of chemo hadn’t been terrible, except for losing her hair again. At least during her first treatment all those years ago, her bald head had been cool in the summer. This time, she needed a hat. She finally found one that didn’t itch and wore the red fleece cap all day, enjoying Jake’s lame attempts to compliment her. Since Molly’s visit, Jake hadn’t made one pathetic pun about her hat or anything else. After dinner, Esther joined him on the sofa.
“You’ve been so glum. Want to talk?”
Jake pointed at the television. “They’re interviewing people about invading Iraq and the February 15 demonstration. Comparing it to Vietnam protests.”
The reporter shoved the microphone in the face of the chairperson of the rally committee. “Do you expect crowds of aging hippies?” he taunted.
“No. I expect citizens of this country who hate what our government is doing in our name,” the organizer answered. “Grandmothers and businessmen and teenagers. Black and white and Latino and Asian. Possibly even a few off-duty television reporters.”
The reporter ignored her dig. “But weren’t most Vietnam protesters college-aged counterculture types?”
That really pissed Esther off. The newsboys still couldn’t tell the difference between political activists and hippies. Everyone got lumped together as longhaired, peace sign-flashing, flower children. Esther yelled at the television screen. “You jerks missed the point. We weren’t all the same.” If Rosa were watching, she would have hated it too.
The organizer shook her head emphatically. “Certainly the campuses were crucial in the movement against the Vietnam War. And participating in those protests transformed the lives of many college-aged people in the sixties. But let’s not rewrite history. There was widespread sentiment against that war among the US population. And that’s the case today too. People don’t want this war. On Saturday we expect hundreds of thousands of citizens in Manhattan streets to send a strong message to our government: No war in Iraq.”
When the segment ended, Esther turned off the TV and snuggled closer to Jake. “This is going to be big,” she said. “Maybe we should go, with Molly and her Evan.”
He didn’t look at her. “Right.”
“I’m serious, Jake.”
“Me too. That’s a really smart thing to do with a compromised immune system. Go mingle with a huge crowd of microbes. Brilliant.” He reached for the remote.
Esther grabbed it from him and tucked it into the sofa cushion on her other side. “I feel pretty good. Maybe it’s time to pull our heads out of the sand and do something about this war.”
“What is it with the women in this family? First Molly, now you.”
Esther stroked the back of his hand, clenched in his lap. “Is that it? Why you’ve been so gloomy?”
Jake finally looked at her. “Why does she want to see that old cop? He’ll probably be awful to her. Cruel. Poking at old wounds never helped anyone heal.”
“I don’t know. Maybe she’s onto something. Maybe we should all deal with our ancient demons.”
Jake started to stand up. “This argument isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“It’s a discussion, not an argument. Sit down. I want to talk about Rosa.”
Jake sank back into the cushion and closed his eyes.
“I know you hate this,” Esther said. “You think if we ignore her, she won’t haunt us. But it hasn’t worked.” Her voice thickened. “You’re still terrified of the past. And I can’t stop thinking about my sister.”
“Think what about her?”
“It’s taken me over thirty years to realize that I made a mistake.”
Jake shook his head. “I know you feel bad about it, but you did what you had to. You had responsibilities. A baby.”
“What about my responsibility to my sister?”
“Rosa made her own bad choices, going underground. She would have gone to prison without your testimony,” Jake said. “They framed her, remember?”
“I know, but I was complicit. I wish . . .”
Jake leaned closer. “What do you wish?”
“That I had done the right thing.”
“Refusing to testify? Even if that meant going to prison yourself?”
Esther put her face in her hands. “I’m not sure. But I do know I messed up twice. First by testifying, then by not apologizing. She’s my sister.”
“What about the apples, hurting the cop? The poor innocent horse? Aren’t you going to do a mea culpa about that too, while you’re at it?”
“Nah. That was crazy and it turned out badly and I was scared to death. But I don’t really regret it. In fact, I hope I would find the courage to do it again.” Esther tried to smile. “But not on Saturday, I promise. Listen to me, Jake. I want to see Rosa.”
“I don’t want you hurt again. Look what happened last time.”
“You mean at camp?”
Jake nodded.
“That was a long time ago but I regret how it ended, every day. I regret that we screwed up so badly. I especially regret we didn’t talk about it all with the kids, with Oliver. And you have to take some responsibility for that mess, you and Allen. Anyway, at camp Molly and Emma set it up. Two twelve-year-olds. This time, Rosa and I will make it happen.”
“I can’t believe you’re that naïve. Rosa won’t give an inch.”
Esther wasn’t going to give up either. “I’m sick, Jake. This could be my last chance to make things right with her. To repair the damage and put our family back together. I’m going to do this.”
“Then I’ll help you.”Jake stood up. “Against my better judgement. But right now I need to take a Pepcid and a Valium and make a follow-up phone call on a croupy toddler.” Jake started to turn away, then paused. “Do you feel better, getting that off your chest?”
“Yeah, I do. It’s not just talk, Jake. It’s time.” Esther kissed Jake’s cheek and watched him leave the ro
om. “It’s way overdue,” she called after him.
She wandered into the kitchen and sat at her alcove desk. If only she could call Rosa now. They wouldn’t have to talk about themselves. Maybe they could discuss the news, unless she had forever forfeited her right to discuss politics with her sister. The newscast did get one thing perfectly right: the activism of the sixties defined their generation. It transformed their lives. How did she lose sight of that?
Taking the red fabric box from her desk drawer, she balanced the cover on its side to reveal the photograph with Rosa. She touched the spiraling curls of the two of them, so young, and then touched her own smooth scalp. Through the frost-sparkled windowpane, a lopsided V of Canada geese flew in the moonlight, one arm curved gracefully, the other lopped off after three lonely birds.
Esther tidied the loose papers, positioning the stapler on top to hold them in place. Lined the frayed spine of her address book along the edge of the blotter. Tucked the oncology clinic appointment card into the blotter’s leather frame, showing only the red print reminder to call and cancel if unable to keep an appointment.
Last time, her cancer had behaved pretty well, scheduling itself over the summer so treatment was finished in time for the next school year. But the tumor had returned in autumn with a fierce tingling in her right arm that made writing on the blackboard so awkward she repeatedly dropped the chalk. The tingles progressed to numbness, and slipped down from her armpit to her back, sending tendrils into her ribs, encircling her chest like a persistent suitor. Now that the chemo had shrunk the tumor, hopefully destroyed it, she could write again. If it wasn’t too late for letters, after all these lost years.
Dear Rosa,
I’ve written you these letters for years. I’ve told you about my life, confided my questions and doubts about my kids and Jake, expressed my worries about Mama. I’ve never mailed one of them.
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