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By Root 450 0

back over to the field and out of sight of the cemetery. This was not acceptable for Gary and me. We decided that instead of being sent to the time-out field, our best bet was to circle back just outside the cemetery gate but still be right in the middle of all the action. We placed ourselves beside the path that Reagan’s limo would have to go down in order to enter the cemetery gate. The location was perfect. There was no way Reagan was going to miss us. We didn’t need to be with the pool anyway, as they continued to be led around by their noses to the officially approved spots. None of these reporters would be within earshot of Reagan in order to ask any questions. Plus, where we were now, we were with the pack of real journalists who were not under any obligation to follow the rules.

It was just minutes away from Reagan’s arrival, so we took our place on the path and prepared to take out the banner. We were in an area that was filled with German police, the international press, and a few families who had the misfortune of living in the neighborhood.

Word spread that the motorcade was on its way. Gary and I—mostly I—were getting increasingly nervous. Suddenly, I began to freeze. What the hell were we doing? I knew that the instant we reached inside our coats to whip something out, we were going to be pounced on, or worse. This was nuts, I decided. The face of every German cop and grunt looked like they meant business. And we were about to become their business—their bloody business.

In my panic, I spotted ABC news correspondent Pierre Salinger (former press secretary to President Kennedy), and instantly came up with an idea that might protect us from being pummeled. I went over to talk to Salinger.

“Mr. Salinger,” I said nervously. “My friend and I are here and we’re not part of the press. We’re here to perform an action when Reagan arrives—a nonviolent action. His parents are Holocaust survivors.”

“How did you get in here?” he asked, bemused.

“We had some credentials and we’re from Flint,” I said, thinking that sounded dumb.

“OK, well, I won’t blow your secret,” he promised.

“Could you do something else for us?” I asked. “We’re really scared that they are going to hurt us. When we pull out our sign, will you make sure your camera is right there on us so that they will see that this image is going out live on TV. I have a feeling the last thing the Germans want today is footage of themselves beating a Jew in the Bitburg cemetery.”

He laughed heartily at that. “No, they don’t want that,” he said, still chuckling. “I like this. I like this. OK, you have my word—we’ll have the camera right there on you to protect you.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you.”

Down the street we could begin to hear a rolling cheer from the crowd. The motorcade was in sight. This was it. Gary put his hand quietly under his coat. He was trying to time it just right so that he would have time to get it out and hand me one end while he took the other—and have that occur just as Reagan got to us. Do it too soon and the cops would have us out of there before the limo ever hit the gate. Do it too late and we’ve missed our opportunity. At what he believed to be the precise moment—this man of Flint who was as anally organized and on time more than anyone I knew—yanked out the bedsheet, flipped one end over to me, and quickly unfurled it before anyone noticed what was going on. Now with Reagan just ten feet away, we thrust the banner toward the limo, inches away from the windows where we could plainly see the expressions of the faces of Ronald and Nancy Reagan. The smiling president read the banner and his face turned instantly to what could best be described as confusion. Nancy was not confused and stared right at us with disgust.

The police surrounded us immediately—as did the cameraman from ABC News. The police saw the camera and made the snap decision not to beat the living crap out of us. We had humiliated them with this security breach—and God knows they wanted to mete out our punishment right then and there. But this was the New Germany,