What Sammy's Nickel Bought

Flushing Meadow was a suburban pastoral of cold wintry sunlight and bare lonely trees swaying in a fitful wind. The building which housed the world's town meeting lay strangely isolated in the brownish-green emptiness of dead lawns. Inside, the modernistic public lobby was filled with people who had come for a quick look at history before the Second General Assembly of the United Nations adjourned. A group of children clustered around a counter as excitedly as though it displayed candy and comics rather than U.N. literature. A tall, blond boy jumped up & down. "Sammy," he cried, "Sammy, lend me a nickel."

Sammy--who was smaller, but earnest beyond his years--looked up and said gravely: "I'm not going to be responsible." But eventually Sammy was swayed, and the other boy used the borrowed nickel to buy a copy of the United Nations Charter.

The boy's imagination (like that of the world) had been caught by something he obviously did not fully understand. What a world organization might do was obviously worth all the nickels (and all the zlotys, francs, rupees and dollars) ever minted. That, however, was another question, and one frequently confused with what the United Nations was actually doing. Was it worth Sammy's nickel?

Cato & Mr. Shylock. It was a typical day at the Assembly. Beyond the dull-orange doors, guarded by U.N.'s own police in bluish-grey uniforms, sat the spectators (mostly matrons and students) in a subdued glow of public spirit. From the rostrum at the far end of the huge hall, Russia's Andrei Vishinsky faced them. A proposal had been made by Argentina to submit the veto question to the "Little Assembly" for examination. Vishinsky fulminated against it, exploded with similes: ". . . They are repeating day after day 'the veto must be destroyed'; like Cato of old; [like the] Trojan horse; [like a] Walpurgis Night. . . ."

Cramped into tiny booths along the walls, interpreters translated his harsh Russian into four other languages. Their translations went out by short wave to small portable receiving sets (with earphones attached) which are issued to all delegates and visitors. They let the listener move about, untethered by wires. Vishinsky digressed to the Marshall Plan: ". . . The U.S. [wants] guarantees [like that] used by Mr. Shylock, when he demanded a pound of flesh. . . ."

Fascinating Future. While Vishinsky spoke, the "administrative" machinery beyond the Assembly hall droned on, too. That machinery was housed between weirdly impermanent walls; here & there, gaping holes revealed innards of makeshift wirings and scaffolds; the air was scented with ink, and cafeteria whiffs carried the hypnotically even whir of typewriters and Mimeographing machines.

The Transportation Office was oblivious to Vishinsky but in an uproar over a chauffeur called Gilbert, who was missing ("He couldn't take this long for lunch").

In the jumbled gloom of the storeroom, a gentle Negro complained of people's incurable acquisitiveness. "They think because they work for U.N. they can get everything. Just 'Gimme, gimme' all day long." In a velvet-draped chamber, visitors admired a model of the future U.N. headquarters (one of the few tangible signs that U.N. had a future). Said an exquisite young lady: "Oh, I think it's going to be fascinating." Then she pointed questioningly at a drab expanse on the model's edge. "Oh that," explained her guide. "That's New York."

Then they went on, leaving the future U.N. in a peace disturbed only by an unintentionally symbolic sign which read: "Serge, this is the equipment. Lancaster will help, he's the expert." There it all was: international effort, the expert, the equipment--everything, indeed, but the common purpose.

A Schizoid Mouse. Vishinsky was still talking. ". . . Mr. Dulles . . . reminded me of the fox who . . . sang encomiums and paeans of praise to the crow which was holding some cheese in her mouth. Well, the fox was only waiting for the crow to start singing. . . ."

In a corridor, a group of matrons were trying to decide whether to take any more of this, or to go home. A tall, distinguished-looking man came rushing down the corridor. "Let's go, ladies," he called rudely. They fluttered out of his way, and he rushed by toward an unknown destination, clutching a bottle of Scotch in his arms. A weary woman murmured: "Oh dear, when will we become world-minded?"

In 70 days the Assembly had acted on 63 agenda items; Russia and the West had not reached agreement on a single issue that would help make the peace. Russia announced that she would boycott the "Little Assembly" (created to function between regular assemblies), the commission established to supervise the Korean elections, the establishment of a permanent Balkan Commission. Most of the 70 days' work was a propaganda brouhaha.

Why did so much desperate hope for U.N.'s success bring forth such a schizoid mouse of futility? It was not the fault of the delegates--mostly hardworking, second-rate men who would have done no better had they been first-rate. U.N. could not stand above the nations because it was created by nations who wished nothing to stand above their sovereignty. And why was that? Because these nations did not recognize, as individuals within a nation did, the same basic laws; they were not parts of the same society. The Communist leaders had known this for 40 years; the 1947 U.N. Assembly session learned it, somewhat reluctantly.

Outside, the lonely pastoral scene grew dark. People began to leave. In one corner of the visitors' gallery, a pair of earphones lying on a chair continued to buzz. The translator's voice, like some angry insect, was a reminder that to carry physical communication to the edge of the perfect did not advance understanding, much less agreement.

What Sammy's nickel bought was hope and fear and conflict; peace would come higher--and, unfortunately, later.

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