One

You can call me Holder. It's one of your basic names, like Gold, Paper, and Anxious. Most of us belong to the Church of Peace, which is sort of Mennonite -- midwestern and rural. It's a little like Amish. Wherever you see a quaint horse and buggy on a rural freeway, you know there's a Church of Peace, and maybe some Holders, in the area. Most of us have given up the horse and buggy for American-made cars and pick up trucks, but you get the idea. We also refuse, absolutely, to kill anyone with a gun, or with anything else except good intentions. This is irritating to some of the neighbors, and during World War II there were some broken friendships about it. Ernest Blanding, the housing contractor, hated his good friend from high school, Myron Yoder, because Yoder had stayed out of the army as a conscientious objector, working in a nursing home, while Blanding had served in a submarine and seen action. They used to go bowling together and date the same girls, but now Blanding wouldn't even let his kids talk to the Yoder kids.

I wound up in the hospital, too, only not in a small town like the people of that generation. I went to Chicago, the nearest really big city, since the draft board allowed you to find your own position, and who wanted to stay in Plevna, Kansas, anyway, with its silos, memories, and boredom?

The draft board, Local 13 in Plevna, was famous already. There had been an article about it in Life describing a young father being dragged away from his wife's hospital room while she was giving birth to their first child. He was sent off to Vietnam, and a month later he was killed. The Hutchinson newspaper nearby put the news of his death back on page eight, next to the ads for cars. Everybody knew about Local 13. It was bad enough to get a letter from Selective Service. If the letter came from Local 13, your friends found it hard to look you in the eye when they talked to you.

It was the summer of 1968, and I'd just graduated from college. I was working for Ernest Blanding, saving money for grad school in English, when a letter came from the draft board. Now that my student deferment was at an end, the president and my fellow citizens had chosen me to defend the country. I responded with an application for status as a conscientious objector, along with a letter requesting immediate induction into "alternative service."

Two weeks later, I got a reply from the draft board. They would not accept my application on face value. I was to appear at a hearing to prove my sincerity as a pacifist.

On the day of the hearing, I combed my hair, put on a suit and tie, and walked to the grade school where I was to meet the committee. The clerk of the local board, Mrs. Factor, who looked like a sadistic librarian, ushered me into the office, which during the day was usually a faculty lounge. Two older men were already seated, folders open in front of them. They introduced themselves even though I already knew who they were. Plevna is a small town. Edwin Mulroony managed the Sylvia Coop six miles west of Plevna and Cecil Croomes owned the infamous Black Cat nightclub at the edge of Hutchinson about thirty miles away. Croomes also did some farming and hunting near his home a mile south of Plevna. At the Black Cat you could get served no matter what your age and spend some time with some very tired prostitute upstairs, if you had the right money. Mrs. Factor joined them, making the third panelist. I hadn't thought of it in years, but I just remembered the time I broke her garage window with a stone I was hitting with a baseball bat. I would have bet she remembered it too.

Mulrooney was apparently the chairman. Leaning over the table, face sagging like a bag of apples, he asked the question everyone asked conscientious objectors: "What would you do if you found a man raping your sister?" Croomes's face gleamed like an anvil as he waited for my answer. Mrs. Factor pursed her lips just as she did when she saw me and tearing off through her backyard with my bat in hand.

"Well," I said, "to begin with, I don't have a sister. My parents were very old when they had me. Secondly, most rapes are not carried out in public. So I take your question as pure speculation."

"I assume, of course, that my presence itself would be enough to send the rapist running away. This would amount to a kind of emotional jujitsu. In clear view of the rapist, I would symbolize the displeasure of society, and guilt would overcome him. Moreover, he would have no idea his victim was my sister, so the flight response would probably not be superseded by a stand-and-fight reaction. Because I'd remained calm, even the most salacious rapist would flee the scene."

"Salacious?" said Croomes.

I had made gestures in the air, as if catching mosquitos. The board looked at me with profound distaste. They had expected quotes from the Bible, Dr. Spock, and Tolstoy. But I could tell they liked the quasi-military metaphor, even if it was oriental. Most of all, they liked the pragmatism with which I perceived the situation. Morality was a matter of convience for them, too, in running a coop or a bar. Besides that, I was a twit. These COs were always twits, using words like "salacious." I had never used the word before, but somehow it was handed down to me from on high because it had the perfect effect.

"Tell me, Mr. Holder," said Mr. Mulroony, aggressively tapping his pencil on the table, "what would you do if you were confronted in any alley by a man with a knife, and there was no means of escape? Wouldn't you fight to protect your own life?" It was apparently also one of his favorite questions. He settled back in his chair and gave a knowing wink to the others.

"Mr. Mulroony," I said, "to tell you the truth, I wish harm to no living thing. It makes me sick to see an animal run over on the freeway. My grandfather nearly fell from the roof of his barn when he hit his thumb with his hammer. This runs in the family. My uncle Ralph walks down the street in a zigzag, trying to avoid the ants. I don't like cherry pie because of the color. If the attacker killed me, that would be God's will. I wouldn't fight back, because that might bring harm to him. The fact is, the more passive you are, the more you are feared. Passiveness not only exudes confidence; it can also be frighteningly aggressive."

Mulroony liked the part about God. His eyebrows shot onto the top of his bald head. The others were happy with it, too. The were also Christian fatalists. It was all in God's hands, but they assumed God sided with them, like in John Wayne movies. This meant I was protected from the man with the knife -- I knew about God's will and submitted to it. The bad guy lived only by his wits, so he knew nothing about surrender. That's why, in the end, he couldn't hurt me. Fatalism would protect me, and they knew it. Mrs. Factor seemed both instructed and amused.

"On a more practical basis, however," I continued, "I might be aggressively tender."

I may have gone too far. Mulroony gasped like he'd swallowed a squirrel. Croomes looked up from the backs of his hands as if he'd just discovered their use, and Mrs. Factor's face could only be described by an ornithologist.

"Did you say 'tender'?" Croomes said the word the way others say "sanitary napkin" in public. He broke it into two awkward syllables that seemed never to have belonged together.

"Yes." I was in so I better not hold back otherwise I could start packing. "As Jung once said, 'Sentimentality is a form of brutality.' I would approach the man with an excess of kindness, which, given the hateful conditions of his life up to that point, would confuse and disarm him. I would approach the offender with my arms extended, as if to embrace him."

I stood in front of the table with arms extended, like a divinity student about to bless some macaroni.

"I would counter his violence with a caress. At first he would be suspicious, watching for concealed weapons. But when he realized I only wanted to embrace him, he would run away, fearful of such kindness."

Mulroony was bright red, either from anger or embarrassment. Croomes seemed to be memorizing my face, in case I ever came into his bar. Mrs. Factor smiled like a lizard.

Mulroony's voice came from a dark cave, from about two thousand years ago.

"Mr. Holder, are you, or have your ever been . . . a, a, a . . . homosexual?"

"No, sir. Absolutely not!" I said, knowing that "yes" would have kept me out of the army forever, not to mention my family.

There was a rustle of papers as the three leaned to confer. Then Mulroony rose to his feet and told me to leave the room. A week later I received a letter indicating that I was to work for two years in public service, in a civilian capacity. There was no doubt about my pacifism and no end to the board's bewilderment. They only suspected I was queer. Better than that, they knew I was salaciously odd.