To read the beginning of the novel, please click the photos on the right.
Chapter VIII
As the fall quarter started Johanna checked her schedule of classes. Then she checked Darren’s. It looked like they both had a break after sixth period. She’d hustle into his classroom and surprise him.
Darren’s class had finished and most of the students were filing out of the room, with the exception of a girl who looked scarcely old enough to be a freshman. A little wisp of a girl, she had thick hair the color of flames framing her pale face. And she stared up at Darren, with cat-green eyes fixed on his. Johanna understood the look. “Great insight,” said Darren. “I’d like to discuss some of the comments you made. This afternoon’s no good. I’m tied up in meetings. But would you consider having dinner with me?”
A bundle of thoughts hit Johanna at once, and her pain was physical, an ache deep inside that knocked her feelings about like wheat in a hail storm. Don’t panic, thought Johanna. Maybe he really does have meetings. Maybe the girl had some good insights. Maybe his interest in her was purely professional. And maybe the Easter Bunny and Leprechauns ruled the earth. No, Johanna was looking at this semester’s dessert. This girl embodied the excitement that Darren talked about in his lectures. Johanna, on the other hand, was leftovers. She was melted ice cream, sticky, lukewarm, boring. Johanna skulked out of the classroom and down the hallway.
But maybe not.
“But maybe not!” Johanna all but shouted the words right in the middle of the hall. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, she thought. Darren was big on honesty, and he hadn’t said anything to Johanna about breaking up. Probably she should talk to Darren and see what was going on in his head. Maybe there was some logical explanation that Johanna hadn’t thought of.
Besides, even if the worst was happening – even if their relationship was over and Darren was dating the red head, she should talk to him. She should try to win him back. His love was worth it. Resolutely she turned back towards Darren’s classroom.
It seemed forever before the red headed girl left for her next class and Johanna was alone with Darren. “Hi, Darren.” She smiled up at him, her voice edgy, self-conscious. “We’re reading “Romeo and Juliet” in English Lit., and, hey, who could understand Romeo better than you? Right? So, could we grab a cup of coffee or something, and talk?”
Darren thought for a minute. “I, uh, have a student coming in for a consultation in a few minutes.” He frowned. “ But, hey, I know what. My student teacher, Sheila. She’s a real Shakespeare buff. She’ll be able to help you with ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ Just give me a minute.” He tore off a corner from a sheet of notebook paper and jotted down some numbers on it. “Here’s her phone number. Just tell her I said she should give you a hand.” As Darren talked, he walked towards the door, and Johanna had no choice but to follow. Darren locked the door behind him, then gave Johanna a friendly squeeze around her shoulders and strode purposefully towards his convertible.
Johanna felt like she’d been beaten from the inside. If she’d been a dog, she would have dropped her tail flat between her legs under her belly. She dragged through the rest of her classes with time melting as in a Salvador Dali painting, and the walk back to her dorm room seemed to go on forever. Turning the knob to her front door, Johanna felt about eighty years old.
Aching and ashamed, she dropped to her knees at the foot of her bed. Her face burned red and hot with shame, with anger, and humiliation, and holding her arms outstretched, she leaned into her bed, and buried her tear-stained face into the mattress. ‘Help me, God, oh help me, help me, help me.’ She thought the words knowing that she had no right to ask God for help. She’d made a choice. Back that night in the car she’d made a choice, and later, in Darren’s office when she knew that he was married, she’d made a choice – betraying the woman with the gray blazer. But, worst of all, betraying her God, her Father, her constant friend, love and companion. And now she was sorry, and turning to God not because she repented the action, but because she’d been hurt, rejected. She’d lost the game, and now was sorry that she’d ever played. Would it have been different if she had won? If she and Darren were still together, would she be crawling back to God’s mercy? No, she’d still have her arms around Darren and a smirk on her face, and she’d be shielding her thoughts against the knowledge that she’d broken God’s commandment.
Daggers of shame mingled with sorrow, and her heart was dry like sand. ‘Oh, God, please forgive me.’ The thought came hesitantly, with the words and the feelings peeping out from her heart like timid mice creeping out of a hole in the closet, like ducklings pecking their way out of their eggshells into the light. Please forgive me. Forgive me. Take me back. Love me. Love me. Love me. Oh my God, please be my God. In spite of what I’ve done, please be my God and love me.
The tears were coming now. First with a sob and burning in her eyes, then trickling down her cheeks like rain on a window, washing through her heart carrying with them the weight of sin, and bringing with them hope, forgiveness, redemption.
“Wash me that I may be white as snow. Create a clean heart in me, oh God,” She remembered the words from the Bible, and she knelt and wept. She closed her eyes and felt warmed as if she’d come home after years of wandering, as if enveloped by loving arms.
“Well, you finally made it.” The words played in her mind, and she smiled to herself, and, still crying, said to God, “Thank you, oh, thank you.”
From her bookshelf, Johanna pulled out a Bible and opened it to the story of the Prodigal Son. He’d betrayed his father and was starting the long journey back home saying the words, “I will go to my father and say, “Father, I have sinned against Heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.”
“Father, I understand,” she said.
She put on a sweater and walked out of the dorm room, beginning her own journey home, not sure where she was going or why. She started out towards Strawberry Canyon, then turned around, drawn downhill into the flats of Berkeley. She wandered the streets for hours. The day slipped by. As the sun set over San Francisco Bay, she found herself looking up at the onion-shaped spires of a church - a Russian Orthodox Church, she surmised from the Cyrillic lettering gleaming in bright gold against the drab brown walls of the building. A holy space amid Berkeley’s bustling, thought Johanna, and she ran up the steps towards the building hoping to find God’s mercy inside. Although the doors were shut, a spicy cloud of incense wafted in little gusts through the crack between the doors. Exotic, mysterious, the odor called to her, bid her enter. “Come, I will teach you a new thing,” God seemed to say.
Johanna pulled open the heavy doors and passed through them as if the cloud of incense were carrying her body, then walked through another set of doors into the sanctuary. Inside, the space was dark. The crucified Christ, his image illuminated by votive candles, looked down at Johanna from the altar. The image was life size, and lifelike blood flowed from his hands and feet and side. Jesus, the Son of God, but also a man who endured pain, humiliation and death as ransom for her sins. The greatness of his sacrifice, washed through Johanna’s being, and she felt a glimpse of the wonder of God’s love. Before, she’d always talked to God as to her best friend, her companion. He was a God she could go to when she was bewildered or lonely. She could tell him anything, and he would listen and understand.
Standing before this image, Johanna felt the impossible miracle that was his love, and what a wonder it was that Jesus died on Golgotha, and how unworthy she was of the gift, especially now, especially after what she’d done.
As Johanna’s eyes accustomed themselves to the dim light, she saw brass candleholders, maybe three feet high, standing like islands along the sides of the church. Illuminated only by soft candlelight, icons of beaten gold adorned the walls, testaments to saints and martyrs, to those who’d sacrificed so much for the God they loved. And in the center of the church, a small altar displayed prominently the church’s largest icon, an image of the Virgin Mary and her Son the Savior, their faces shining in burnished gold depicting the glory of God’s mercy.
A handful of people stood along the sides of the church, mostly old women, with scarves covering their heads. There were no pews, only a scattering of chairs for those who could not stand.
A priest entered and the old ladies stood up, two of them leaning on canes. He looked like a character from a play, a resident of a different time and a different country. His brocade alb was intricately embroidered, with a cross in the center of his back. He carried a scenter, and, as he waved it back and forth, smoke rose from its sides, and the sweet smell of incense filled the room.
The priest began to chant. Some words were foreign, and some were English. “Again and again in peace let us pray to the lord.” Such simple words which he repeated many times! They made Johanna yearn for simpler times when she’d taken God’s peace for granted.
After the service, Johanna watched the congregation retreat to their homes and to dinner. Johanna wanting to turn and run back to her dorm, but felt compelled to stay.
The priest was an old man, perhaps in his seventies. He had taken off the embroidered robe, and now wore a black cassock, tied at the waste by a yellow sash. His long hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and his beard, salt-pepper gray hung down onto his chest, nestling an elaborately carved gold pectoral cross about two inches in length. He looked tired. He probably wanted to go home and eat dinner
“We are closing the church now,” he said to her. “You must go.”
Johanna looked down at his feet. She sensed his irritation. “I…I think I have to talk to you,” she said in a hushed voice that barely carried the three feet to his ears.
He bowed slightly. “Very well.” He ushered her into an office, crammed with candles, papers, and books. A large collection of icons stood on a table in the corner, each with a votive candle flickering before it. “What is it, my child?”
Johanna dropped her gaze to the floor. What was she supposed to tell him? She opened her mouth to speak, and found no words, no voice, no will. This was all wrong. She should just run home as fast as she could. Feelings fought down her words. Humiliation, shame, anger at Darren. He was just as guilty. Why wasn’t God making Darren do any of this?
Well, at least, she owed the old man an explanation. “I need…” “It was….” “There was…”
“Just say it,” he said. “Just say it.” In spite of his tired feet and the dinner waiting for him, his voice carried his concern. “You can tell me anything.”
For a second Johanna looked up into his eyes. “I committed adultery,” she said, then blurted out the whole story of Darren, his beliefs about open marriage, and his wife. “But I didn’t know he was married. And then, when I found out, I tried to break it off, but I couldn’t.” Then she told him about the girl with the green eyes and the hair like fire.
“And why have you come to me, child?” His accent was thick. “Do you want to be forgiven because you have sinned, or because your heart is aching and you want God to relieve the pain?”
Johanna knew the right answer, of course. “In part, I hurt because I know I’ve sinned, but, mostly,” she admitted, “I imagine Darren with her, and I can’t stop thinking about them.”
‘So you suffer and you want me to make it better.” His voice was hard, but Johanna heard no scorn in it.
“Yes,” she finally said.
His voice softened. “It will not always be this way, child. Go home. Take your pain to God, and I will pray for you. When you are ready to be forgiven, come back to me. Have faith. It will not always be so bad.”
Johanna walked away her heart dragging on the sidewalk. In the story of the Prodigal son, the father ran out to greet the wayward son and killed a fatted calf for him, a costly gesture in those days. But Johanna had been told to go home and pray. She thought back to the conversation, what she had told the priest, and what he had said to her. She tried to get a mental picture of him, and discovered that all she could remember was the yellow sash he had tied around his waist, and knew that she’d been talking to him with her head bowed down in shame. Next time, she thought, I’ll look him in the eye.
She went home to bed and cried until finally sleep rescued her from the burning sadness. Her dream was of a stormy night, with hard wind and rain coming not in drops but solid sheets of water, torrents of water washing away rocks, and dirt. Rain became tears.
She woke with a start, and there were tears in her eyes. The room was dark and she was wide awake. By the light of a full moon, she was able to see the face of her bedside clock. Three fifteen – the middle of the night. “I’m tired, God, so tired. Please let me rest. I’m too tired to carry the load anymore.”
She flopped over onto her stomach and closed her eyes. The sound of her own breathing was loud in her ears. Thoughts of Darren entered her head unbidden and would not leave. She rolled over on her side, and stared into the darkness still crying.
“What do you want me to do, God?” she asked. She listened into the darkness hearing only the rhythm of Temple’s breathing as she slept. “What do you want from me, God?” she asked crossly wishing she were asleep.
She closed her eyes and saw Darren’s face and face of the girl – eager and trusting, surrounded by flaming hair, the girl who would follow in Johanna’s footsteps.
Johanna groped for a notepad and pen and a flashlight and padded barefoot down the hall to a common room on the floor.
“I don’t know your name,” she wrote, “but I have to tell you this. Darren Connors is very tempting and very married, and getting involved with him just isn’t worth the pain. You deserve so much better.
“If you’re a virgin, don’t think that you’re the only one on campus. Because you’re not, no matter what Darren says, and your first lover should be someone very special who loves you, not someone with a slick line and expensive after-shave who tricks you into sleeping with him.”
She folded it up tightly to give to the girl after Darren’s next class, then padded back to her room.
She waited two weeks, then returned to the Russian church. “Father, will you grant me absolution?” she asked.
The old priest stroked his beard. “You are not Orthodox?” he asked.
“No. I was raised Catholic.”
“Then why have you come here? To me? To this church?” He looked puzzled.
“I don’t know why. I just know that I have to.”
He shook his head in frustration. The Holy Orthodox Church had strict rules and traditions. Yet, somehow, he knew it was right to perform the ritual. “Come with me.” She followed him to a small altar almost hidden at the back of the sanctuary.
Waiting in the stillness while the priest prepared, Johanna burned with shame, and humiliation. And she was angry. Why did she have to expose her soul while Darren plotted his next conquest untroubled? Because, she sighed, she dimly understood God’s gift, and Darren didn’t.
The priest whispered the prayer of penitence. “…Omit nothing or you will have the greater sin. Take care, lest having come to the physician you depart unhealed.” Then he draped a black stole over Johanna’s head, and waited for her to speak.
How fearful to stand in God’s presence - her soul’s existence ransomed! The air, smoky and sweet with lingering incense, hung completely still except for the pounding of Johanna’s heart. For she was all but drowning in God’s presence, overwhelmed by each breath, and, in the same breath, overwhelmed by her own unworthiness.
You loved me. You died for me. She fixed her eyes on the crucifix.
“I committed adultery.” The words came reluctantly. “I slept with another woman’s husband.” And she cried from the relief, grateful that she’d somehow found the strength to confess.
When the ritual was over, he put an arm around her shoulder. In a soft voice, he asked, “now what, my child.” She didn’t answer. All her effort, up to now had been leading up to the ritual of penitence. He stroked her arm, almost as an afterthought. “God has healed you. You were broken. Now you are whole. What will you do now? Alone we can do nothing. With God we can do everything.”
“My Strawberry Canyon cathedral,” she said. “A grove of trees where I sit and know that I am in God’s presence.”
“Good,” he said, “but you must find a church as well. Alone, we can do nothing. With God and with friends, we can do everything. Remember, you are God’s servant. Attend church– perhaps Orthodox, perhaps Catholic, or perhaps another faith. Find a church home where you can serve God. Find such a place, give thanks, delight in God’s will and walk in His way.”
Walking home, Johanna remembered the fatted calf in the story. Because she felt as though she’d been part of a miracle. She’d been showered with forgiveness. She’d been given God’s love in abundance. And no, it wasn’t fair. She didn’t deserve it. But she was grateful. And maybe somehow, someway, she could give back – as God’s servant.
“Can you drink of the cup that Jesus drank from? And be baptized with His baptism.” The thought humbled Johanna immediately. For Jesus’ baptism was torture and death on a cross. Did Johanna really want to walk in Jesus’ path?
“Well, God, I want to want to walk in your path, all the way to Golgotha. Maybe I’d be afraid, and maybe I’d run away at the last minute, but maybe I wouldn’t. At least let me try.” But, happily, she wasn’t likely to be tested any time soon.
“You were out on a date tonight!” Temple observed .
“No, I just got back from church.”
“At this time of night?”
“Vespers. It’s an evening service.”
“Your cheeks are flushed. Your eyes are shining. That could only mean one thing. You’re in love - head over heels in love. Church, my grandmother’s eyeball! You’re in love.”
“Yes, I suppose I am,” said Johanna. In love with God, but Temple wouldn’t understand.
Chapter IX
Johanna had considered majoring in journalism, and after a week in Christopher Marlowe’s class, she declared it as her major.
“What must we do to sell the news?” Professor Marlowe asked his class. On the overhead screen, an excerpt from the movie “Network” appeared. The news anchor slammed his fist on the table, and the nation shouted back. Furious, pumped up, they opened their windows and shouted their frustration into the night.
Christopher Marlowe had to be in his sixties. His hair, beard and eyebrows were cut short reminding Johanna of a Leprechaun, and, when he moved, he jumped and danced more than he walked.
“Now that’s human interest! If we only report statistics and the larger picture, no one will read or watch us. We have to bring the story home, make it relevant – make it human - if we expect to keep our viewers’ attention. But…”
The single word, “Propaganda” appeared in large letters. “Are they reporting news or pitching propaganda? From now on, when you watch the news, watch it with a critical eye. How many times do you hear the word ‘emotional’? They’ll show people crying or angry. Is it justified? You ask yourself. And take a look at their experts. Experts or crackpots – you be the judge.”
A hand shot up. “But can they really do that? Aren’t there laws against distorting the truth?”
The Fairness Doctrine applies to radio stations only, and they’re talking about repealing it. Ultimately, it’s all up to your ethics to tell the real story.”
Chapter X
Interviewing was the hardest part of looking for work. Johanna’s resume really didn’t have much to recommend her. She’d graduated from Berkeley with honors. She’d done some volunteer work. She’d held a few part-time jobs during her last two years, but they weren’t very interesting jobs. A lot of her friends from Berkeley had an “in” with someone who knew someone who worked for personnel, but Johanna didn’t know anyone like that.
Doggedly, she filled out applications and refined her resume. When she went on interviews, her face and neck blushed bright red, and she stuttered every time she talked about her few accomplishments. “We’ll notify you within a week…” they’d say, and Johanna was happier when they didn’t notify her because she didn’t want to know that she’d been rejected again.
The Upstart Gazette interview was different. Maybe all the earlier interviews had prepared her for this one, but somehow Johanna felt as if she’d come home, that she belonged at the Gazette.
“So you have no experience and you think you should be a journalist.” The Upstart’s editor Ivan Buncheski didn’t make it easy for her. Peering over his glasses, he screwed his mouth into a scowl. A bulldog without hair, Johanna thought. She should have been intimidated. From behind his desk, he bent forward, leaning with his knuckles on his desk.
“I just graduated from UC. I know I have to start at the bottom. And you need me. The feature columns you’re running in the entertainment section are…could be improved.” She had almost said “pathetic” but caught herself at the last minute. “I can write what you need. It’ll be fresh, and relevant. And it’ll be interesting, I promise you. I brought you some samples.” From a briefcase, she produced four typed articles. They were good and Johanna knew it.
“What happens when the fifth one is due? And the sixth and seventh? Anyone can write four good articles. It took you, what, three months to write these? Or did someone write them for you? No, eh? What happens when you get stale?”
“Times change. Things happen. And there are always more topics to write about. The day I get stale, I’ll resign and get a paper route.”
He said nothing. Johanna grinned.
“What’s so funny?” It was more a bark than a question.
“You like me. I can tell.”
“What kind of column?”
“I’d call it ‘Earth Songs.’ And I’d take up issues – political, social, environmental whatever needs to be told. But I’d write about them in the context of fairy tales, or poems, or limericks or whatever. Normally I’m quite shy. And I should be squirming and saying just anything to fill in the silence. But somehow this newspaper feels like comfy pajamas, and you feel like my older brother.”
He brought out a pad and a pen. “So you like controversy? And he laughed, apparently preparing for a good verbal sparring. “Here,” he said, “write about overpopulation, a brand new article. And make it fresh. You have one hour. After that I have to go home.”
She scratched and fidgeted and, one hour later, she was still writing.
“Time’s up. Show me what you’ve written,” he said. Johanna kept on writing. “I said, “time’s up. Hand it over.”
Johanna scratched out a line and replaced it with three words and a period before he snatched the paper from her. “Christ, are you always this ornery? And your handwriting could use help.” He read aloud.
“She rocked her newborn in a cathedral made of living oak trees, not of lumber or brick. And sunlight, shining in golden rays through the branches overhead, warmed them. The babe was wrapped in a threadbare blanket, and the mother held him close to give him her warmth. And she wanted the world for her child. But she had nothing – only her mind, her body and her soul. With a full heart, overflowing like her milk-filled breasts, she sang:
‘I love you my baby, my darling child.
I give you the world for your treasure – the air, and the water, the soft earth below.
So I’ll bear no more children.
That the blessings of earth may suffice.
I love you my baby, my darling child.
I give you all humans - your brothers and sisters - to love.
Also galloping, nickering horses,
And dogs, with their fur-paws and tongue-licking love.
Chittering chattering sparrows,
Soaring eagles, lofty cousins.
So I’ll bear no more children,
That the blessing of earth may suffice.
So they all may have homes.
Brother Fish, cool and slimy, in streams far from dams.
For Brother Coyote, the master of mischief,
A den far from rifles and chicken-filled coops.
I’ll bear no more children,
That the blessings of earth may suffice.
And for your siblings in spirit,
Sons of Adam and daughters of Eve,
And those who call to Buddha, Great Spirit or Shivah,
Oceans of bounty and rivers of peace,
So I’ll bear no more children
That the blessings of earth may suffice.
He folded the paper and passed it back to her. “It’s not a story; it’s a goddamn poem.”
“And it’s better than anything you’ve printed in a long while. You use what works. Overpopulation’s been done to death. The poem works, and you know it.” And she stared into his face as if daring him to disagree.
“Lot of nerve, that’s what I know. Clean it up for Monday and the job’s yours, one column per week. And we’ll put you to work researching for the other reporters, and mopping the toilets.”
“Thank you.” She jumped up wanting to hug the little man, but stopped herself.
“I’m not kidding about the toilets. Okay, I’m kidding about the toilets, but you will have to do research.”
Johanna shrugged, ran around the desk and hugged Ivan. “I love research,” she said.
Chapter XI
With her column finished ahead of schedule, Johanna had time to daydream. She picked up her pencil and tablet and began doodling, waiting for an idea. Computers were fine for editing, but Johanna still loved the feeling of pen on paper.
“God, I love my life. I love my job. I love you. But will I ever have someone of my own? A boyfriend, a husband, a child? I want someone, someone human, not divine, to love and take care of, and just be with.
It’s as though I’m meant to dream and to watch from outside, researching the stories reporting on other’s lives, but always just the observer.
I’d like to be the one making the headlines, discovering a cancer cure, catching a burglar, saving the world, and falling in love. Especially falling in love. Like in the movies. I want the heart rush, the thrill, if you don’t mind, God. You love me, and I know it. You died for me, and you showed me your love when I was most unlovable, and that should be enough. But…”
In fact, Johanna didn’t have much time for love, or, for that matter, for conversations with the Almighty. A newspaper was a rushing, bustling, shouting sort of business. As the smell of ink solvent wafted up from today’s afternoon edition, the deadline for tomorrow’s morning columns was an hour away. Johanna seldom wrote front-page articles. Along with “The Earth Songs” she produced mostly background "filler” articles that added depth to the headliners, and she supported the front-page reporters with research. Home was either the library or the Internet connection at the office. Her apartment was a place to sleep, shower, and change clothes, and, occasionally, a place to fix something to eat.
“I wrangled a plum opportunity for you Johanna,” said Ivan, “a workshop. Are you interested?”
“Of course. What’s it on? Not that it matters. I’ll take it whatever it is.”
“WMD – weapons of mass destruction. The FBI’s offering it for firefighters, and police. They put it together after the Seren incident in the Tokyo subway.”
Class was held in a conference room of Berkeley’s main police station. A stocky character in a crisp white shirt, khaki pants and spit-shined shoes walked to the front. “I’m Gary Brown, your instructor.” His hair was buzz cut short, and he stood as if at attention. “I’ve worked with the FBI for going on twenty-three years now, and you are about to hear the latest information on terrorist activities around the world. The odds of any of you having to deal with a WMD incident are extremely unlikely, but, if it does happen, we want you prepared.”
Gary turned on a projector, and a definition appeared on the screen. “Terrorism is the use of terror and violence to intimidate and subjugate, especially as a political weapon or policy.”
Gary poked at the screen with a pointer. “Always remember - the goal of the terrorist is terror, not destruction, not loss of life, but terror. Killing is only a means to an end. It bears repeating. The goal of the terrorist is to evoke an emotional response, to frighten. Because frightened people are people that the terrorist can control.”
Johanna took notes as Gary continued. “Historically, the FBI focused on the radical left – the Symbionese Liberation Front, the Students for a Democratic Society, and so on. Today, the battle grounds for their causes have shifted from the streets to the political arena and their issues – Civil Rights, Vietnam - have either gone away or become law.”
Gary clicked at the screen. “Here’s what we’re focusing on today:”
One by one the names of terrorist groups flashed on the screen, and Gary gave a short briefing about each one.
“The Army of God. An ultra-conservative right-wing Christian group, they want to spread Christianity by means of force.”
“Osama bin Laden is probably the most watched figure in the world today. A Moslem extremist, he believes that Western materialism and education are a threat to the spiritual life, and wants to replace democracy throughout the world with conservative Islamic totalitarianism. After the United States bombed Libya, he called for a Jihad, or a holy war against the United States. In the U.S. most of his activities are limited to fund raising. Ironically, it was the United States that trained him back when Afghanistan was fighting the Soviet Union.”
“The Christian Militia. They plan to roll out their tanks and take over when New Year’s Eve Y2K rolls around and all the computers freeze.”
“The Ku Klux Klan and the Arian Brotherhood - both white supremacist groups. The Arian Brotherhood is a serious threat inside our prisons.”
“And now for a change of pace,” said Gary.
“Chlorine gas” appeared on the yellow-green slide. “Germany tried to use chlorine as a weapon in World War I,” said Gary, “but it was hard to control. If the wind shifted, they wiped out their own people. Sadaam Hussein had better luck killing the Kurds with chlorine.”
“Biological agents - anthrax, smallpox, bubonic plague.”
Gary pointed to the screen. “They’re hard to handle without killing yourself first. Where do you think you’d go to get, say, a cup of smallpox?” he asked, and his students answered:
“Universities.”
“Private labs. Pharmaceutical companies.”
“The United States military.”
“The U. S. armed forces has the biggest stashes of weapons of mass destruction in the world,” said Gary. And you better believe their security is stringent.”
“Nuclear weapons.”
“Please, don’t call them nucular weapons,” said Gary. “They’re even harder to obtain and handle than biological weapons.”
“Dirty bombs – they’re conventional bombs but contaminated with radioactive material. They’re the gift that keeps on giving…and giving.”
“Now for another change of pace. Pretend you’re a terrorist. Your assignment is to kill the dictator and take over the palace. How would you do it? Work in groups of five.”
Johanna’s group considered the chemical, biological, and nuclear agents. “You know what, screw it,” said the cop sitting next to her. “The easiest way to kill the dictator is to throw a bomb through his window.” It’s not as sexy as anthrax, but it’s something a terrorist knows how to use.”
“What did you come up with?” asked Gary.
“Bomb.”
“Molotov cocktail.”
“Pipe bomb.”
“High-velocity lead,” said one of the cops, and Johanna looked confused, and the officer sitting next to her translated. “That’s cop talk for bullets.”
“Good choices,” said Gary. “Tried and true methods. Terrorists know how to handle rifles and bombs. They’ve been around for a long time. They work. If you’re trying to overthrow a country, you have enough to worry about without having to develop new technology in the bargain.”
Fascinating, Johanna thought when the class was over. But it had nothing to do with her day-to-day work. So she stashed her notes in the back of her closet, and she stashed the information learned into a back corner of her mind.
To read from the beginning, please click the photos on the right.
This is a work
of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead
is entirely coincidental.
Chapter VIII
As the fall quarter started Johanna checked her schedule of classes. Then she checked Darren’s. It looked like they both had a break after sixth period. She’d hustle into his classroom and surprise him.
Darren’s class had finished and most of the students were filing out of the room, with the exception of a girl who looked scarcely old enough to be a freshman. A little wisp of a girl, she had thick hair the color of flames framing her pale face. And she stared up at Darren, with cat-green eyes fixed on his. Johanna understood the look. “Great insight,” said Darren. “I’d like to discuss some of the comments you made. This afternoon’s no good. I’m tied up in meetings. But would you consider having dinner with me?”
A bundle of thoughts hit Johanna at once, and her pain was physical, an ache deep inside that knocked her feelings about like wheat in a hail storm. Don’t panic, thought Johanna. Maybe he really does have meetings. Maybe the girl had some good insights. Maybe his interest in her was purely professional. And maybe the Easter Bunny and Leprechauns ruled the earth. No, Johanna was looking at this semester’s dessert. This girl embodied the excitement that Darren talked about in his lectures. Johanna, on the other hand, was leftovers. She was melted ice cream, sticky, lukewarm, boring. Johanna skulked out of the classroom and down the hallway.
But maybe not.
“But maybe not!” Johanna all but shouted the words right in the middle of the hall. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, she thought. Darren was big on honesty, and he hadn’t said anything to Johanna about breaking up. Probably she should talk to Darren and see what was going on in his head. Maybe there was some logical explanation that Johanna hadn’t thought of.
Besides, even if the worst was happening – even if their relationship was over and Darren was dating the red head, she should talk to him. She should try to win him back. His love was worth it. Resolutely she turned back towards Darren’s classroom.
It seemed forever before the red headed girl left for her next class and Johanna was alone with Darren. “Hi, Darren.” She smiled up at him, her voice edgy, self-conscious. “We’re reading “Romeo and Juliet” in English Lit., and, hey, who could understand Romeo better than you? Right? So, could we grab a cup of coffee or something, and talk?”
Darren thought for a minute. “I, uh, have a student coming in for a consultation in a few minutes.” He frowned. “ But, hey, I know what. My student teacher, Sheila. She’s a real Shakespeare buff. She’ll be able to help you with ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ Just give me a minute.” He tore off a corner from a sheet of notebook paper and jotted down some numbers on it. “Here’s her phone number. Just tell her I said she should give you a hand.” As Darren talked, he walked towards the door, and Johanna had no choice but to follow. Darren locked the door behind him, then gave Johanna a friendly squeeze around her shoulders and strode purposefully towards his convertible.
Johanna felt like she’d been beaten from the inside. If she’d been a dog, she would have dropped her tail flat between her legs under her belly. She dragged through the rest of her classes with time melting as in a Salvador Dali painting, and the walk back to her dorm room seemed to go on forever. Turning the knob to her front door, Johanna felt about eighty years old.
Aching and ashamed, she dropped to her knees at the foot of her bed. Her face burned red and hot with shame, with anger, and humiliation, and holding her arms outstretched, she leaned into her bed, and buried her tear-stained face into the mattress. ‘Help me, God, oh help me, help me, help me.’ She thought the words knowing that she had no right to ask God for help. She’d made a choice. Back that night in the car she’d made a choice, and later, in Darren’s office when she knew that he was married, she’d made a choice – betraying the woman with the gray blazer. But, worst of all, betraying her God, her Father, her constant friend, love and companion. And now she was sorry, and turning to God not because she repented the action, but because she’d been hurt, rejected. She’d lost the game, and now was sorry that she’d ever played. Would it have been different if she had won? If she and Darren were still together, would she be crawling back to God’s mercy? No, she’d still have her arms around Darren and a smirk on her face, and she’d be shielding her thoughts against the knowledge that she’d broken God’s commandment.
Daggers of shame mingled with sorrow, and her heart was dry like sand. ‘Oh, God, please forgive me.’ The thought came hesitantly, with the words and the feelings peeping out from her heart like timid mice creeping out of a hole in the closet, like ducklings pecking their way out of their eggshells into the light. Please forgive me. Forgive me. Take me back. Love me. Love me. Love me. Oh my God, please be my God. In spite of what I’ve done, please be my God and love me.
The tears were coming now. First with a sob and burning in her eyes, then trickling down her cheeks like rain on a window, washing through her heart carrying with them the weight of sin, and bringing with them hope, forgiveness, redemption.
“Wash me that I may be white as snow. Create a clean heart in me, oh God,” She remembered the words from the Bible, and she knelt and wept. She closed her eyes and felt warmed as if she’d come home after years of wandering, as if enveloped by loving arms.
“Well, you finally made it.” The words played in her mind, and she smiled to herself, and, still crying, said to God, “Thank you, oh, thank you.”
From her bookshelf, Johanna pulled out a Bible and opened it to the story of the Prodigal Son. He’d betrayed his father and was starting the long journey back home saying the words, “I will go to my father and say, “Father, I have sinned against Heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.”
“Father, I understand,” she said.
She put on a sweater and walked out of the dorm room, beginning her own journey home, not sure where she was going or why. She started out towards Strawberry Canyon, then turned around, drawn downhill into the flats of Berkeley. She wandered the streets for hours. The day slipped by. As the sun set over San Francisco Bay, she found herself looking up at the onion-shaped spires of a church - a Russian Orthodox Church, she surmised from the Cyrillic lettering gleaming in bright gold against the drab brown walls of the building. A holy space amid Berkeley’s bustling, thought Johanna, and she ran up the steps towards the building hoping to find God’s mercy inside. Although the doors were shut, a spicy cloud of incense wafted in little gusts through the crack between the doors. Exotic, mysterious, the odor called to her, bid her enter. “Come, I will teach you a new thing,” God seemed to say.
Johanna pulled open the heavy doors and passed through them as if the cloud of incense were carrying her body, then walked through another set of doors into the sanctuary. Inside, the space was dark. The crucified Christ, his image illuminated by votive candles, looked down at Johanna from the altar. The image was life size, and lifelike blood flowed from his hands and feet and side. Jesus, the Son of God, but also a man who endured pain, humiliation and death as ransom for her sins. The greatness of his sacrifice, washed through Johanna’s being, and she felt a glimpse of the wonder of God’s love. Before, she’d always talked to God as to her best friend, her companion. He was a God she could go to when she was bewildered or lonely. She could tell him anything, and he would listen and understand.
Standing before this image, Johanna felt the impossible miracle that was his love, and what a wonder it was that Jesus died on Golgotha, and how unworthy she was of the gift, especially now, especially after what she’d done.
As Johanna’s eyes accustomed themselves to the dim light, she saw brass candleholders, maybe three feet high, standing like islands along the sides of the church. Illuminated only by soft candlelight, icons of beaten gold adorned the walls, testaments to saints and martyrs, to those who’d sacrificed so much for the God they loved. And in the center of the church, a small altar displayed prominently the church’s largest icon, an image of the Virgin Mary and her Son the Savior, their faces shining in burnished gold depicting the glory of God’s mercy.
A handful of people stood along the sides of the church, mostly old women, with scarves covering their heads. There were no pews, only a scattering of chairs for those who could not stand.
A priest entered and the old ladies stood up, two of them leaning on canes. He looked like a character from a play, a resident of a different time and a different country. His brocade alb was intricately embroidered, with a cross in the center of his back. He carried a scenter, and, as he waved it back and forth, smoke rose from its sides, and the sweet smell of incense filled the room.
The priest began to chant. Some words were foreign, and some were English. “Again and again in peace let us pray to the lord.” Such simple words which he repeated many times! They made Johanna yearn for simpler times when she’d taken God’s peace for granted.
After the service, Johanna watched the congregation retreat to their homes and to dinner. Johanna wanting to turn and run back to her dorm, but felt compelled to stay.
The priest was an old man, perhaps in his seventies. He had taken off the embroidered robe, and now wore a black cassock, tied at the waste by a yellow sash. His long hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and his beard, salt-pepper gray hung down onto his chest, nestling an elaborately carved gold pectoral cross about two inches in length. He looked tired. He probably wanted to go home and eat dinner
“We are closing the church now,” he said to her. “You must go.”
Johanna looked down at his feet. She sensed his irritation. “I…I think I have to talk to you,” she said in a hushed voice that barely carried the three feet to his ears.
He bowed slightly. “Very well.” He ushered her into an office, crammed with candles, papers, and books. A large collection of icons stood on a table in the corner, each with a votive candle flickering before it. “What is it, my child?”
Johanna dropped her gaze to the floor. What was she supposed to tell him? She opened her mouth to speak, and found no words, no voice, no will. This was all wrong. She should just run home as fast as she could. Feelings fought down her words. Humiliation, shame, anger at Darren. He was just as guilty. Why wasn’t God making Darren do any of this?
Well, at least, she owed the old man an explanation. “I need…” “It was….” “There was…”
“Just say it,” he said. “Just say it.” In spite of his tired feet and the dinner waiting for him, his voice carried his concern. “You can tell me anything.”
For a second Johanna looked up into his eyes. “I committed adultery,” she said, then blurted out the whole story of Darren, his beliefs about open marriage, and his wife. “But I didn’t know he was married. And then, when I found out, I tried to break it off, but I couldn’t.” Then she told him about the girl with the green eyes and the hair like fire.
“And why have you come to me, child?” His accent was thick. “Do you want to be forgiven because you have sinned, or because your heart is aching and you want God to relieve the pain?”
Johanna knew the right answer, of course. “In part, I hurt because I know I’ve sinned, but, mostly,” she admitted, “I imagine Darren with her, and I can’t stop thinking about them.”
‘So you suffer and you want me to make it better.” His voice was hard, but Johanna heard no scorn in it.
“Yes,” she finally said.
His voice softened. “It will not always be this way, child. Go home. Take your pain to God, and I will pray for you. When you are ready to be forgiven, come back to me. Have faith. It will not always be so bad.”
Johanna walked away her heart dragging on the sidewalk. In the story of the Prodigal son, the father ran out to greet the wayward son and killed a fatted calf for him, a costly gesture in those days. But Johanna had been told to go home and pray. She thought back to the conversation, what she had told the priest, and what he had said to her. She tried to get a mental picture of him, and discovered that all she could remember was the yellow sash he had tied around his waist, and knew that she’d been talking to him with her head bowed down in shame. Next time, she thought, I’ll look him in the eye.
She went home to bed and cried until finally sleep rescued her from the burning sadness. Her dream was of a stormy night, with hard wind and rain coming not in drops but solid sheets of water, torrents of water washing away rocks, and dirt. Rain became tears.
She woke with a start, and there were tears in her eyes. The room was dark and she was wide awake. By the light of a full moon, she was able to see the face of her bedside clock. Three fifteen – the middle of the night. “I’m tired, God, so tired. Please let me rest. I’m too tired to carry the load anymore.”
She flopped over onto her stomach and closed her eyes. The sound of her own breathing was loud in her ears. Thoughts of Darren entered her head unbidden and would not leave. She rolled over on her side, and stared into the darkness still crying.
“What do you want me to do, God?” she asked. She listened into the darkness hearing only the rhythm of Temple’s breathing as she slept. “What do you want from me, God?” she asked crossly wishing she were asleep.
She closed her eyes and saw Darren’s face and face of the girl – eager and trusting, surrounded by flaming hair, the girl who would follow in Johanna’s footsteps.
Johanna groped for a notepad and pen and a flashlight and padded barefoot down the hall to a common room on the floor.
“I don’t know your name,” she wrote, “but I have to tell you this. Darren Connors is very tempting and very married, and getting involved with him just isn’t worth the pain. You deserve so much better.
“If you’re a virgin, don’t think that you’re the only one on campus. Because you’re not, no matter what Darren says, and your first lover should be someone very special who loves you, not someone with a slick line and expensive after-shave who tricks you into sleeping with him.”
She folded it up tightly to give to the girl after Darren’s next class, then padded back to her room.
She waited two weeks, then returned to the Russian church. “Father, will you grant me absolution?” she asked.
The old priest stroked his beard. “You are not Orthodox?” he asked.
“No. I was raised Catholic.”
“Then why have you come here? To me? To this church?” He looked puzzled.
“I don’t know why. I just know that I have to.”
He shook his head in frustration. The Holy Orthodox Church had strict rules and traditions. Yet, somehow, he knew it was right to perform the ritual. “Come with me.” She followed him to a small altar almost hidden at the back of the sanctuary.
Waiting in the stillness while the priest prepared, Johanna burned with shame, and humiliation. And she was angry. Why did she have to expose her soul while Darren plotted his next conquest untroubled? Because, she sighed, she dimly understood God’s gift, and Darren didn’t.
The priest whispered the prayer of penitence. “…Omit nothing or you will have the greater sin. Take care, lest having come to the physician you depart unhealed.” Then he draped a black stole over Johanna’s head, and waited for her to speak.
How fearful to stand in God’s presence - her soul’s existence ransomed! The air, smoky and sweet with lingering incense, hung completely still except for the pounding of Johanna’s heart. For she was all but drowning in God’s presence, overwhelmed by each breath, and, in the same breath, overwhelmed by her own unworthiness.
You loved me. You died for me. She fixed her eyes on the crucifix.
“I committed adultery.” The words came reluctantly. “I slept with another woman’s husband.” And she cried from the relief, grateful that she’d somehow found the strength to confess.
When the ritual was over, he put an arm around her shoulder. In a soft voice, he asked, “now what, my child.” She didn’t answer. All her effort, up to now had been leading up to the ritual of penitence. He stroked her arm, almost as an afterthought. “God has healed you. You were broken. Now you are whole. What will you do now? Alone we can do nothing. With God we can do everything.”
“My Strawberry Canyon cathedral,” she said. “A grove of trees where I sit and know that I am in God’s presence.”
“Good,” he said, “but you must find a church as well. Alone, we can do nothing. With God and with friends, we can do everything. Remember, you are God’s servant. Attend church– perhaps Orthodox, perhaps Catholic, or perhaps another faith. Find a church home where you can serve God. Find such a place, give thanks, delight in God’s will and walk in His way.”
Walking home, Johanna remembered the fatted calf in the story. Because she felt as though she’d been part of a miracle. She’d been showered with forgiveness. She’d been given God’s love in abundance. And no, it wasn’t fair. She didn’t deserve it. But she was grateful. And maybe somehow, someway, she could give back – as God’s servant.
“Can you drink of the cup that Jesus drank from? And be baptized with His baptism.” The thought humbled Johanna immediately. For Jesus’ baptism was torture and death on a cross. Did Johanna really want to walk in Jesus’ path?
“Well, God, I want to want to walk in your path, all the way to Golgotha. Maybe I’d be afraid, and maybe I’d run away at the last minute, but maybe I wouldn’t. At least let me try.” But, happily, she wasn’t likely to be tested any time soon.
“You were out on a date tonight!” Temple observed .
“No, I just got back from church.”
“At this time of night?”
“Vespers. It’s an evening service.”
“Your cheeks are flushed. Your eyes are shining. That could only mean one thing. You’re in love - head over heels in love. Church, my grandmother’s eyeball! You’re in love.”
“Yes, I suppose I am,” said Johanna. In love with God, but Temple wouldn’t understand.
Chapter IX
Johanna had considered majoring in journalism, and after a week in Christopher Marlowe’s class, she declared it as her major.
“What must we do to sell the news?” Professor Marlowe asked his class. On the overhead screen, an excerpt from the movie “Network” appeared. The news anchor slammed his fist on the table, and the nation shouted back. Furious, pumped up, they opened their windows and shouted their frustration into the night.
Christopher Marlowe had to be in his sixties. His hair, beard and eyebrows were cut short reminding Johanna of a Leprechaun, and, when he moved, he jumped and danced more than he walked.
“Now that’s human interest! If we only report statistics and the larger picture, no one will read or watch us. We have to bring the story home, make it relevant – make it human - if we expect to keep our viewers’ attention. But…”
The single word, “Propaganda” appeared in large letters. “Are they reporting news or pitching propaganda? From now on, when you watch the news, watch it with a critical eye. How many times do you hear the word ‘emotional’? They’ll show people crying or angry. Is it justified? You ask yourself. And take a look at their experts. Experts or crackpots – you be the judge.”
A hand shot up. “But can they really do that? Aren’t there laws against distorting the truth?”
The Fairness Doctrine applies to radio stations only, and they’re talking about repealing it. Ultimately, it’s all up to your ethics to tell the real story.”
Chapter X
Interviewing was the hardest part of looking for work. Johanna’s resume really didn’t have much to recommend her. She’d graduated from Berkeley with honors. She’d done some volunteer work. She’d held a few part-time jobs during her last two years, but they weren’t very interesting jobs. A lot of her friends from Berkeley had an “in” with someone who knew someone who worked for personnel, but Johanna didn’t know anyone like that.
Doggedly, she filled out applications and refined her resume. When she went on interviews, her face and neck blushed bright red, and she stuttered every time she talked about her few accomplishments. “We’ll notify you within a week…” they’d say, and Johanna was happier when they didn’t notify her because she didn’t want to know that she’d been rejected again.
The Upstart Gazette interview was different. Maybe all the earlier interviews had prepared her for this one, but somehow Johanna felt as if she’d come home, that she belonged at the Gazette.
“So you have no experience and you think you should be a journalist.” The Upstart’s editor Ivan Buncheski didn’t make it easy for her. Peering over his glasses, he screwed his mouth into a scowl. A bulldog without hair, Johanna thought. She should have been intimidated. From behind his desk, he bent forward, leaning with his knuckles on his desk.
“I just graduated from UC. I know I have to start at the bottom. And you need me. The feature columns you’re running in the entertainment section are…could be improved.” She had almost said “pathetic” but caught herself at the last minute. “I can write what you need. It’ll be fresh, and relevant. And it’ll be interesting, I promise you. I brought you some samples.” From a briefcase, she produced four typed articles. They were good and Johanna knew it.
“What happens when the fifth one is due? And the sixth and seventh? Anyone can write four good articles. It took you, what, three months to write these? Or did someone write them for you? No, eh? What happens when you get stale?”
“Times change. Things happen. And there are always more topics to write about. The day I get stale, I’ll resign and get a paper route.”
He said nothing. Johanna grinned.
“What’s so funny?” It was more a bark than a question.
“You like me. I can tell.”
“What kind of column?”
“I’d call it ‘Earth Songs.’ And I’d take up issues – political, social, environmental whatever needs to be told. But I’d write about them in the context of fairy tales, or poems, or limericks or whatever. Normally I’m quite shy. And I should be squirming and saying just anything to fill in the silence. But somehow this newspaper feels like comfy pajamas, and you feel like my older brother.”
He brought out a pad and a pen. “So you like controversy? And he laughed, apparently preparing for a good verbal sparring. “Here,” he said, “write about overpopulation, a brand new article. And make it fresh. You have one hour. After that I have to go home.”
She scratched and fidgeted and, one hour later, she was still writing.
“Time’s up. Show me what you’ve written,” he said. Johanna kept on writing. “I said, “time’s up. Hand it over.”
Johanna scratched out a line and replaced it with three words and a period before he snatched the paper from her. “Christ, are you always this ornery? And your handwriting could use help.” He read aloud.
“She rocked her newborn in a cathedral made of living oak trees, not of lumber or brick. And sunlight, shining in golden rays through the branches overhead, warmed them. The babe was wrapped in a threadbare blanket, and the mother held him close to give him her warmth. And she wanted the world for her child. But she had nothing – only her mind, her body and her soul. With a full heart, overflowing like her milk-filled breasts, she sang:
‘I love you my baby, my darling child.
I give you the world for your treasure – the air, and the water, the soft earth below.
So I’ll bear no more children.
That the blessings of earth may suffice.
I love you my baby, my darling child.
I give you all humans - your brothers and sisters - to love.
Also galloping, nickering horses,
And dogs, with their fur-paws and tongue-licking love.
Chittering chattering sparrows,
Soaring eagles, lofty cousins.
So I’ll bear no more children,
That the blessing of earth may suffice.
So they all may have homes.
Brother Fish, cool and slimy, in streams far from dams.
For Brother Coyote, the master of mischief,
A den far from rifles and chicken-filled coops.
I’ll bear no more children,
That the blessings of earth may suffice.
And for your siblings in spirit,
Sons of Adam and daughters of Eve,
And those who call to Buddha, Great Spirit or Shivah,
Oceans of bounty and rivers of peace,
So I’ll bear no more children
That the blessings of earth may suffice.
He folded the paper and passed it back to her. “It’s not a story; it’s a goddamn poem.”
“And it’s better than anything you’ve printed in a long while. You use what works. Overpopulation’s been done to death. The poem works, and you know it.” And she stared into his face as if daring him to disagree.
“Lot of nerve, that’s what I know. Clean it up for Monday and the job’s yours, one column per week. And we’ll put you to work researching for the other reporters, and mopping the toilets.”
“Thank you.” She jumped up wanting to hug the little man, but stopped herself.
“I’m not kidding about the toilets. Okay, I’m kidding about the toilets, but you will have to do research.”
Johanna shrugged, ran around the desk and hugged Ivan. “I love research,” she said.
Chapter XI
With her column finished ahead of schedule, Johanna had time to daydream. She picked up her pencil and tablet and began doodling, waiting for an idea. Computers were fine for editing, but Johanna still loved the feeling of pen on paper.
“God, I love my life. I love my job. I love you. But will I ever have someone of my own? A boyfriend, a husband, a child? I want someone, someone human, not divine, to love and take care of, and just be with.
It’s as though I’m meant to dream and to watch from outside, researching the stories reporting on other’s lives, but always just the observer.
I’d like to be the one making the headlines, discovering a cancer cure, catching a burglar, saving the world, and falling in love. Especially falling in love. Like in the movies. I want the heart rush, the thrill, if you don’t mind, God. You love me, and I know it. You died for me, and you showed me your love when I was most unlovable, and that should be enough. But…”
In fact, Johanna didn’t have much time for love, or, for that matter, for conversations with the Almighty. A newspaper was a rushing, bustling, shouting sort of business. As the smell of ink solvent wafted up from today’s afternoon edition, the deadline for tomorrow’s morning columns was an hour away. Johanna seldom wrote front-page articles. Along with “The Earth Songs” she produced mostly background "filler” articles that added depth to the headliners, and she supported the front-page reporters with research. Home was either the library or the Internet connection at the office. Her apartment was a place to sleep, shower, and change clothes, and, occasionally, a place to fix something to eat.
“I wrangled a plum opportunity for you Johanna,” said Ivan, “a workshop. Are you interested?”
“Of course. What’s it on? Not that it matters. I’ll take it whatever it is.”
“WMD – weapons of mass destruction. The FBI’s offering it for firefighters, and police. They put it together after the Seren incident in the Tokyo subway.”
Class was held in a conference room of Berkeley’s main police station. A stocky character in a crisp white shirt, khaki pants and spit-shined shoes walked to the front. “I’m Gary Brown, your instructor.” His hair was buzz cut short, and he stood as if at attention. “I’ve worked with the FBI for going on twenty-three years now, and you are about to hear the latest information on terrorist activities around the world. The odds of any of you having to deal with a WMD incident are extremely unlikely, but, if it does happen, we want you prepared.”
Gary turned on a projector, and a definition appeared on the screen. “Terrorism is the use of terror and violence to intimidate and subjugate, especially as a political weapon or policy.”
Gary poked at the screen with a pointer. “Always remember - the goal of the terrorist is terror, not destruction, not loss of life, but terror. Killing is only a means to an end. It bears repeating. The goal of the terrorist is to evoke an emotional response, to frighten. Because frightened people are people that the terrorist can control.”
Johanna took notes as Gary continued. “Historically, the FBI focused on the radical left – the Symbionese Liberation Front, the Students for a Democratic Society, and so on. Today, the battle grounds for their causes have shifted from the streets to the political arena and their issues – Civil Rights, Vietnam - have either gone away or become law.”
Gary clicked at the screen. “Here’s what we’re focusing on today:”
One by one the names of terrorist groups flashed on the screen, and Gary gave a short briefing about each one.
“The Army of God. An ultra-conservative right-wing Christian group, they want to spread Christianity by means of force.”
“Osama bin Laden is probably the most watched figure in the world today. A Moslem extremist, he believes that Western materialism and education are a threat to the spiritual life, and wants to replace democracy throughout the world with conservative Islamic totalitarianism. After the United States bombed Libya, he called for a Jihad, or a holy war against the United States. In the U.S. most of his activities are limited to fund raising. Ironically, it was the United States that trained him back when Afghanistan was fighting the Soviet Union.”
“The Christian Militia. They plan to roll out their tanks and take over when New Year’s Eve Y2K rolls around and all the computers freeze.”
“The Ku Klux Klan and the Arian Brotherhood - both white supremacist groups. The Arian Brotherhood is a serious threat inside our prisons.”
“And now for a change of pace,” said Gary.
“Chlorine gas” appeared on the yellow-green slide. “Germany tried to use chlorine as a weapon in World War I,” said Gary, “but it was hard to control. If the wind shifted, they wiped out their own people. Sadaam Hussein had better luck killing the Kurds with chlorine.”
“Biological agents - anthrax, smallpox, bubonic plague.”
Gary pointed to the screen. “They’re hard to handle without killing yourself first. Where do you think you’d go to get, say, a cup of smallpox?” he asked, and his students answered:
“Universities.”
“Private labs. Pharmaceutical companies.”
“The United States military.”
“The U. S. armed forces has the biggest stashes of weapons of mass destruction in the world,” said Gary. And you better believe their security is stringent.”
“Nuclear weapons.”
“Please, don’t call them nucular weapons,” said Gary. “They’re even harder to obtain and handle than biological weapons.”
“Dirty bombs – they’re conventional bombs but contaminated with radioactive material. They’re the gift that keeps on giving…and giving.”
“Now for another change of pace. Pretend you’re a terrorist. Your assignment is to kill the dictator and take over the palace. How would you do it? Work in groups of five.”
Johanna’s group considered the chemical, biological, and nuclear agents. “You know what, screw it,” said the cop sitting next to her. “The easiest way to kill the dictator is to throw a bomb through his window.” It’s not as sexy as anthrax, but it’s something a terrorist knows how to use.”
“What did you come up with?” asked Gary.
“Bomb.”
“Molotov cocktail.”
“Pipe bomb.”
“High-velocity lead,” said one of the cops, and Johanna looked confused, and the officer sitting next to her translated. “That’s cop talk for bullets.”
“Good choices,” said Gary. “Tried and true methods. Terrorists know how to handle rifles and bombs. They’ve been around for a long time. They work. If you’re trying to overthrow a country, you have enough to worry about without having to develop new technology in the bargain.”
Fascinating, Johanna thought when the class was over. But it had nothing to do with her day-to-day work. So she stashed her notes in the back of her closet, and she stashed the information learned into a back corner of her mind.
To read from the beginning, please click the photos on the right.
