Time to get going! My mother was calling from the kitchen. I turned over in bed and watched her stride into my room in her brisk way and pull the curtains open. The morning sun poured in.
We have places to go, things to do, she said. It was Saturday morning, a good time for tearing around the block on my bicycle and waving to the neighbours.
This was a different day. The night before my mother had pointed out the clothes I was going to wear. I looked in the mirror and saw a smartly dressed schoolgirl, the kind who looked trim and tidy. Who was that?
We waited on the front porch until a big car drove up. The driver leaned out the window. I called him the captain, since he wore an army beret and liked to be in charge of things.
We did not have far to go, and after we parked, we walked down to a busy street with wide sidewalks and the hum of traffic all around.
My mother and her friends set up card tables and posters and talked to each other in a busy way. A large stone building across the street looked back at us indifferently.
But people were stopping at our tables. Some were leaning over to sign papers. I could hear snatches of conversation.
What’s the difference, a man was asking, pointing at one of the signs with big black words on it: “STOP THE H-BOMB”.
A thousand times worse, a thousand times, the captain was saying, shaking his head as if he had already seen it happen.
I knew about the A-bomb. My mother and father showed me the pictures. The flash of light. The melting skin. They told me stories about the children who survived and how some of them died later anyway. H-bomb? It was a long distance from A to H without the whole world blowing up.
How many of them are there? a lady was asking.
We don’t really know, came the answer, this time from somebody else. They are doing tests. First it’s country number one, now two. Who knows how many after that!
It’s a race, a familiar voice said, and I saw it was my mother. Nobody can win this race, she said firmly.
I was thinking about that when a car beeped its horn and stopped at the curb. A slight, handsome man got out on the passenger side, stepping gingerly. He walked with canes and was followed by a woman in a long coat. A man with a notebook started asking questions. I heard him answer slowly, so the man could write it down.
The atomic bomb was an abomination, and we stopped it, for now at least. The hydrogen bomb is the latest madness.
Another voice joined in, a tall man, in a light suit but with a black shirt and a round white collar.
Yes indeed, he said. We had millions of names against the A-bomb and we need to do that again.
Who is signing? The man with the notebook asked.
See for yourself, he answered, pointing to the table. Ordinary people, people in the street, all around the world.
And scientists too, the man with the canes added. Einstein, for instance, says he is scared. That is something to remember. When Einstein’s scared…
He looked around, and his eyes landed on me.
When Einstein’s scared, young lady, who else is scared?
Everybody? I said.
Right. Everybody. When Einstein’s scared, I’m scared too.
We stayed there all morning, asking people to sign their names. The captain came up and stood beside me in his broad-shouldered way and asked if I wanted to have a sign and spread the message.
What about Einstein? I asked him.
Yes?
Can we have a special sign for him?
I told him what to write and he took one of the posters and turned it over and printed on the other side: “When Einstein’s scared, I’m scared.” He attached a loop of string at the top and adjusted the top so that I could wear it.
The street was crowded now, but people stepped aside as I marched up and down the sidewalk.
I kept going back and forth, keeping an eye on the table and the people stopping there. Then I felt a firm hand holding my shoulder. I heard a gruff voice in my ear.
Do you have a licence for that? It sounded, just maybe, like it was supposed to be a joke.
Leave the girl alone, somebody else said, and the hand fell free.
I didn’t look up to see who these people were. I just continued down the block, more determined than ever.
May I take your picture, ma’am? It was a familiar voice, and I realized it was my father. He had been away all week. You look so grown up, he said, giving me a hug and saying, I see you are doing your part. Then he took a picture of me with my sign, and after that we went and surprised my mother.
When we climbed into our own car, I put my sign carefully in the back seat. We stopped for tomato soup and crackers, and my mother explained how many pages of names they had collected that morning. Then we went to the grocery store and the library, as if nothing unusual had happened.
The next morning, when my mother and father were still in bed, I collected my sign and got my bicycle out. It was a quiet Sunday morning, and I started out around the block. I wore my special sign on my back so everyone could see it as I passed by.
It was another morning with places to go, things to do.
Eva Jean is a Canadian writer who is old enough to remember the 1950s.
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