Shapiro had never directly experienced anti-Semitism. Adam, who liked to boast that his Dad was Jewish, his mother was some kind of Christian, and he would decide what he was when he grew up, never felt shunned because of his father’s heritage. He’d learn about the Holocaust in school, of course, just as he’d learn about the Civil War and the Great Depression, but at his age historical events did not seem any more real than Star Trek or The Lord of the Rings. That stark brand of “round up the Jews” talk was entirely new to him.
“Dad, what kind of jerk was that guy? How come they let him say that on TV? Americans don’t hate Jews, right? That’s some German—or Arab, I guess—kinda thing, right?”
“Actually, Adam, this country has its share of that, too, and not too long ago. There used to be the same kind of preacher on the radio. Father Coughlin was his name. He was a Catholic priest with his own radio show. Millions of people listened to him every week. And he used to say the same kind of stuff about Jews, the same kind of hate talk. He went on for years.
“And plenty of people agreed with him. Hey, Charles Lindbergh, the first guy to fly across the Atlantic Ocean, he used to talk about a worldwide Jewish conspiracy to get us to fight in World War II. Even some presidents have talked that way. Harry Truman, you know, the guy who took over after President Roosevelt died, he said something like the Jews are all selfish and they are as cruel as Hitler and Stalin when they get any power.”
The six-year-old’s puzzled look reminded Shapiro that his son’s knowledge of American history included George Washington, a cherry tree and some vague knowledge about Abe Lincoln freeing the slaves.
“You’ve never experienced anti-Semitism yourself, but it has been a part of America right from the beginning.” Shapiro put his arm over his son’s shoulder. “Sorry about going on like that,” he said sheepishly to his six-year-old.
Adam looked puzzled.
“Hey, buddy, forget about it. I don’t expect this will ever be a problem for you.” Shapiro rubbed the top of his son’s head. “So, what’s on TV?”
“It won’t be a problem for me if I don’t decide to become a Jew, right, Dad?” Adam asked, not quite willing to drop this topic. “And if it became a real problem, you could decide not to be a Jew anymore, so there isn’t anything to worry about. How’s that?”
Shapiro turned to look at his son.
“Adam,” he said. “I can’t ever stop being a Jew. And I wouldn’t if I could. And you know, Son, with me as your father, I don’t know if you can help being considered a Jew no matter what you want. And since most everybody is going to think Adam Shapiro is Jewish, no matter what you decide, you might as well get the benefits of being Jewish. Hey, who knows? There might be some girl someday who wouldn’t think of bringing you home to meet her parents unless you were Jewish. It could come in handy.”
“Dad, stop that,” Adam moaned.
He went back to the remote and found a Mork and Mindy rerun. Father and son sat side by side on the sofa, watching Mork from Ork consider what a strange place planet Earth is.
Shapiro agreed.
CHAPTER 14
President Lawrence Quaid was sprawled on the sofa in the Oval Office. Sitting in chairs facing him were Robert Brown, his chief of staff; Senator Grant Farrell, Democratic minority leader; and Quaid’s wife, Catherine.
Sen. Farrell broke the silence.
“The law is clear, Mr. President. You can’t be faulted for enforcing the law. These people entered the country illegally. They used violence, military weapons, to kill American military personnel. They’re flaunting their presence in Boston, not even trying to be subtle about it. They are daring you to do something. They don’t believe you have what it takes to take them on.”
“Easy now, Grant,” Brown said. “This isn’t a test of the president’s manhood.”
“The president is man enough. I’ll swear it under oath,” the First Lady said. “We are not going to make this decision based on whether my husband is going to back down in front of a dare. According to a story he told me when we were courting, the last time he accepted a dare was in junior high school when a friend dared him to piss on an electric fence. That’s a lesson he won’t ever forget, right, dear?”
“It was certainly a shocker,” Quaid responded. “If only this dare were as easy as that one.”
“We go back a long way, a long way, and I know in all that time your heart has never steered you wrong.” Brown spoke as much to Catherine as to the president. Brown and Catherine met in their junior year at Cornell University. After two dates, both realized there was no chemistry between them—friendship perhaps, but no chemistry. When Catherine asked Brown whether his roommate was seeing anyone, he’d known where the chemistry was. She and Quaid married shortly after graduation and had a marriage people didn’t think happened anymore. Faithful, sharing equals, either could have been elected president and the other would have been there in support. Quaid relied on Catherine to steer him toward deciding what the right thing was and then convince him to do it.
“The United States of America cannot deport Jewish refugees to a country in which they will be placed in camps, subjugated and, quite possibly, exterminated,” Brown said sharply. “You do that and you will earn a place in history, all right, but you won’t like it.”
“Just a minute now, Bob,” Farrell interrupted before Quaid could respond. “Don’t you think maybe you’ve got a bit of a personal bias on this issue? You know, Mr. President, maybe it would look better if Bob stepped aside on this issue and let the rest of us make a decision. It doesn’t look right having him here right now. Word could get out and there’d be hell to pay.”
Quaid shot from the couch to stand over Farrell.
“Grant, are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Quaid asked. “Hell, I’ve known Bob since college and I’ll bet I’ve been in more synagogues than he has since then. I’d guess Bob’s just about forgotten he’s even Jewish, right, Bob?”
Brown rose from his chair to stand beside the president, both of them looking down on Farrell. Catherine Quaid beamed at her two men.
“I wouldn’t go that far, Mr. President, not these days. Evidently others haven’t forgotten the fact that my parents happen to be Jews. Just for the record”—Brown stared at Sen. Farrell—“I haven’t been to a synagogue since I was bar-mitzvahed at thirteen years old. Neither of my sons had a bar mitzvah. I don’t belong to any Jewish organizations and, as you’ve scolded me several times, Mr. President, I go to work on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur every year. Despite that, lady and gentlemen, I am most certainly a Jew, if that makes any difference.”
Catharine applauded, got up from her chair and gave Brown a hug.
“That is why we love you so much, Bob. You are the heart and soul of this presidency and we won’t forget that either.”
“Heart and soul is one thing, Mr. President, but politics is something entirely different,” Farrell said, remaining seated while the president walked to the three windows facing the South Lawn and the Washington Monument in the distance. Quaid stood staring out the window, his back to the others in the room. Farrell continued speaking.
“You might not have to run for office again, Mr. President, but the rest of us Democrats still do. Now, I don’t know what you’re going to decide on this issue, and I suspect you don’t know either. But if you allow the country’s most powerful Jew, with all due respect to your chief of staff, to influence your decision, that decision won’t get much respect. This has to be your decision, not influenced by a Jewish insider in the White House.