The plot against America by Philip Roth Page B

police are the wrong solution."
    "No, that is the right solution. Call the police," my father repeated to the manager. "There are laws in this country against people like you."
    The manager reached for the phone, and while he dialed, Mr. Taylor went over to our bags, swept up two in either hand, and carried them out of the hotel.
    My mother said, "Herman, it's over. Mr. Taylor took the bags."
    "No, Bess," he said bitterly. "I've had enough of their guff. I want to talk to the police."
    Mr. Taylor reentered the lobby on the run and without stopping bore down on the desk, where the manager was completing his call. In a lowered voice, he spoke only to my father. "There is a nice hotel not very far away. I telephoned them from the booth outside. They have a room for you. It's a nice hotel on a nice street. Let's drive over there and get the family registered."
    "Thank you, Mr. Taylor. But right now we are waiting for the police. I want them to remind this man of the words in the Gettysburg Address that I read carved up there just today."
    The people watching all smiled at one another when my father mentioned the Gettysburg Address.
    I whispered to my brother, "What happened?"
    "Anti-Semitism," he whispered back.
    From where we were standing we saw the two policemen when they arrived on their motorcycles. We watched them cut their engines and come into the hotel. One of them stationed himself just inside the door, where he could keep an eye on everybody while the other approached the front desk and beckoned the manager over to where the two of them could speak confidentially.
    "Officer—" my father said.
    The policeman spun around and said, "I can attend to only one party to a dispute at a time, sir," and resumed talking with the manager, his chin cupped thoughtfully in one hand.
    My father turned to us. "Got to be done, boys." To my mother he said, "There's nothing to worry about."
    Having finished his discussion with the manager, the policeman now came around to talk to my father. He didn't smile as he had intermittently while standing and listening to the manager, but he spoke nonetheless without a trace of anger and in a tone that seemed friendly at first. "What's the problem, Roth?"
    "We sent a deposit for a room at this hotel for three nights. We received a letter confirming everything. My wife has the paperwork in our bags. We get here today, we register, we occupy the room and unpack, we go out to sightsee, and when we come back we're evicted because the room was reserved for somebody else."
    "And the problem?" the cop asked.
    "We're a family of four, Officer. We drove all the way from New Jersey. You can't just throw us into the street."
    "But," said the cop, "if somebody else reserves a room—"
    "But there is nobody else! And if there was, why should we take a back seat to them?"
    "But the manager returned your deposit. He even packed up your belongings for you."
    "Officer, you're not understanding me. Why should our reservation take a back seat to theirs? I was with my family at the Lincoln Memorial. They have the Gettysburg Address up on the wall. You know what the words are that are written there? 'All men are created equal.'"
    "But that doesn't mean all hotel reservations are created equal."
    The policeman's voice carried to the bystanders at the edge of the lobby; unable any longer to control themselves, some of them laughed aloud.
    My mother left Sandy and me standing alone in order to step forward now and intervene. She had been waiting for a moment when she wouldn't make things worse, and, despite her rapid breathing, seemed to believe this was it. "Dear, let's just go," she beseeched my father. "Mr. Taylor found us a room nearby."
    "No!" my father cried, and he threw off the hand with which she had tried to snatch his arm. "This policeman knows why we were evicted. He knows, the manager knows, everybody in this lobby knows."
    "I think you ought to listen to your wife," the cop said. "I think you ought to do