by Tim Merriman
“Okay,” he said, sulking a bit. He apparently thought she was a word machine and didn’t seem to understand what an emotional maelstrom she was suppressing. He heaved a sigh and said, “I’ll alert the media. You get ready.”
Rosa hugged Ilan and raced off to her bedroom. Nancy did the same and Ilan settled onto the couch and got on his cell phone. He watched GNN with the sound turned low. Ironically, the picture showed images of conflicts in the Middle East while the trailer was saying that over one hundred fifty thousand people were in the park, trying to crowd into the expansive lawn in Central Park in preparation for a peace rally. He chuckled. Usually, he just reported the news. Being one of the people making the news happen was sort of fun.
At twelve-fifty, Captain Lennon returned with two police officers to escort them to the stage at the Great Lawn. They crossed Central Park West with police directing traffic and threaded their way among the thousands of people streaming toward the Great Lawn. They arrived right at one p.m. Rosa climbed the metal stairs of the large stage that had been put in place for a symphonic performance the next day. Lou ran over to meet them.
“Let the mayor say a few words and introduce you.” She ran off again, leaving Rosa to study the crowd. Rosa looked out over the field, astonished to see people with coolers, blankets, lawn chairs, strollers and playpens covering the Great Lawn.
“What have we done?” she said under her breath. In just a few moments, she had to say something to the thousands of people gathered here. She wished Daudi were here. She needed him.
Cameras of all sizes were everywhere. She could see GNN, NBC, CBS, ABC, and Fox cameras trained on the stage. A row of reporters from the country’s major newspapers lined the edges of the stage. The media coverage seemed complete.
The mayor, Joe Baumer, emerged from among a huddle of assistants hovering around the back of the stage. A local disc jockey took over the microphone that was connected to giant speakers and a broader system custom-designed for this area. The DJ howled, “Good morning, New York City,” much like Robin Williams in Good Morning Vietnam, and the cheering began. Mayor Baumer took the microphone.
“New Yorkers, you are amazing. I expect this is one of the few places in the world where legions of people will turn out to support the needs of orphans from East Africa. If you’re from New York, let me hear you.” The roar of applause and howls shattered the mid-summer calm. Then he added, “If you’re not from New York City, let us hear you.” Surprisingly, this demonstration of solidarity among strangers was just as big. People had driven and flown in from all over. The kids had struck a chord.
“We are here to bear witness to a story of pain and peace,” Baumer said, the consummate politician finding just the right words to grab the full attention of the crowd. “I have brought you a messenger today, a messenger of mercy. Please listen to the message and then make up your own mind to be the change you want to see in the world.” The mayor’s speechwriters had been hard at work gleaning what they could from the Barry Prince interview and the mayor’s perfect delivery of their handiwork was mesmerizing. He paused for effect, held out his hand towards Rosa, and gave her a broad smile that could be seen from the back of the crowd.
“Please, Miss Rosa Carson, help us help your kids.”
Rosa walked toward the smiling face of the mayor in a daze. She shook his hand and said “hello” mechanically. The roar of the crowd was deafening. She was used to crowds of journalists at conferences and dealing with the spotlight surrounding politicians of the developing nations she often photographed, but this situation was beyond anything she had ever imagined. Over one hundred fifty thousand people had their eyes trained on her. The noise stilled as she took the mike. This had better be good, she thought. She took a deep breath and reached deep inside her, pulling on her memories of her grandfather, a southern Baptist evangelist. She could hear Jimmy Carson’s voice somewhere deep in her memory, saying “Just tell the truth, girl. You’ll never regret that.” She held up her hands in a gesture of welcome, made eye contact with the first few rows she could see, and smiled past the tears welling up in her eyes. These people wanted to hear this story. She could see that in their faces. They wanted to help. She may not be able to do much, she thought, but she could certainly give them what they needed to know so that they could make a difference in the world.
“Good afternoon, good people. I thank you for coming here today. Your presence gives me hope in a world that often seems hopeless to so many. We can bring hope back, but we need a new resolve to turn the hammers of war into the helping hands of peace.” A thunder of applause went up from the crowd, and Rosa’s tears spilled over. She wiped them away, and prepared to paint a verbal picture of the people in the award-winning photographs that had brought her to this place. She raised her hands again, and the crowd stilled.
“I want to share a story with you. It’s a true story, though standing here today, you may find parts of it hard to believe.” Her voice filled the Great Lawn and woods nearby. She hoped the kids could hear her. With nothing more than her voice and her heart, she took the crowd on her journeys to East Africa. She described the villages in detail, comparing a typical Midwestern home in the U.S. and the mud brick houses of native people caught between tribal tradition and technology. She took them to orphanages and gave the frightening statistics to help them understand the magnitude of the problem. She spoke about the personal detachment of a journalist that allowed her to do her job and revealed how that detachment had been blown to hell by the questions in the eyes of children seeking hope in the warmth of a stranger. She introduced Sister Mary and shared how the food from an aid organization, medicine from a foundation, and donated school supplies had allowed some of these children to grow into responsible adults able to help their countries.
“But it’s not enough,” Rosa continued. “There’s never enough. And the reason there’s never enough is because the root of the problem continues. Greed on the part of drug companies, power plays by politicians, and our own lack of awareness about what’s happening on the other side of the globe or on the other side of the tracks in our hometown. We cannot begin to create change until we know what needs changing. Many of you have met my young friends through the newspaper or the television in the last week. They are not here with me today, but I want you to know them better. Because here is the problem. The effects of greed, corruption, and war are not faceless. They are not nameless. They are more than the statistics on a chart. They are people. I want you to know them as I know them.”
Rosa revealed the personal stories of each child. She began with Masozi, then Ramla and finally ended with the life story of Daudi. She was weeping openly as she admitted to the crowd that Daudi’s illness had progressed.
“These children have become my whole world. I don’t want to lose them. I don’t want to lose any more like them no matter where they may be. If they’ll have me, I plan to adopt Masozi, Ramla, and Daudi. I’m not an angel of mercy.” Her voice caught in her throat. “I’m just a would-be mom, hoping my kids will be able to find their way home.” She paused and looked at the crowd. “Please, whoever you are, whatever you do for a living, I hope that you will do what you can to help stop the madness in this world. Lend a hand, donate what you can, give a child a home, write to your congressman, find a way to get involved and above all, learn how to love. Don’t let these children down.”
The words echoed over the valley of faces and through the trees. The crowd was silent and then a single voice called out, “Where’s Daudi?” Applause started with one person and soon spread like wildfire amid shouts of “We want to see the kids.”
Rosa looked around for help and Mayor Baumer stepped forward to the microphone, raising his hands for silence.
“Early this morning, the children left their apartment for breakfast and have not returned. We have reason to believe they are still in Central Park, but may be hiding in fear of the immigration authorities. If you’ve seen them, please come forward and speak to
Captain Lennon here at the stage. Help us help them. I have personally spoken to the director of the Immigration and Naturalization Service. He assures me they will be well cared for and all legal options to protect them in the future will be explored.” The mayor sensed that this crowd could turn ugly on behalf of the children. So in the time-honored tradition of politicians everywhere, he turned the attention of the crowd.
“Now we have a special guest who has been promoting world harmony of a different sort for several decades.”
From backstage, a familiar voice began singing a folk song from the sixties. One of the original trio who made the song famous stepped out into the afternoon sun on the stage and the crowd roared. Only a third knew his name and voice for certain but all knew the song and were moved by the spirit of the moment. He invited them to sing along.
As the song progressed, a very drunk man in tattered clothes appeared at the base of the stage, reached up and tugged on the hem of Captain Lennon’s pants.
“Capatain, capatain. I’m here to help. Yes, I am,” he belched loudly. “I know these kids.” Captain Lennon looked down to see the wine-misted eyes of yet another homeless person. He shook off the drunk, acutely aware that the eyes of thousands of people were on him.
“Who are you?” Captain Lennon asked.
“Tobias. I’m Toby. Uh, something. I forget.”
“Captain, this guy is loaded. I wouldn’t believe anything he says,” a gruff sergeant from 42nd Street Station said. “I’ll run him into the drunk tank.”
Rosa overheard and walked up close to listen.
“I met them, I tell you. Three little kids. One has a wooden leg and can’t see. I know them. They’re staying at my house. They’re my houseguests,” he railed.
“And where do you live, sir?” Rosa asked.
“Shhhh, can’t say. Promised I wouldn’t tell. They’re hiding. They’re afraid of the police.”
“Please, if you really know where they are, tell us, please,” she begged.
“Who are you?” Toby asked, filled with suspicion on behalf of the kids.
“I’m Rosa.”
“Rosa Carson,” he said very slowly. “I’ve heard that before. Rosa. Daudi talked about you.”
Rosa turned immediately to Captain Lennon and said, “He does know them. He must have met them somehow. They could be hiding wherever it is he stays.”
“I have a home in the park,” Toby said humbly. “It is beautiful, spaciously landscaped and right near here.” He laughed at his own joke.
“Please show me. Let me bring them to safety,” Rosa pleaded.
Toby stood and thought for a moment, wobbling in several directions. “I don’t know. I promised not to tell.”
“Don’t tell, Toby. Just point. Just point the way,” Rosa asked, holding his dirty hand as she spoke. “Show us, please.”
Toby tentatively started off through the mass of people still swaying in the spell of the singer’s mellow voice. Rosa, Nancy, Ilan, Captain Lennon, and two other officers slipped into the crowd behind him. It took fifteen minutes just to cross the Great Lawn. When Toby stopped and pointed at the lone weeping willow, Rosa’s heart leaped. The Leopard Tree, of course.
Chapter Eighteen
Masozi leaned toward one side of the tree and said, “Daudi. Listen. I can hear Miss Rosa’s voice talking to us, but there are too many echoes. I cannot understand what she is saying. Should we go out and meet her?”
“I do not think we should, Masozi. I will go take another look. I cannot hear anything except music in the distance and the noise of the people in the park.”
“Go and look, Daudi. I do not hear her now. I hope she is okay.”
Daudi scrambled down the tree once more and peered through the curtain of limbs. The ocean of people before him was astonishing. He could see police uniforms in proliferation, so he climbed back to Toby’s house.
“There are thousands, maybe millions of people on the grass. And there are policemen everywhere. We must wait for darkness and then sneak back to the apartment.”
“But the meeting in the park? Is this our big meeting in the park, all these people?”
“Perhaps, Masozi. I do not know. We will wait.”
A few minutes passed and the music resumed giving the children some comfort that the event was at least keeping the police from easily finding them.
A familiar voice drifted up from below. “Daudi, Masozi, Ramla. Are you up there? It’s me, Rosa. Nancy and Ilan are with me too.”
Daudi peered downward into a shaft of light shining through the parted branches.
“Miss Rosa. Is it really you?” he asked.
“Come down. It’s okay. The police will not harm us. The people surrounding the tree are friends. They want to meet you.”
Carefully, they shinnied back down the big limb, Ramla first, then Masozi and then Daudi. They were in Rosa’s arms being hugged and kissed like never before.
“Don’t ever leave me again,” she said. “I need you guys.”
“We are very sorry, Miss Rosa,” Daudi said. “We did not mean to be gone so long. We went to find food and saw many policemen and could not come back. Mr. Toby invited us to wait in his tree.”
“I’m grateful to him,” Rosa said.
They walked toward the stage as the singer began a beautiful song written by Peter Yarrow, Don’t Laugh at Me. The entire crowd was singing along, swaying in time to the chorus that asked for respect for all people. They approached the stage. A short woman in a big straw hat and large sunglasses came toward them.
“Rosa. There you are. I’m Amy Daniels. Alma Winters will be here in about two minutes. Her car is pulling in by the park even as we speak.”
“Alma Winters? Oh my. This is just getting more interesting by the second. What should we do?”
“She would like your permission to broadcast her show remotely with you and the African kids from the stage here. You will have the audience here and tens of millions getting your message from the show.”
“Okay, but please. I’ve already spoken. It has to be all about them,” she said, gesturing toward Daudi, Masozi, and Ramla.
“Alma wouldn’t have it any other way, I assure you.”
“I am hungry, Miss Rosa. Can we find something to eat?” Masozi asked, oblivious to the hordes of people surrounding the stage. Rosa smiled at his adolescent appetite that never seemed to be satisfied even at the most difficult of times.
“Sure, Masozi. Food first, then television and some sort of crazy improvisational stage show. Honestly, I’m not even sure what’s happening here anymore but we’ll go with the flow.”
Technicians streamed over the stage while Mayor Baumer treated the kids to hot dogs from the closest vendor.
* * *
They picnicked behind the stage, in good spirits now that they were all together again. Though Daudi was smiling, he seemed quiet. Rosa noticed when he passed his uneaten hot dog to Masozi. She started to say something, but decided to let it pass. She had just taken another substantial bite of hot dog when she saw Alma approaching. She gulped down a swig of soda and nearly choked on the hot dog as Alma reached to give her a hug.
“I am so honored to meet you,” Alma said. She shook hands with each of them and asked, “Do you know who I am?”
“No, Miss Alma. We do not,” Daudi said.
Alma smiled and said, “Wonderful. That’s the best answer I could have. I want this to be about you. I just want to be the way to take you to a bigger audience.”
Alma moved to the stage and waited for a quick introduction from the mayor. The crowd went wild. They had shown up for what seemed like a good cause and unexpected celebrities kept popping up. Alma gave an introduction for the cameras and thanked the audience for coming.
“Thank you, New York. It’s good to be here. And great that you’re here.
“I love that song, Don’t Laugh at Me. It’s the cornerstone of a program begun by Peter Yarrow called Operation Respect that’s aimed at getti
ng people to treat each other and our planet better. And surely, we can all do better at that. In fact, that’s what today is all about. I just met three young people who hitched rides halfway around the world to be here with you today. I know you’re waiting to meet them, so let’s get that done. I could not be more proud to introduce Ramla, Daudi, and Masozi, my new friends from Africa.”
Rosa led the kids onto the stage to the stools that had been placed by Alma’s assistants. Alma welcomed the children and proceeded to interview the three youngsters. Though they’d only just met, the kids felt very much like they were with a dear friend. They chatted about their homes in Africa, life at the orphanage, and the amazing journey they’d been on. The audience was spellbound, alternately laughing and crying as first Daudi, then Masozi added to the story. Even Ramla nodded and smiled as Alma held her hand through the interview. Half an hour later, Alma asked a final question.
“Daudi. You lost your parents, the grandmother who raised you, and now your health. We know the mission you were on, but I want to give you this chance to make sure we fully understand what drove you to do this. Why did you want to meet the secretary general of the United Nations?”
Daudi was silent for a moment, thinking carefully about how to answer. The audience waited soundlessly for the response. With the crowd still, Daudi could hear the hum of cicadas and songs of birds in the forest nearby. It filled him with peace and brought a smile that illuminated his weary face. He looked at Alma with a depth of emotion in his eyes that shook her. In all her interviews, she had never been more touched than she was by the quiet strength and determination that emanated from him. He began to speak, holding her gaze with an intensity she had rarely seen.
“Miss Alma. We know that the secretary general is not a wizard. He has no magical powers. He cannot bring back our families or restore our homes. We only hoped to meet the secretary to tell him—”