He seemed to be flying as he led their group through the park, his blond hair loose on his shoulders beneath his white bandanna, his white shirt billowing around him.
Di was breathless as she hurried to keep up with the thirty-or-so other students who had followed Lawrence down from the university to Central Park. He had started referring to himself as Lawrence of Columbia, and it was hard not to make comparisons to Lawrence of Arabia, or at least to Peter O’Toole, who had played the man in the movie.
As they reached Central Park’s Great Lawn, the crowd morphed into thousands, moving as one, like a giant, spreading amoeba. It seemed that everyone was here for what they were calling the Moratorium to End the War in Vietnam, and Di felt as though she was at its very center. Even the trees seemed to have dressed for the occasion in brilliant shades of red and orange. Above them, Belvedere Castle loomed from its perch on a hill.
The protestors held signs. “Make Love Not War,” “Bring Our Boys Home,” “War is not healthy for children and other living things.” And chanted, “Hell no, we won’t go!”
Di shouted with the others. She was finally doing something significant in her life. Helping to stop a terrible war that only benefited the government and corporate America.
She inhaled the sweet scent of pot and smoke from the small bonfires all around her and watched Lawrence climb up on the shoulders of Steve, by far the biggest guy in their group. Lawrence waved a small white card in the air. “Hell no, I won’t go!” he shouted. He lit a match and held it to the edge of the card. “Burn it!”
The others in their group cheered and shouted, “Burn it! Burn it!”
His draft card went up in flames, but Lawrence didn’t drop it, even as the fire touched his fingers. Di felt herself swoon. She didn’t know whether it was from the pain she imagined he was experiencing or from his sexy bravado, and she didn’t care. She only wished she had something to burn, to show him that he had reached her. That she would follow him wherever he led.
Gertrude had climbed up on Jeffrey’s skinny shoulders. His wiry body was stronger than it looked, as it supported her weight. Gertrude waved her arms, eyes flashing violet behind her pink glasses, nipples visible beneath her sheer white blouse. “Come on, comrades,” Di’s roommate shouted. “Burn your fucking draft cards. Don’t let them send you to kill innocent people, innocent children.”
Jeffrey’s scowling face, mostly hidden behind mutton-chop sideburns, came to life. “Burn them, comrades. Let it all burn!”
Several of the guys took out their cards and lit them on fire.
Linda was standing beside Di, flaxen hair pasted to her flushed cheeks, blue eyes bright as though she had a fever. She reached her arms behind her back, then triumphantly pulled her bra out of the sleeve of her T-shirt. “I don’t have a draft card,” Linda shouted, “but at least I can burn this.”
Lawrence grinned and tossed her a book of matches.
Linda struck several matches at once and held them to her bra as the others cheered her on. The fire caught and flames shot out.
“Let’s hear it, comrades,” Gertrude cried. “Hell no, we won’t go!”
“Hell no, we won’t go!” they all chanted in response. Louder and louder. Faster and faster. “Hell no, we won’t go!” Di felt the mounting frenzy around her, the blurry euphoria. “Hell no, we won’t go!”
“To the castle!” Lawrence shouted, pointing up to Belvedere. “Let’s storm the castle.”
On Steve’s broad shoulders, he charged up the hill. Gertrude was just behind, clinging to Jeffrey, her black braid bouncing against her back, as the rest of their group followed.
They made it up to the castle veranda that overlooked the Great Lawn and Belvedere Lake. Lawrence jumped down from Steve’s back and climbed up on the retaining wall so they could all see him.
“Comrades,” he shouted, “we need to make some decisions about who we are and what we want to accomplish.”
“Hear, hear,” someone called out.
“SDS has failed us,” Lawrence said. “The organization is ridden with dissension and power struggles. How can we fight for peace when we’re busy fighting each other?”
Everyone applauded.
Di looked around for Gertrude. She was standing off to the side, puffing on a cigarette as she leaned against Jeffrey. Leaning in a comfortable way, as if she would soon be taking her clothes off for him.
Undoubtedly in the name of peace.
“We need cooperation,” Lawrence shouted, “Not condemnation.”
The group cheered.
“Why don’t we join the Weathermen?” Linda called out.
Lawrence turned toward her, a patient expression on his face. Linda looked almost like a child with her large eyes and narrow dancer’s body. Then he shook his fist and shouted, “Because we can do it better.”
Everyone cheered.
“The Weathermen want a revolution on American soil,” Lawrence said. “Well, we want peace on American soil.” He stretched out his arms as he stood on the wall, a crowd of thousands behind him on the Great Lawn, in front of him, his own small but passionate group. “And peace throughout the world!”
They exploded in another round of shouts and clapping.
Peace, Di thought. They were going to fight for peace. They were taking a stand, like the German people should have done. Like the Jews should have done.
“The fat cats are brewing up a storm of destruction,” Lawrence said. “It’s up to us to drain away their filthy poison and leave behind a cleaner, better world.” He made a fist. “We are Stormdrain, and we want peace on American soil and peace throughout the world.”
“Stormdrain!” Steve shouted, and everyone cheered.
“Lawrence of Columbia!” Another cheer went out. “Lawrence of Columbia is our leader!”
“We are all leaders,” Lawrence called back. “We are in this together.” He pulled off his white headscarf and waved it in the air. “And if we need to use revolutionary tactics to achieve our goals, so be it!” he bellowed.