Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre

Chapter 20

From Golda’s Daughter: My Life in the IDF by Lieutenant Colonel Hannah Reinhardt Roth (ret.)

Intellect. That was the only way to reach them. Emotion? Passion? Never. That was debasement, the language of animals. I tried to remain calm and to keep the conversation along the lines of an academic debate.

I discussed Egypt’s expulsion of Soviet advisors as punishment for Moscow’s armament moratorium. I delineated the specifics of said armaments, from MiG-23 fighter bombers to the Frog intermediate range ballistic missiles. With Sheehan’s New York Times story as ammunition, I demonstrated how these offensive weapons were no different than the columns of T-55 main battle tanks Nasser had unsheathed against Israel in ’67.

Father, again, insisted that Sadat was not Nasser, which I maintained justified my point. Sadat, in order to prove that he was not a clone of his predecessor, had to prove to his people, the Arab League, and the world at large that he could accomplish what Nasser couldn’t—driving the yehud into the sea. Wasn’t this strategy, painting victory over defeat, the motive behind so many past wars? In fact, hadn’t Nasser tried to erase Israel in order to erase his debacle in Yemen?

I couldn’t help but be proud of my campaign. Supporting facts. Inarguable logic. I could almost hear the phantom applause of Clausewitz, Mahan, and Jomini. Only Schlieffen withheld his praise, clucking at my critical mistake of avoiding a two-front war.

“Hostilities are impossible.” Alex always knew when to strike, just when Father needed him the most. “The United Nations will see to that.”

I responded with a question. “What ‘United’ Nations do you mean? The declining British? The anti-Semitic French? The Communist bloc that takes its orders from the Kremlin or the so-called non-aligned state hostages of Arab oil?”

I could see another thought readying to charge. I broke it with a preemptive, “The same United Nations that stood by and did nothing after fourteen Syrian probing attacks, and who pulled their peacekeepers out of the Sinai to make way for the Egyptians?”

Alex spluttered, “But America…”

I’d won. I knew it. America? I buried him in counterpoints. Vietnam. Watergate. The inward distractions of cultural civil strife. Alex huffed, retreating before my onslaught. If I’d only been magnanimous in victory and refrained from that conclusive nail. “America can’t help us.”

Just two letters. One word.

“Us?” The resurgent flames blazed in Father’s eyes. “Us? Hannah, aren’t we Americans?”

“American Jews,” I countered, regrouping before those smug, tranquil faces. “Haven’t we learned anything from our past?”

“Mmmhh,” mused Father, pretending to ponder my point. “Learning is indeed the key, learning to understand ourselves.” His hand sailed theatrically over the bookshelf behind us. “Biology, psychology…”

“Political economy,” Alex added, winning an approving smile from our patriarch.

“Without unearthing the roots of our desire for conflict,” Father lectured, “we are no better than pre-Pasteur physicians who acknowledged the existence of microbes yet failed to connect their existence to disease.”

Poetic, dramatic, and directly lifted from the pages of his last book. His eyes had even shifted from mine to the sacred arc of his latest shelved tome. Jung’s Hiroshima: Examining the Psychosis of War.

“There’s nothing nobler than working for a peaceful future,” I said, trying to appeal to his vanity, “but there won’t be a future if we don’t secure the present.” I opened the window, and like a released djinni, the sounds and smells of the Upper East Side gushed in. “And that present has an entire region’s armies mobilizing to wipe us off the map.”

Alex gave a slight, amused chuckle. “So, you’re saying we should burn our books and just club our way forward like troglodytes?”

“I’m saying,” I shot back, “that it’s suicidal to waste time deconstructing the Versailles Treaty the morning AFTER Kristallnacht!”

Father, still sitting, smiled that insufferable, victorious curl. “Ah,” he said, waving his infuriating finger to the sky, “and now we come to the final keep in your crumbling fortress. Should we have fought?”

It was an old argument, as worn and comfortable as the old leather throne he occupied. Should we have fought? The first time I’d been six, asking about the black and white faces on our mantel. Who were they? Where is Strasbourg? Why did they die? Why didn’t they leave with you? And with the final question, “Why didn’t they fight back?” came the inevitable dismissal.

“Because it would not have made a difference.”

Those same pictures stared down at us now, those smiling, innocent death masks.

“An eye for an eye,” my father continued, “only leaves the world blind.”

I parried his Gandhi quote with another saying from the Raj: “If the Indians all pissed at once, the British would be washed out to sea.”

“Are you dismissing nonviolence,” said Alex, shaking his head, “are you really going to deny the progress made in this country by Dr. King?”

“Are you going to deny that King’s leverage was based on the fear of Malcolm X?” Sensing an opening, I tried to break the siege. “An open hand works when the alternative is a fist.”

Quoting Einstein, Alex said, “You cannot simultaneously prevent and prepare for war.”

“Said the man fleeing Dachau’s oven.”

“Such a zealot,” my father moaned, the words dripping with disappointment. “You claim to defend our traditional homeland yet the method of your defense is exactly what lost that land to begin with.”

I could feel my cheeks flushing, hear my voice rising. “I’m not saying war is good! And I’m not saying that going around the world attacking people is right. It’s not! It’s a last resort, always! If there’s any other way to solve problems, any way to avoid bloodshed… but when they’re coming for you, when you know they’re coming, when they won’t listen and it’s too late to even run, you have to defend yourself. You have to fight!”

I’d done the one thing I’d sworn against. I had allowed my heart to take command. “Oh, Hannah.” Alex chuckled victoriously through his nose, his hands stretched out sympathetically. “Hannah, Hannah.” Only my brother could make me hate the sound of my name. Hannah, you’re such a child. Hannah, don’t be so hysterical. Hannah, if you’d just let me help you be more like me maybe Papa would love you as much as he loves me.

“You intellectual coward!” I hissed. “Both of you! Sheltering behind books and quotes and other people’s protection! But what are you going to do when reality’s jackboot comes crashing through your door?”

My fist shook at Father, then to the ghosts on the mantel; all those lives now reduced to piles of shoes, eyeglasses, gold fillings, and ashes.

“What did you do for them?” I shouted at my frozen audience. “When the letters stopped coming, when your whole class enlisted. Where were you?”

I leaned over my father, fixing my gaze on the passive, cool, utterly unresponsive brain. Because that was all he’d become now; no heart, no soul, nothing but dispassionate gray matter. “You stayed. You hid. You didn’t make a difference.” I didn’t realize I was crying until I saw a tear stain his shirt. “You didn’t even try.” Through blurring vision, I sputtered to Alex, “And you won’t either, when they come for you, you won’t resist.” Over my shoulder I said, “You’ll just lie there and die.”

Passing the kitchen, I heard Mother putting away the dishes. I couldn’t condemn her for not coming to my defense. She never had. She never knew she could. Amid the china clatter and the dull thud of cabinet doors, I could hear her muttering to herself. Soft and steady with the repetitive musicality of prayer. As the door closed behind me, I caught the last lines of the Hashkiveinu.

I’ve just read back over all my previous entries. I don’t recognize who wrote them. A life lived by a stranger. Somebody I can barely remember.

If only time travel was as easy as turning a page. Flip back to a couple days ago, warn that person I used to be.

That morning, October 13, the alarm woke me at seven, hours later than I’d planned. Dan told me he’d reset my phone after waking up around midnight. He thought sleep was more important than helping him with stakes. I saw that he still had a few more to finish but he just smiled and said, “Why don’t you check the garden.”

He already had, saw what had happened, knew how happy it would make me.

It felt like Christmas morning. More pale arches rising from the soil. Yesterday’s strongest seedlings had managed to raise their entire bean up into the air. I could see the beginnings of tiny green leaves growing from the split. More little shoots, volunteers from the compost. Rice grass taller by at least half an inch. All in one night!

“You’ll need to support them,” that was Dan calling from the kitchen, “I mean, when they get taller. Isn’t that what you do for plants, you tie them to things, like tomato cages? Or baskets? What are they called?” He was behind me now, hand on the doorframe, smiling down at me. “We still got, like, a whole ton of little thin bamboo branches. Once we get time, you know, down the line, I can help you turn them into those cage-things or whatever.”

His arms around me, his kiss goodbye. Off to work, coconut stabber on his hip, spear in one hand and bread knife in the other. The Common House was almost denuded of bamboo. A dozen or so stalks to go. It wouldn’t take long, and when he stepped out onto the driveway, we couldn’t see or hear anything from the ridge. Still, I couldn’t help but utter “Be careful,” and got a grunting, caveman spear to chest in reply. I returned his salute with one of my own, a raised middle finger and the silently mouthed, “Love you.”

I stayed in the open doorway, shivering in the freezing air, watching him pass Effie and Palomino on their way to Reinhardt’s. It was Effie’s turn to take over from me, and despite her friendly wave, I suddenly worried that she thought I’d abandoned him. Of course, she didn’t, and of course I didn’t need to run over and explain how he’d kicked me out. But I did anyway, and ended up being grateful for the chat. She had good news. Finally, some positive stories from the Boothes’ car radio.

She told me they’d got that crazy shooter on the I-90. The road was open now, supplies in, evacuees out. The Canadians, just like in Katrina, were also on their way. The president had finally swallowed his pride (that’s what Carmen thought) and allowed foreign relief efforts in through the north. And because Seattle was “secured” (I guess that means no more riots), the authorities could focus on the towns damaged by Rainier.

Effie said, “That means they’ll be finding us soon.” She rubbed her daughter’s back vigorously. “When they start spreading out again, looking for survivors, they have to come across us!” I’d never seen her so animated. “Maybe we should put out a HELP sign. You know? Like they always do after storms? On roofs and stuff? I can’t believe we never thought about that until now! Maybe we could use a sheet”—she gestured to the grassy “helipad” in front of the Common House—“or just write it in all these”—a nod to the thrown rocks at our feet.

“Good idea,” I responded, but tempered it with, “once we make sure to finish—”

“Oh yeah!” She cut me off. “The ‘perimeter,’ of course! Definitely.”

I could see reality begin to cloud her zeal, reminding her of what still faced us. “Maybe tomorrow,” she tried.

I answered, “Maybe,” and, looking down at Pal, asked, “but for now, you still up for working in the garden?”

Her head bobbed enthusiastically as her mother headed for Reinhardt’s.

“It’s so beautiful,” I said, leading her inside. “When we finally get some time, we can start putting aluminum foil up on the wall.” More happy nods as she stopped to check each little plant. “And we should start thinking about supporting them,” I continued. “Dan had a good idea about how to use extra bamboo for…”

A muffled scream.

Distant, from Reinhardt’s.

We rushed back outside just in time to see Effie stumbling from his front door. I told Pal to go home, to find Carmen, and ran to catch Effie before she collapsed.

Eyes wide, voice and body shaking. Even before I got to her, I thought, Another heart attack. The first one was real and he’s just had another one last night! Effie didn’t talk, she couldn’t. Hyperventilating, trying to get the words out, she just waved frantically inside. Darting past her, into the living room, I’d already imagined what he must look like, lying on the couch, cold and blue. “Please don’t let his eyes be open.”

I saw the blood trails first. Two of them, narrow and wide, running parallel to each other from the hole in the back door to the empty, red-soaked couch. I felt Dan’s arm around my shoulders. I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t stop reading the story in front of me, imagining what must have happened while I slept peacefully at home.

They’d been so silent, pushing the cracked kitchen glass, testing it, waiting for a sound that would send them running. Patient, thoughtful. They must have edged the crinkling pane just enough from its frame to reach one long arm inside. Fumbling with the lock, solving the simple puzzle of the small metal switch. Sliding the frame open, pulling back the drapes, edging the table away. To accomplish all that with the dexterity and focus to not wake him up. Only one had come in, I could tell by the bloody footprints. A small one, maybe? Princess, or the younger, barely pubescent male? Would this have been his coming of age trial? A test of stealth, intelligence, and the strength to tear Reinhardt’s head off?

Because that’s what it did. Twisting, pulling. The darkest, deepest stain was at the base of his pillow. And he hadn’t struggled. Nothing was disturbed. Even his books, lying neatly stacked on the coffee table next to his glasses. He’d probably read them for a little while, realized he was too sleepy to concentrate. Set them aside, switched off the lamp, pulled the afghan up to his neck. He probably hadn’t heard it come in until it was standing over him. Did he wake up? A brush of fur against his face, the feeling of rough skin over his mouth? God, I hope he didn’t. Please, God, let him have slept through it all.

And yet, why does the alternative keep running through my mind? The story of him waking to this black hovering hulk. Pinprick eyes, warm breath, the clench of fingers around his throat. Why do I keep imagining that he chose not to fight back? As those fingers crushed his windpipe while another hand held him down. No kicking, no scratching. No attempt to save his own life. Why do I imagine that his few seconds of waking consciousness were frozen in terrified acceptance?

It has to be the bloody footprints. The space between those two enormous feet. So close together. I’ve seen them run, the stride would have only left a pair of prints between the couch and kitchen. These were too close, too numerous, and mixed with far too much blood. The parallel trails, thicker one left by the body, thinner by the head. Reinhardt’s head, splattering across the walls and floor, as if the killer, holding it by the mouth, had let it swing back and forth. Unhurried. Unafraid.

And why not? Why fear us when we can be invaded so easily, when we won’t even try to fight back?