The public address system came on with the announcement that the 747 was still in the hands of maintenance and hopefully would be released within the hour. The announcement created little stir. Despite the fact that scheduled airline operations had been cut back to a bare minimum, the aircraft shortage was drastic because of the enemy’s appropriation of almost all of the long-range equipment.
Mrs. Sarah Rappaport eyed the cruising trio and hoped that she would not be disturbed by its members, whatever it was that they were doing. She was fully occupied, in her mind at least, by taking care of little David, aged seven, and Marsha, who was two. She was booked for the flight out on the urgent advice of her husband who, heaven knew, was a genius. From a humble beginning in the Bronx he had moved ahead so fast on Wall Street that he was already in the research department of one of the biggest brokerage houses in the country. Danny Rappaport was smart, everyone who knew him agreed on that, and when Danny had told her that the sooner she got out of the country with the kids the better, she had had no choice but to follow his direction. She did not wish to leave; she wanted to remain to enjoy the rich, if strictly Jewish, social life that she was enjoying on a neighborhood level. The money that Danny was beginning to make had elevated her position somewhat and she was human and feminine enough to like it. Now it all had to be thrown away because the government had fouled things up again. With a Jewish President, maybe, it wouldn’t have happened; he would have been smarter.
Over the transatlantic telephone Danny had made all of the arrangements. Old Morris Rappaport had not been too enthusiastic, but he had reluctantly agreed to look after Sarah and the children until Danny could join them. Danny would stay as long as he felt he could despite the fact that the market was all but closed down; he was making money giving advice to people and as long as he could do that he was going to stay on the job. No, he had told old Morris, he wasn’t taking any chances, it was just that every day he could stay on the street he would make that much more money, and in view of the uncertainty ahead, every bit of it might be needed to tide them over until they could come back safely once more. Then, if he had enough left, he would consider opening his own firm.
“Pardon me.”
Sarah looked up and stiffened a little; the three people were beside her and since the man had spoken, she could not ignore them.
“What is it?” she asked. She looked at the man and decided that he was not bright. His straw-colored hair was brushed back in a way that a clever businessman would have avoided; the open features of his face were not smooth and urbane like her Danny. His suit was ready-made and had cost only about sixty-five dollars. He was a schlemiel.
“I’m Reverend Jones,” the man said, “from the Church of the Little Shepherd. This is my wife Doris and our son Greg.”
Mrs. Rappaport took a single searching look at the Reverend Mr. Jones’ wife and decided that you get what you pay for. “So what are you wanting?”
“We’re here to help if we can.” He motioned toward the tray of sandwiches his wife was carrying. “If you’re hungry, please help yourself. Greg has some coffee. It isn’t as hot as it was, but it’s still warm if you’d like some.”
“How much does it cost?”
“It’s free — please take what you want.”
Her deeply rooted suspicion of strangers purporting to offer something for nothing seized hold of Mrs. Rappaport and warned her; if she took anything she would have to pay for it one way or another — they might even force her to listen while they read to her from the New Testament. Nobody gave anything away for free. If he had been a rabbi she would have believed in him, but a minister — no.
She shook her head that she wanted none of it and turned her attention back to her children. These people could do as they liked. She, her Danny, and their children had been virtually cast out. Hatred of the injustice swelled within her and she slammed her mind shut as an act of pure self-defense.
For all of his visible lack of sophistication, the Reverend Mr. Jones understood and led his small family to the next group of refugees. This time it was a man and a woman with a single small girl who looked up at him with deep sad eyes. He repeated his little speech of introduction while his wife held out the tray of sandwiches.
“Is your church doing this, reverend,” the man asked, “or is it the airline?”
“It’s our church.*We’re not too far away and we wanted to help if we could.”
The man stood up and shook hands with the minister. “I’m Jack Bornstein, reverend. My wife Hazel, and Molly.”
The Jones family acknowledged the Bornsteins while Greg took his cue and poured out two cups of lukewarm coffee.
“You know, this is damn decent of you,” Bornstein said. “Our position is rather awkward at the moment because of our religious faith, and a helping hand like this is certainly appreciated.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Jones responded. “It isn’t a matter of religion, it’s simply human decency. You’ve been hit by a misfortune that’s not your fault, so this is little enough.”
Bornstein chose a sandwich. “We’re going to England if we can until this thing blows over,” he said. “We thought of Israel, but if we went there Molly would have to learn Hebrew and they might indoctrinate her more than we would like. In England she can at least speak her own language.”
Jones nodded. “That’s a wise decision, I think. I’ve never been there, but we were Welsh originally, so I feel we have some roots there.”
Bornstein looked around the large lobby and seemed to be forming some conclusion in his mind. “Let me ask you something,” he said. “From your viewpoint, how long do you think that this thing is going to last?”
“That’s terribly hard to say,” the minister replied. “I don’t have any special sources of information. It might be as much as a year — I really don’t know. These people are so hard to understand. The next thing, they may shut down all of the houses of worship. If they do, then I don’t know how I’ll support my family. My work doesn’t pay very much, but it’s enough for us, and the ministry is what I want. I guess I could become a teacher.”
Bornstein laughed. “You came pretty close; I’m in education myself — or I was. But get on with your good work. If we meet again, and I hope that we do, well. He did not finish the sentence; he could not find the words he wanted. Once more the men shook hands before the Reverend Mr. Jones and his little family continued on their slow rounds of the lounge.
Some forty minutes later there was a brief but disturbing scene. At the far end of the lounge a man jumped to his feet, exclaimed something in a loud voice, and then viciously slammed one of the last of the free sandwiches into the Reverend Mr. Jones’ face. The boy Greg doubled his fists and jumped forward to do battle, but his father restrained him. The minister inhaled a very deep breath and then regained control of himself as he let it out slowly. “Come on, son,” he said. “Forgive him. It was our fault; we should have known better than to bring any ham.”
His complexion red, but his head high, he quietly walked out, followed by his enraged, frustrated son, and his patient wife who was openly in tears.
At the Hunters Point Naval Shipyard the nuclear-powered Poseidon- firing submarine, the U.S.S. Ramon Magsaysay, lay in her berth, a warship of enormous sophistication and firepower, in the hands of the enemy.
She was brand new, commissioned, but not yet the veteran of even a single tour of duty at sea. The Magsaysay was richly loaded with classified materiel and had a nuclear power plant which the enemy would find highly informative when the original work of occupation had been completed and attention could be turned to the milking of the vast American industrial capacity. Meanwhile she was under heavy guard and totally devoid of any of the provisions which would be essential for her to go to sea. Guarded as she was, and stripped of all of her essential supplies, she was as helpless as though she had been embalmed in some gigantic cube of transparent plastic.