Manhattan

Outside the United Nations Headquarters

1st Avenue & East 44th Street - Same Day

Jesse Austin was carrying an apple crate that he’d taken from Nelson’s restaurant kitchen. He’d spoken on street corners before and without elevation of some kind he didn’t stand a chance of being heard, even as a tall man and a practised orator. Every performer needed a stage and though an apple crate wasn’t much of one, it was better than a sidewalk. Arriving from the subway, he saw that part of 1st Avenue was closed to traffic. Instead of subduing the atmosphere, the absence of cars heighteed the sense that the demonstration was out of the ordinary. Surveying the scene before him, set against the backdrop of the United Nations building, he saw hundreds of people gathered, far more than he’d expected. Anna took hold of his free hand. She was nervous.

The police were positioned in a perimeter formation: some were wearing full riot gear, several were on horseback, patrolling the front line of the protest, their horses snorting as if disgusted by the rabble. The protestors were barricaded in, like cattle, garish homemade banners rising up among the crowd: bed sheets stretched tight over wooden posts, brilliant colours – a tapestry of different material. Letters had been cut out individually, unevenly, giving them a childlike naivety. Reading the slogans, Jesse deduced the protestors were a muddle of different groups. There was something he’d never seen before in New York, anti-Vietnam-War demonstrators with guitars and drums side by side with clean-cut men and women in starched shirts attacking the Communist Party, some with placards demanding that Hungary be liberated from Soviet rule, others using the tired phrase:

It was reproduced so many times that Jesse wondered why they couldn’t think of something else to say – it made him want to speak even more. The more they threatened him, the stronger he became: that’s what he’d always believed.

He was too late for the most prominent locations in the demonstration, and he wouldn’t be able to plant himself near the gate as Elena had requested. He and Anna would have to make do with the far side, down towards the scraggly end of the crowd. It was less than ideal and he was annoyed with himself for not getting there earlier. As they began to walk down the length of the demonstration, a voice called out:

—Jesse Austin!

Turning around, he saw a man near the gate gesturing for him to come over. They obeyed, despite having no idea who the man was. He was young, with a pleasant smile.

—This spot is for you! I saved it!

The space was beside the main entrance, as Elena had requested. He took hold of Jesse’s crate, lifting it over the barricade. He tested it to see that it was stable, before looking up at Jesse.

—Climb over!

Jesse laughed.

—Thirty years ago maybe!

Holding Anna’s hand, he moved into the crowd, slowly working his way through the people until he reached the crate. The man was protecting the makeshift stage from other protestors, several of whom were trying to push their way onto it. Seeing Jesse, he put a hand on his shoulder.

—This is your time. Give them everything! Don’t hold back!

Jesse shook his hand.

—Who are you?

—A friend. You have a lot more of them than you know.