A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [178]
Kristallnacht!
Thornton moved to his study, adjoining his bedroom, where he had a setup of a dozen TV monitors. Snips were arriving of tear gas, swinging batons…now water cannons!
“Okay, buster,” Thornton said to himself, “so let us play chicken, O’Connell, let’s play chicken!”
Ben Horowitz was damn near inconsolable, taking the blame for turning the devil forces loose.
Quinn’s calm calmed them all. No chinks in the armor, no wringing hands, no shouts to God. He spoke softly as the news reached him and gave quick, thoughtful responses.
“Nebraska has just called up the Guard,” Greer said.
“I didn’t think we were doing that well in Nebraska. How many call-ups?”
“Nine states, six states pending. Twenty-eight states report no rioting activity…but, Jesus, if the President doesn’t issue an order…how long?”
A car bomber plunged into the plate-glass window of Feldman Toyota on the auto mile of San Francisco.
A gunman entered the Lew Singer Deli on lower Broadway and sprayed the place with automatic fire. Six are known dead, twenty wounded.
A bonfire of books from the Judaica sections of the Jacksonville Library licked the sky while encircling neo-Nazis saluted and chanted.
* * *
Ketchum, Idaho, bank hit by a dozen militia. Half million dollars taken. One dead.
As the night settled in, the question at hand was the upcoming day. Bitter O’Connell haters watched how the authorities were responding to see what situations would be ripe for daylight exploiting.
And the governors and mayors watched, to use their forces gingerly and not get into a situation of putting a thousand of their citizens against their own arms.
And the sound of Kristallnacht!
The Reverend Amos Johnson was the surviving icon of the early civil rights movement. He had risen to challenge for the presidency twice in primaries and walked off with eighteen percent of the vote.
His personal ambitions chilled by the white establishment, Amos became a dynamic wellspring of hope for his people and gathered in a large Hispanic following as well.
There was a time of separation between a liberal Jewish activism and the black community. Some African-American leaders scolded their former allies as pious do-gooders looking down with pity on their black brothers.
Into this mix crept the inevitable ancient tentacles of anti-Semitism. The slum lord, Jewish wealth, Jewish power, now grated on those downtrodden ghetto dwellers.
Amos Johnson himself took the view that the Jews were patronizing them without either deep love or conviction.
Attempts to heal a widening rift by covering the issues with a Band-Aid did not help.
The Black Muslim movement fanned a constantly smoldering pall of anti-Semitism. The Jew is the enemy!
The Reverend Amos Johnson had worked closely with too many Jewish politicians and leaders not to realize that the two communities were inexorably bound together by tragedies.
The Jews, as a people, had reached many of their goals. This angered some and enraged other blacks whose gains came slower and with more pain.
A cycle emerged of black for the sake of black. Reverend Amos Johnson always gave a wide berth to the hate teachings of the Muslim Nation. Despite his high regard in the country, Reverend Amos never publicly rebuked them on any issue.
It was not as though the history, leadership, and white citizens deserved better. They had wrought a system of injustice that was ending in black-white polarization. Black juries proved as prejudiced as white juries had always proved.
The firebrand days were behind Johnson, and three of his children, two of them daughters, were members of Congress. They badgered him constantly to lead the African-American community out of perpetual victimhood.
As soon as the riots started, his children rushed to his home, held hands, and prayed for guidance. Outside, a crowd of believers started numbering in the thousands, backing up clear to both street corners.
The media included black cable TV channels and a black press.
“Now hear me!” Amos began.