John worried as he sat in a lawn chair in the late afternoon, watching Mike and Randy wrestle on the grass. Just a few minutes earlier the boys asked when they would get Pharaoh, and he could not give them a time. They wanted to be told who Pharaoh was, but he could not give them a name. How were they going to escape the hospital? John could not tell them how. They must trust Moses, he told him, but John knew he could not stall them much longer.
“Hey, Injun, your mama’s here to see ya.”
Glancing up, John saw grizzled, balding George walk by with his pail and mop. The attendant kept his eyes straight ahead, not bothering to look at John when he addressed him. John was tempted to tell Mike and Randy that George was Pharaoh so they would murder him for his insolence, but even the slow witted brothers would not believe someone who scrubbed toilets for his living was mighty Pharaoh.
“Thank you,” he said in a soft voice to George as the attendant walked away, realizing if there were to be a chance of escape he had to maintain a façade of courtesy and subordination, even to the vilest and lowest of those people who worked at the hospital.
Walking down the hall to the day room, John tried to remember what his mother looked like. His memories of her always were of different women. His earliest was of a beautiful, full-figured, laughing young mother, hugging him to her ample bosom. Then he remembered the lady of dignity: a matronly, well-built and with fine streaks of gray through her straight black hair pulled into a bun. Then he recalled the woman with a hunched back, the worn eyes and the dishpan hands from working in kitchens of greasy spoon restaurants. And the woman he at last recognized when Dr. Lippincott took him away the last time was old with gray streaked hair, bent over in defeat and her eyes red with tears.
John’s mind wandered to the possibility that this white man doctor, who asked too many questions and who dared to look deep into his eyes, might be Pharaoh torturing his people. He knew Mike and Randy did not like him because he tried to act as their friend but in truth wanted to keep them there forever. But at this point in time why would he announce that the doctor was Pharaoh? He told the boys one time that he was not Pharaoh. He could not let them think he made a mistake. Moses did not make mistakes or change his mind.
“Oh, Johnny,” his mother murmured as she stood on her tiptoes to plant a moist kiss on his neck.
“Mother.” This was the woman he remembered who held him close, bought him ice cream and protected him from the evil world. She clutched a tear-stained handkerchief.
“Come sit with me.” She held his hand and led him to a worn sofa in the day room. “Your father would have come, but he didn’t feel well.”
John realized she told a lie by the way her eyes darted away as she spoke of his father. He cared not that his father stayed away because he could not accept him as his father anyway. His father had been a warrior, and that old man he saw sitting at the judge’s table was no warrior.
“Are you getting along?” Mrs. Ross asked. “You look well. Put on a few pounds?”
“Yes.” He smiled with tight lips.
“And the doctor? Do you like him? Is he treating you good?”
“Yes.” John looked away.
“Everyone looks like nice people here.” Mrs. Ross surveyed the patients milling around. “Have you made many friends?”
“A few.”
“Really?” She sat up. “Who are they? Are they nice people?”
“Very nice.” He patted her knee.
“What are their names?”
“Mike and Randy.”
“Tell me about them. Are they Cherokee?”
“Did you see me on television?” Not wanting to reveal any more about the boys, John smiled and pointed to a set mounted on the wall.
“No. I didn’t know you were on television.” A huge smile covered her face. “When?”
“About a month ago.” He crossed his arms across his chest and nodded. “A nice young man from Knoxville asked me questions about being Cherokee.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said I was proud.”
“I’m so glad.” Tears rolling down her cheeks, Mrs. Ross hugged John.
“He was a nice young man. Bob Meade was his name.” He paused. “I could see a secret pain in his eyes.”
“What?”
“I think I could help him if he ever let me try.”
“You’re so caring.” She embraced him again. “I love you.”
“I am your son. This is how you made me.”
“I know.” She patted his cheek. “If only white people hadn’t….” She bit her lip and looked away. “Try to forgive them, John. They don’t know any better than to believe that might makes right.” She sighed. “At least they are making some atonement by taking good care of you.”
“I could take care of myself if they let me.” He clinched his jaw. “I could take care of you.”
“Of course, you could, John.” Looking deep into his eyes she whispered, “Don’t tell them anything they don’t want to hear. Act the way they want you to act. You can convince them that you don’t need them anymore. I want you to come home to me and your father.”
“Yes,” he replied with affection, hugging her, “come home to you.”
“Well, I have to go, Johnny,” she announced, standing. “I have to fix supper right at five o’clock. Your father says his food don’t digest right if he eats later than five o’clock.”
After his mother left, John went to the rest room. While standing at the urinal, his gaze went up to a long narrow window. His mouth fell open as he noticed the window was broader than he first observed; in fact, it appeared a man could slither through it on his belly. After zipping his pants, he stood on his toes to peek out the window, but he was not quite tall enough to see what was on its other side. Looking around he saw a trash can, which he turned upside down and stood on, putting his line of vision up to the window which, he discovered, faced the front gate.
“Want to be taller?”
John jumped down from the can and smiled at a diminutive gentleman with white hair and bulging blue eyes.
“I always wanted to be taller,” the man said. “People treat you better if you’re tall.” He pointed at the can. “But that won’t work.”
“What?”
“Standing on a can. It’s all right while you’re up there.”
“Yes. I can even see out the window.”
“But eventually you have to get down, if you want to get anywhere.”
Later that afternoon John watched the clock for five-thirty, time for the evening news from Knoxville. He was a fan of Bob Meade. He was a sincere young white man. John trusted his reports on television. If Bob Meade said it, John decided, it must be true. As he walked into the day room, he saw Mike and Randy sitting on a tattered sofa laughing at cartoons. John changed the channel.
“Hey.” Mike sat up. “We was watching those funny guys.”
“It’s time for news.”
“What’s that?” Randy furrowed his brow.
“You know, news,” John said.
“Is it funny?” Mike smiled.
“No, it’s Bob Meade. The man who put me on television. He’s a good man.”
“Oh.” Mike slumped back on the sofa and frowned. “That show where they talk a lot.”
“I like cartoons better.” Randy pulled his body up in a ball and turned away.
Betty Sargent’s face appeared on the screen. John’s eyes narrowed. He did not approve of women in charge. Cherokee women held places of importance in old tribal councils, and when a man married a woman from another clan he joined her family, but he still did not think it was right for women to tell men what to do.
“That’s Bob?” Mike looked at John. “I thought Bob was a boy’s name.”
“Bob Meade will be on later.”
“Does that mean we can turn back to the cartoons?” Mike asked.
“We will have a report by Bob Meade,” Betty Sargent said, “on the upcoming deportation hearing on Gatlinburg businessman Heinrich Schmidt later in this broadcast.”
John shook his head and listened to the top stories, which did not interest him much. At last, Bob Meade appeared on the screen in front of a building with a silly-looking waterwheel. John leaned forward.
“Initial motions were heard today in federal court in Knoxville in the deportation case against long-time Gatlinburg shop owner Heinrich Schmidt. Behind me is his shop in which he and his wife Greta sell woodcarvings. The Schmidts moved to Gatlinburg in the early fifties and opened their business in downtown Gatlinburg to sell his art work inspired by his native Bavaria. In recent years their business has thrived in the new arts and crafts community on Glades Road.”
John raised his hand, and George came over.
“Yeah?”
“Cigarette.”
He tossed a half pack at John who pulled one out.
“Light.”
Taking out a match book, George took one and lit it, putting it to John’s cigarette. He waited a moment before stalking away. “At least you could at say please or thank you,” he muttered.
John lit his cigarette and began to smoke as he listened to Bob’s report. Mike and Randy shifted on the sofa, sighing in boredom.
“The Schmidts’ lives could have been another American success story until recently when charges from their home town in Germany surfaced. Mrs. Eva Moeller of Oberbach, Germany, alleges that during World War II Heinrich Schmidt was a Gestapo agent who murdered her husband as part of the Nazi government’s suppression of labor unions.”
John leaned forward at the mention of Gestapo, Nazi, Germany and murder.
“I’d rather watch cartoons.” Randy tightened his fetal ball. “Too much talking makes me nervous.”
“Scheduled to appear at the hearing are Mrs. Moeller for the federal government and for the defense will be Mr. Schmidt’s brother Rudolph and Mrs. Schmidt’s sister Helga and her husband Franz Bitner, all of Oberbach.”
“Those are sure funny sounding names.” Mike stuck his finger up his nose.
“Channel Forty-three has obtained an exclusive interview with Heinrich Schmidt here on the eve of the most crucial time of his life in the United States.”
The picture changed to a small living room where sitting in an easy chair was an old balding man. Next to him was a younger, bigger man in an expensive looking suit who smiled to excess.
“Here is Heinrich Schmidt in his Gatlinburg home with his attorney Jeff Holt.”
The camera moved in closer on his wrinkled face to reveal a smirk on his lips. John lit another cigarette, using the butt of the first one, keeping his eyes on the screen. This man, this Heinrich Schmidt fascinated him. He was from the land called Germany, which John learned in school had persecuted Jews.
“Is this about over?” Mike asked.
“Quiet,” John replied with firmness.
“I don’t like being told to be quiet,” Randy said from his little cocoon.
“The widder told us to be quiet a lot.” Mike put his finger back up his nose.
“We want to assure Mr. Schmidt and his attorney Mr. Holt that we won’t delve into any area that might prejudice his case in federal court.”
Bob Meade acted as though he were somehow afraid, which surprised John because Bob had not appeared to be the type to be intimidated by inferior creatures such as this fat, sagging, bald old man. That revelation lessened Bob in his estimation. Perhaps Bob Meade was not to be compared to brave Cherokee warriors but to wise Cherokee women who lacked strength, someone to value but not rely upon in the battle to battle Pharaoh.
“The charges brought against you, Mr. Schmidt, deal with control over German labor unions,” Bob said. “Therefore, we can assume you had nothing to do with Hitler’s genocide of German Jews.”
“No.”
As Heinrich Schmidt answered Bob Meade’s questions with a simple no, John began to hate the old man and identified him with this Germany that persecuted Jews, as Egypt of old persecuted the Hebrews and as white men of today persecuted Cherokee.
“What did you think about Hitler’s genocide program?”
“Hitler didn’t ask me then.” Heinrich smiled. “Why should you ask me now?”
John’s eyes widened as though he had seen a burning bush. His heart began to beat faster in anticipation of the end of his time in the wilderness.
“Do you think what Hitler did was wrong?” Bob leaned toward Heinrich.
“Every man does what he has to do to get what he wants.” The old man seemed to wait for a reaction from Bob. When none was forthcoming, he continued, “The world was different then, boy. Some people—well, the strong survive.”
John stood and walked toward the television, reaching out to touch the screen with his fingertips. He had seen the burning bush, and he had heard the message. He had seen Pharaoh.