zesty_pinto | "The Forgotten Hero"

I promised not to say anything that would not make my meeting with him seem like something amazing, just to give facts, so I will keep my word even though this was a first for me. Like other people, I have always wanted to meet the man and here I was, allowed to give a one person interview with him. They said no cameras or video, but I was allowed to write down anything he said with me. It was not necessary though, since I could remember it by heart.

I was allowed to visit the man on Monday at 12:45, right in-between his daily lunch and medication. The day was sunny enough to break through the fenced-in windows and the day outside was pleasant on that May afternoon and the wards believed that the patients deserved to enjoy some Chopin as they broke bread. The man I met was kept in a separate room.
Sitting quietly in a stiff iron chair, in front of a small table that was covered in steel. The first thing I could see was his expression, sad but politely pleasant. There were chains clamped to his wrists, his ankles, and even his waist. I wondered why they even needed to since he seemed so mulled over with his quiet face. I already could see that they were unnecessary even though the world knew of the man. The time he spent behind padded walls and fenced windows did little to change his appearance; he still looked like the person I remembered. A small plastic tray rested in front of him, with a greasy tray, an open carton of milk, and a cup of tapioca, the filmy metal lid pulled free and exposing skin. It all looked so tiny compared to him. The nurse informed me he had already taken his medication and was quietly chewing on his dessert when he saw me.
The first words he said in his voice was, “Has the world forgotten me by now?” He did not sound proud when he said it, only inquisitive. I remembered that he was there for years.
I smiled.
“They still sell copies of you off shelves. Alex Ross is doing a giant-size cover of you and Frank Miller has come out with his twelfth issue of your fall and rebirth.”
His eyes shifted curiously, amused as I guess he would be “Rebirth?”
I laughed before I explained. “There has been a lot of rumors about you and some like to make legends about your career even after you… left your fame.”
He kept smiling and put a spoonful of white tapioca into his mouth. When he removed the spoon, he asked me.
“So I suppose you would like to ask me a few questions about my life?”
I gave another smile, nodding, not wanting to interrupt him between his lunch. He put down the plastic spoon gently against the tray and had a quiet face. The smile he had was distant, like he was looking for something that he had forgotten. I suppose the situation was awkward, but I asked anyway, trying to be as polite as I possibly could.
“Was there ever a time before…” I did not want to say, but I tried to continue “-before your ‘incident’ when you lost control of yourself?”
He sighed, looking disappointed. I was worried I had caused the man an undue pain, but he instead looked into a blank wall for memories.
“Yes. I think it was from the first time I lost someone I loved.” He closed his eyes, sighing.
“May I know?”
“It was in #34, April of 1944, ‘Fall of an Immortal’ I think it was called… I fell in love with Sophia.” He sighed again, thinking with a peaceful look in his eyes “Sophia… Barstein. When I found out she was part of the Nazi party, it was the hardest blow I ever felt emotionally.”
I nodded, remembering. Sophia was a child from Germany that grew up into a beautiful young woman. It was written that he fell in love with her, but found out that she was a spy sent to corrupt him to the regime of the Aryans. He was the one who eventually had to stop her and in issue #44, he had her locked away.
“I think what hurt the most was how it really happened.”
“How it really happened?”
He gave an idle nod “Her father was a member of the schultstaffel, the elite soldiers of Germany during World War II. They never believed in Hitler’s ideals, but they were a family that believed in their country and fought for it. She was sent to study in the United States in Columbia University because her family did not want her to suffer under the persecution they saw everyday.”
I nodded, trying to compare my memory of that issue with what he said. She was a scientist, it said, and while he studied there she forced herself upon him and told him to join the Nazis. It was considered one of the first times he ever fought a female villain.
“I think what really caught on to me was her ability to look beyond the nationalities. She saw me for more than some man with amazing abilities, but as someone that was human like her. When they found out that I was going to go to Lambaréné with her to work with the missionary Albert Schweitzer, she was sent to prison and they captured me for interrogation by the countries’ own. The secretary of War… defense, was Henry L. Stimson, and I remember him looking at me during interrogation like I had forgotten what it meant to be a symbol of the United States. I was told to not say a thing about what happened, except that she was a nazi spy and was executed for her crimes. … he was right about the execution, I later found out, and I was never allowed to visit her grave in Germany where her body was sent until the war was over. She was buried with the rest of her family, who died after the bombing of Berlin.”
I could see his eyes grow heavy with tears, and paused for a moment. In 1972 it was publicly released that there were some mistakes made in the crackdown for Nazi spies, including Sophia Barstein. I could see from his face that it did little to make him feel better. Issue #48, “Love returns to the Fallen” had him in a relationship with a woman that looked like Sophia, lasting only for two issues.
“I am sorry, should I give you some time away?”
He shook his head, sighing as he turned to face me, another polite smile in his face that reminded me of a grandparent’s “It is all right. She still remains here.” He said it as his hands touched his chest. Hearing the chains that held him rattle as he did this only made the mood feel more sad. I smiled. “Is there any other question you would like to ask?”
I nodded. There were a number of questions I had for the man “What is it like to have lived as long as you have?”
“Lonely, at times. Everyone I remember as a child is now with great grandchildren or dead. People come up to me like I am their long-lost grandfather and I never know what to say to them because I have no idea who they are even though they know who I am. Sometimes I visit my grandnephews and nieces and smile at how much they look like people I know, or act like people I remember.” I could see a warmness touch his face “And sometimes I see people that seem amazed at knowing how old I am, and how I get attracted looks by women as old as any great-grandchildren I would have. Sometimes I forget how looks change with time, and think I am surrounded by rude people, but then remember that times change.”
I nodded, smiling. “And were there times when you felt like things were against you?”
“It is a lot more common than you think. Sometimes I wonder if people just look at me as though I was just some idealist without any reality. When I try to stop people from hurting others, I wonder if I am the very fascist that I swore to oppose.” He sighed “Sometimes I even worry that people just don’t like me at all, and that they only act nice to me because I have… talents that no one else can use.”
“But how can you feel like that when you have thousands of writers and artists discuss and draw your very life everyday?”
He shook his head “My life was not as extravagant as people thought it was. I lived in a high-rise apartment that I never really lived in. I had no real friends except for one or two people every few decades. Even in my job, I struggled trying to keep my projects on time while I fought to save others.”
“But you didn’t have to, didn’t you?” The United States government considered him a military project and gave him regular funding for his service, and in 1993 the United Nations considered him honorary peacekeeper for nations during times of unrest, making him almost a national monument.
“If I did not work,” he said quietly “then I would not be able to talk with anyone except officers and military officials. At work, I would discuss things with people and feel like an equal around them.”
I nodded again. Most managers he worked under were usually ones that gave him the least amount of work, but they said that he was always a hard worker. Accounts from coworkers always said that he was a nice guy, but always a little distant and never able to really go out with the others after work.
A knock came at the door, and a nurse opened the door, who politely told me in his soft voice, “You have ten more minutes.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
The man looked at me. He did not seem to be emotionally troubled from anything, but restless. I felt like I was the first person to talk with him like this in years.
“Do you have one more question before you go?”
I did, but was unsure if I should have asked. “During your… incident…” I had trouble getting myself to speak.
“Are you curious about the incident that lead to me being here?”
He said it so peacefully. I nodded, though I felt so shy at that moment. He smiled with an understanding look that caused me to smile again out of reaction. I could not understand how he felt so troubled by people not liking him
“I know it may seem like a touchy subject,” he said “but it has been a few years.” He looked at the wall again, concentrating before he continued.
“I think the issue they first mentioned anything was #923, ‘A Betrayed Hero.’ In the late summer of 2001, it had been a month since I was married to Cathy and we had just finished our honeymoon. I had finally considered selling the apartment to live in a peaceful suburban neighborhood in Princeton, New Jersey. I quit my job to live a new life as an honorary lector in Princeton University where I was surrounded by professors who knew way more than I ever would except for history professors who thought I knew too much.” I laughed and he paused before he continued “About that time, Cathy was pregnant with a boy we were going to call Dylan, named after her favorite musician. He was going to be the second child I ever had.”
Issue #513 told about his first child. Her name was Beverly, who was later kidnapped when she was moving to a university during 1963. She was raped and murdered but when the culprit found out it was his daughter, he apologized, crying to an angry world and an enraged father that could not kill a man he could not forgive. The man was sentenced to death by injection by a mob craving death but even he knew that for all his powers, he could not bring life to those he lost so many times before, or save those that he truly loved.
“At the time I was also busy working under the FBI, who were growing suspicious of Russian military hardware being sold through black market sources, so between the lectures and the examinations I rarely was at home. When I came back, I found my wife in bed with one of the men I worked with in the University.” He had to pause again. I reminded myself how new this problem was for him.
“When I asked her why this happened, she told me it was because I was never around for her. She had needs, and… I was not fulfilling them. She wanted me to be home but I was too busy trying to feel like I could fit in, or busy saving the world. The man I knew was a good man at heart and felt sorry for her, and I admit that he warned me about how she felt at times about my behavior.” He sighed “I was just too busy saving the world to save my own relationship. I… filed for divorce with her and gave them my blessings.”
I had to interrupt, “Did you want things to be that way?”
He looked back at me, a stare going hard “It was the right thing to do.”
I nodded, not wanting to anger him as I could already see his large hands turning into fists at the thought. I remember hearing that he suffered from a lot of angry fan mail that said he committed a sin to leave his wife rather than patch things up, but from the way he spoke of it, I could see that he wanted her to be happy rather than anything else. He continued.
“Not long after, the bombing of the World Trade Center occurred and I was sent to Washington D.C. to help save what I could. 3,000 people died, and most of them from the World Trade Center where I would have been the most help. I felt like a coward to not stop anything, but they did not tell me anything until it was too late. Some people called me a coward that did not save the US when I was needed the most.” He gave another sigh.
“About that time, people began to suspect anyone Islamic or from the Asias. I had to stop people from killing innocent men and women whom they thought were terrorists and was called a betrayer of American values. Some people wanted me to wear a flag as a sign of patriotism and I could only think of the times when it was considered an insult to do anything but raise a flag in salute. I grew disgusted of people that began to wave flags around me, gave out pamphlets that swore against Islamic heritage, sell merchandise that almost celebrated the death of all these people…” When he lowered his face, he closed his eyes, and from the cowl of his lid, I saw tears fall “I could do nothing. Even the government would not listen to me when I requested for officials to look after the very people that were persecuted for their skin color. They agreed by making Homeland Security possible and wiretapping anyone that was from Southern Asia and the Middle East.”
The artists that printed this issue in his life as #926 “The Forgotten Hero,” suffered a number of bans and was quickly taken off the shelves of news stands save a very few. It was considered a controversial comic at the time and the United States government threatened to arrest anyone in the making of this comic under the grounds of treason. While there were people who were said to praise them, people would send them hate mail, bomb threats, envelopes with white powder in the hope of scaring them that it was anthrax, and thrown bricks. Even some of his greatest fans thought that they made this comic just so they could make money by selling out to a rebellious youth public rather than show his true values as the hero he was during the golden age of comics back in the 1940’s.
“After that, I suppose… I could not take it anymore. I hated that I was so defenseless, that I could not do anything to stop what was happening without betraying my own values, and that I was still just a lonely man made even lonelier. A few of my colleagues called me to ask if I was all right, but I would not make any phone calls. Some wanted me to move to another country, but I could not. I tried to commit suicide.” At this point he opened his eyes, still so wet, but smiling tiredly “It was not an easy thing to do when you are immortal. I already knew bullets and knives would not kill me, neither would falling from great distances. I was immune to drugs and even crushing myself under vehicles would do nothing.
I tried to fly. I went as high as I could into the sky, and kept going, up, up towards the sun, until I reached the clouds. I wanted to kill myself by suffocating to death, so I kept going, choking myself. Sometimes I saw my skin start to turn blue and my head started to feel good, which was a sign I was losing oxygen. By the time I saw the deep blue of space, I passed out.” He looked up, not finishing the rest of his tale. Everyone knew what happened afterwards.
Newspaper articles said he was found a month later in a mile-wide crater in the Gobi Desert of China under ten feet of sand. His clothes had burned off on the way down but he was untouched, and that he cried as he was taken to a US embassy. He was to receive medical treatment for the next ten years until he was considered sane enough to be a useful person to society.
“You look like you are about to cry,” he said to me.
I nodded, wiping my shoulder against my eyes. He smiled at me again and I felt like I still remembered him as the man that I always grew up loving as I grew up; the hero that we all wanted to be when we were children.
I stood up, smiling at him “Thank you. I suppose I have to go now.”
“It was a pleasure to talk to someone outside of this ward,” he said calmly. I felt like he wished there was more time to talk as well, to discuss the world again and find out what had changed. I reached for the door, touched the knob, and then turned when I heard a question.
“Are they… happy?”
I smiled, turning to him “Mom said when you’re allowed out again to contact her. Dad wants to catch up with you too. I had to give it to the nurse, but they had me bring some postcards.”
“They never like having me get any mail from the outside world,” he said with a quiet laugh “they’re always worried it might make me go off and escape.”
I laughed, smiling “I know.”
“You know, you still have her eyes,” he said.
“Yes, but I have my father’s talent.”
He smiled, “Make them proud.”
Before I left, I gave one last nod through my tearful grin “They are. You are.”