“What would happen if
the entire world were silent at the same time? For like, twelve minutes or so,”
was the line that woke me up in a reading someone was sharing to begin the Days
of Awe. I was stunned by its simplicity
and yet piqued by its power. Everyone?
Everywhere? In every corner of the
world, and every way of being human? Diverse people of all shapes, sizes and
colors stopping what they are doing, and silently embracing quiet together,
while the planet still spins. It’s a
distracting thought for someone literal, and especially when considering the
logistics.
Silenced radios, phones and TVs; quieted cars, planes, boats,
tractors and escalators; hushed villages, cruise ships, stores, stadiums, trains, movie
theatres, Ferris wheels, subways; people perfectly still in offices, airports,
and on mountains, islands, motorcycles, buses and streets. Quietly feeding chickens. Silently birthing babies. An entire human race muted while making love.
Muffled mid-crime, in war and as
terrorists. Twelve minutes of a world completely
quiet in the universe because all its people agree to give it a try, and seek out
its unknown result.
It seemed a compelling and yet ridiculous thought.
It was then I remembered him.
Something about the silence, and overwhelming ridiculousness
of it all at once, and the way my mind wanders seeking patterns, is when he
came back to me: Peter. A man I never met but to whom I was connected
in silence, for three years.
His memory floated in front of me, suddenly out of nowhere
after forty years. Caught somewhere between one moment of listening and the
next in memory. Disconnected from its
source and out of place with its purpose. Like a feather, simply falling from
the sky. Mesmerizing me with its flutter and gentle dance downward from the
past. Teasing me to pluck it out of the
air, remember and take it home. For safe
keeping.
Peter Shoeffel. The
man I never met who was in a war I barely understood.
Cmdr. Peter V. Shoeffel, the name I was randomly given when
I ordered my Vietnam POW bracelet to wear in 1970.
It’s entirely possible I read this Navy commander’s name on
my wrist a hundred times a day, for those three years: Glancing down while grabbing things, getting
dressed, driving, reading, eating, and gesticulating my way freely through
everyday life. Feeling
the engraved letters absent mindedly when I was bored. Being in
silence a few minutes every night before slept:
Reflecting
in earnest to let him know he was not alone. Always
asking the universe to keep him alive, the Vietcong to spare him, and this war to
end soon.
Life went on and my bracelet never came off. I graduated high school and wore it into
college. After a good while it was a regular
part of me. No one noticed anymore.
Until March, 1973 when the POW in the Hoa Lo were set
free. Peter had been in what was
cryptically known as the Hanoi Hotel or Heartbreak Hotel. It was announced on the evening news that
newspapers would publish the names of these POW survivors soon. I checked the paper every day until I finally
found it. The Boston Globe simply posted
it on the flip side of the obituary page in an ironic reflective placement. Today
my old, yellowed original copy creates a surreal, macabre reflection of
content. The article simply states, “the
108 to go free tomorrow” in lower case and underneath is a modest list of names
in very small font. They were in alphabetical order from Andrews to Zuhoski,
with a civilian named Bobby Kneesee thrown in as 108. At the time I skipped
right over the unfamiliar name John McCain who was number 58 on the list.
I stopped cold on number 70:
Peter vanRuyter Schoeffel. He was
alive, and now free.
The intention of my three year silent support and our
national vigil of hope for their survival were finally over. But I hadn’t a clue what I was supposed to do
next, except simply take some jewelry off. These men had been tortured prisoners
for over five years and the ridiculous reality was I had worn what seemed a
stupid bracelet, thinking it would help.
I began to imagine them coming home, reuniting with family, carrying the
pain of war and horror they endured. His
courage and survival in silence were mindboggling. It left me feeling inadequate with a gaping,
humble hole of helplessness and rage at the atrocities of war. I was lost.
But it was the silence that carried me and brought me
home. The three years had taught me something
I couldn’t put in words and yet could feel.
I hold immeasurable gratitude for Cmdr. Shoeffel’s sacrifice of silence which
connected him to us all. In reality, this silent vigil with a bracelet and a
name had marked my own coming of age in a time of war and into the human race.
“What would happen if the entire world were silent at the
same time? For like, twelve minutes or so.” I am simply in awe of its endless possibility for peace.
"In bitter times a whisper came,
That seemed an easy thing to say,
But was to us a guiding flame
To light a long and weary way:
"Have faith, hold fast..."
Excerpt from "The Creed," by Peter vanRuyter Schoeffel
(Creed source: Matt Soergel, Florida Times Union, 3.23.08)
"Pete Schoeffel wrote poems, tales of home and hope and despair that, for years, existed only in his head."
Photo: Don Farrall
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