Girl Waits with Gun

by Amy Stewart

  The children spotted us and ran outside. The boy—whom we called Frankie to distinguish him from his father, Francis, and his grandfather, Frank—ran straight into Norma and almost knocked her over. The two of them shared a love of animals understood by no one else in the family. He led her indoors to ask her opinion about a nest of baby mice he’d uncovered in the garden. Lorraine, the older of the two, wore a dress she’d helped her mother make, and she and Fleurette fell into a conversation about collars and hemlines.

  That left me on the porch by myself, taking a deep breath before I followed them inside and subjected myself to my brother’s harangue.

  Fortunately, it was Bessie who got to me first. She ran to me before I’d even closed the door and reached up to wrap her arms around my neck. We’d always had an unexpected sort of kinship. She was kind and infinitely patient with my brother, and she ran a good household and raised two well-behaved children. For that I admired her even if I didn’t want to live the same kind of life she did. And in turn, for reasons I couldn’t fathom, she treated me as if I led an adventurous and exciting life out in Wyckoff, worthy of envy and approbation.

  “I’m glad to see you in one piece,” she said, almost in a whisper. “You gave us both a terrible scare. We didn’t tell the children.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “I’m sorry that you had to read it in the paper. That was thoughtless of us.”

  She stood back and smiled up at me, gripping my arms by the shoulders, and then leaned in again. “I’ve forbidden any talk of the newspapers in this house until after dinner.”

  Then she turned to lead me to the kitchen, adding in a low voice, “I only wish I could’ve taken a revolver and stood out there with you on Saturday night.”

  I laughed, imagining Bessie with a hand mixer in one hand and a gun in the other. “Come with me next time.”

  Bessie was rolling out dough on the drain board for another of what Francis called her “illustrious pies.” For the next hour we worked side by side, talking of little other than the children and the weather and Bessie’s volunteer work at the library. I marveled at how good it felt to be in a warm, well-appointed kitchen, enjoying such easygoing company. Maybe my life had been too rough lately. I was more relaxed in that kitchen than I had been in months.

  “If you enjoy this so much, Constance, you can take over the cooking at Christmas,” she said, grinning at me. “But you’ll have to wait until next year. We’re going to my aunt’s in Boston this year. Why don’t you all come with us?”

  “It’s too hard to leave the farm in the winter,” I said. “We’ll be fine on our own.”

  We ate our dinner in peace, with Bessie, Fleurette, and the children keeping up most of the conversation while Francis carved the birds and I passed the platters. It was a traditional Kopp family meal. Mother never did develop a taste for turkey, preferring a roasted goose or duck at the holidays. In keeping with her tradition, Bessie found a fine, fat duck and roasted a chicken as well. There were green beans and corn that she had canned last summer, pickled onions, and dinner rolls that exhaled steam when we broke them apart. The rolls were made according to a recipe of Mother’s that no one other than Bessie had ever mastered. Little chips of butter, as cold as ice, had to be cut into the dough at the last possible minute, and no one else seemed to have a knack for it.

  After dinner Norma and Fleurette stood to clear the table, and Francis and I stepped out on the back porch, where we could see Dolley nibbling at patches of thawed grass in the lawn. She pawed at the ground and slapped her tail around the way a person might hop up and down to keep warm.

  Francis closed the door behind us and said, “I wasn’t expecting to read about my sisters in the paper.”

  “Which paper?”

  “There was more than one?” He groaned, his breath like smoke in the air.

  “We made the news in New York and Philadelphia.”

  “No,” he said sharply. “I didn’t know about that.”

  For a minute we stood side by side in silence and let the sounds from inside the house settle in around us—the rattle of china and silver, the rush of water into a pan, the children’s footsteps through every room. Francis lit his pipe and the sweet tobacco smoke drifted over to me.

  I wasn’t about to apologize or offer up any sort of explanation. I waited for him to say his piece.

  “I didn’t know you had armed men guarding the house. Most of those things in the paper—you never told me about any of that.”

  “I know. I should have. But what would you have done? Bring us all here to live? What if Kaufman and his gang had followed us over here?”

  He leaned on his porch railing. “Well, I should have done more. You’re my responsibility.”

  “We are responsible for ourselves.”

  “And look at what a fine job you’ve done. What if those men at the creek had shot Fleurette?”

  “But they didn’t.”

  The door opened behind us. It was little Lorraine, sent by Bessie to ask us if we wanted coffee. We told her yes.

  When she was gone, he said, “I knew it was a bad idea to leave you girls out there by yourselves. It’s time to sell the farm.”

  I stared at him. “What do you mean? Mother meant it for us!”

  “But you girls won’t last out there much longer,” he said. “I’ve been down to the bank and had a look at your account.”

  “You did what?” I shouted.

  “Shhhhh,” he said. “Listen to me. You can’t keep selling off plots of land to pay the bills. What are you going to do? Mother didn’t leave enough to support three girls for the rest of their lives. Within a year you’re going to need some other income. And unless one of you has a husband in the wings I’m not aware of . . .”

  “A husband? Now you’re trying to pawn us off on a husband?”

  He laughed. “I’ve never heard marriage described that way.”

  I leaned back and looked out into the approaching darkness. “Can’t this wait? They’re about to arrest him, and then we can put all this behind us. We’ll sit down and figure something out.”

  Francis tilted his head and looked over at me, considering it. “All right. After Christmas. But no later than spring. That’s a good time to sell a farm. It’s the best thing for you. You’ll see.”

  We sat together in uneasy silence. I heard the rattle of an automobile in the street and wondered if it was the sheriff. I didn’t dare lean around the porch to look.

  40

  ARREST IN BLACK HAND LETTERS CASE

  Harry Kaufman, Silk Dyer, of Paterson,

  Indicted By Federal Grand Jury

  for Threatening the

  Misses Constance and Florette Kopp, of Wyckoff.

  DEC. 3—HARRY KAUFMAN, conducting a silk dyeing establishment in Paterson, is under arrest on a Federal indictment found in Newark, charging him with improper use of the mails. He was released subject to bail posted by his sister, Mrs. Marion Garfinkel of Pittsburgh.

  Detective Francis A. Butler, who investigated the case upon receiving the sensational story of Miss Constance Kopp, of Wyckoff, made the arrest, and the indictment was the outcome of his inquiry.

  The Evening Record last week told of the lively experiences of the Misses Kopp, all of which followed their encounter with Kaufman in Paterson nearly six months ago, when his auto crashed into their buggy. Kaufman refused to pay $50 for the damage done, and the suit was instituted.

  Constance Kopp says anonymous letters began to arrive, threatening all sorts of disaster if they continued the suit against Kaufman. Armed men began to prowl around the house after dark, and shots were fired to terrorize the family and even at members of the family.

  County Detectives Blauvelt and Courter, Prosecutor Wright, Assistant Prosecutor Zabriskie, Judge Seufert, and the Franklin Township Committee have all been working on this unusual case and the trial will no doubt prove particularly interesting.

  Sheriff Heath has provided an armed guard at the Kop
p home for some time past.

  “WHO ARE ALL THESE PEOPLE?” I asked, setting down the newspaper and looking up at Sheriff Heath, who stood beaming at me along with Deputy Morris and Deputy English. Fleurette and Norma sat next to me on the divan, reading over my shoulder. Norma reached out with her scissors for the headline, but I batted her hand away. “Detective Blauvelt and Prosecutor Zabriskie and Detective Butler? I’ve never seen any of those men in my life. And since when has the Franklin Township Committee been involved? I thought they went after horse thieves.”

  Sheriff Heath grinned and pulled up a chair. “I believe you just learned an important lesson about law enforcement in Bergen County. My men do the hard work of chasing after thieves and shooting at intruders in the middle of the night. Then, as soon as a reporter turns up with a pencil and a notepad, the detectives and prosecutors leap from their desks long enough to make the arrest, serve the indictment, and make sure the papers spell their names right. That’s their job, as they see it. We pay no attention to it and go about our business.”

  “That’s no way to win reelection,” Norma said. “It’s no wonder you’re so unpopular in the papers. All anyone ever hears are your complaints about prison conditions.”

  Sheriff Heath was in high spirits and couldn’t be bothered by Norma’s opinions. “I speak up for the people under my care,” he said. “It’s my duty. The voters in Bergen County can make their decision based on my actions, not the words of reporter who can’t spell the name of either the criminal or his victim.”

  “I’d vote for you,” Fleurette said.

  He nodded and rose to leave. “You ladies might just get your chance.”

  He reminded us that Mr. Kaufman would be free until the trial. “He’s been warned that if anyone comes near your house, sends you a letter, or threatens you in any way, we will arrest him again and hold him this time. His lawyer is advising him to do as we say, and so is his sister. I don’t think you need us patrolling at night anymore. But we’ll drive by as often as we can.”

  We followed the men to the door, and I opened it, letting in a blast of freezing wind. “Thank you, Sheriff. I’m sure we’ll be fine. But what about Lucy Blake? Haven’t you turned up anything? Hasn’t anyone reported her missing?”

  “We’ve made inquiries, but I suspect she’s just run off. There’s not much we can do about that.”

  Fleurette clung to my arm and bounced up and down on her toes. “But what about the child?” she said. “We’re quite convinced Mr. Kaufman was involved.”

  “You don’t know that,” Norma said.

  Sheriff Heath pulled his collar around his neck. “He claims not to know a thing about it. I’m sorry, ladies, but we’ve just got nothing to go on.”

  Norma said, “I suppose the trial will be postponed until after Christmas?”

  “Christmas? Oh, no. The trial won’t commence for several months. The courts are terribly behind, and Mr. Kaufman’s attorney will do everything he can to delay. He has no chance of winning, so his only hope is to put it off and send his client a nice high bill every month.”

  “You mean he’ll be free for months before he goes to jail?” I said. I couldn’t imagine living in a state of uncertainty for that long.

  Sheriff Heath looked at his deputies and reached around us to close the door again. In a careful, somber voice, he said, “I beg your forgiveness if I’ve given you the wrong impression. We don’t expect him to be sentenced to any time in prison. He’ll get a good steep fine, but I believe his sister will pay it. And if she does, he’ll stay out of jail unless he bothers you again. That’s how these cases go.”

  Norma put her hands on her hips, jabbing me with her elbow as she did. “Why on earth wouldn’t he go to jail? Are men in this country at liberty to shoot at windows and traipse through houses starting fires with no fear of punishment?”

  The sheriff started to answer. “Miss Kopp, I—”

  But I cut him off. “Do you mean that you’re not ever going to lock him up? He’ll just be out there, doing as he pleases? Forever? And what are we to do?” I looked down at Fleurette and tried to imagine letting her go to town by herself while Henry Kaufman remained free. How would I possibly keep her safe?

  “You may feel that we can go about without any sort of protection,” I said, “but I don’t see how. I intend to keep my revolver, and don’t be surprised if I have reason to use it.”

  The sheriff gave me a long and steady look. “That’s fine. Keep the gun.”

  Was he really leaving this to me? “I’d rather put Henry Kaufman in prison and go back to sleeping through the night,” I said.

  “Miss Kopp. You’re asking for something I can’t give you. I’d hold him under my roof for the rest of his days if I could. But the truth is that I can’t prove anything except threats and intimidation, misuse of the mail, and a few shots that did nothing more than break a window and scare everybody.”

  “And that’s not enough to put him in jail?”

  “He’ll pay for what he did. His name will be dragged through the papers. Between the fines and the fees his attorney will charge, this will hit his family in the pocketbook. And he’ll go straight to jail if he so much as looks at the three of you ever again. That’s the best I can do.”

  There was nothing else to say. We mumbled our thanks to the men and they pushed the door open and ran against the wind to their automobile.

  41

  THE NEXT FEW WEEKS brought one of the worst ice storms in New Jersey’s history. A motor car slid off an icy bridge and tumbled into the Hackensack River, sending a newly married couple to their death. A wagon taking children to a church concert got stuck in a drift of snow, and two of the boys walked five miles to get help. Their feet froze along the way. One of them lost two toes and the other lost three. The schools in Paterson closed and so did the courthouse, because so few people could get to work.

  Only the mills kept going, fueled by enormous boilers and the sweat of workers who could not afford to miss a day’s pay at Christmas. The sky was perpetually gray above them from the steam and smoke belched into the air at all hours. This was the busiest season, when New York demanded all the ribbon and tassels and brightly colored fabric for party dresses that the mills could produce. Even when every road in Paterson was impassable, one route from the mills to the train station remained open. They didn’t miss a single shipment.

  The dyers and their helpers suffered more than any other silk worker in the winter. At least the weavers could stay dry. In the unheated dye shops, the steam and drippings from the tubs froze, making the floors slick with ice. Even the workers’ clothes, soaked through with dye, would freeze on the way home. That used to be Lucy, running through the icy streets after sundown, her clammy apron stuck to her skin.

  If we never found her, what would become of her and her child? Sometimes at night I stood at my window and looked out at the ice on the meadow and the barn roof and thought not just of Henry Kaufman and the torment he’d brought upon us, and Lucy, and who knows how many others, but of all the madness and malfeasance in the world beyond our rutted road. I understood the haunted look Sheriff Heath so often wore. To take a stand against it—to try to save one wronged girl or put one thief or murderer behind bars—would have been like trying to stop a locomotive with a patent leather bridle. I wondered what made the sheriff think he should even try. Most men would leave it to someone else and pursue a more comfortable occupation. But Sheriff Heath sought out his office. He campaigned for it. I understood why Mrs. Heath seemed so unhappy. It could not have been an easy life.

  We saw very little of him or his deputies as the year drew to an end. It was too difficult for them to get down our road. We took comfort in the fact that if the sheriff couldn’t get to us, neither could any other automobile. Even the milk wagon came only twice a week. The boy driving it seemed lonely, too. He stopped to talk to us every time he went by and always accepted our invitation to come inside and get warm.

  Norma and I t
ook up our own sort of patrol, circling our house and grounds with our revolvers plainly drawn every few hours. We went even in the hail and the snow. It was probably an unnecessary exercise, but we both needed something to do. Life was very dull without the deputies around. We had a resolution of sorts to our case, but not the satisfaction of catching Henry Kaufman in the act of any crime. I did wish he would turn up once more so I could take a shot at him.

  Still, we felt freer than we had in months. I read books in bed and slept late. We played cards and took on little projects around the house. Fleurette made a new set of curtains for the kitchen, and I began to scrape off the wallpaper in Mother’s bedroom.

  Then another letter arrived. The envelope was typed this time, not written out by hand, so I assumed it was a bill. I didn’t even open it until I sat down at my desk that night. When I saw the first line I gasped. Norma and Fleurette ran across the room to read it over my shoulder.

  December 21, 1914

  George Ewing

  78 Albion St.

  Paterson, NJ

  Dear Miss Kopp,

  I overheard a deep laid conspiracy to abduct Florette. You have in some way been able to obtain the abhorrence of a dirty gang of Italians. For the time being all is O.K. Tell your girl not to answer any fake wire or phone calls to hospitals or other places. This can be settled, and you and I and the gang the only ones to know it. Keep your head. Don’t go and publish anything in the newspapers, or it will spoil our plans.