by Andrew Kane
“I agree we must respond, but we must respond with clarity of purpose and objective. We must respond in a way that sets an example, not in a way that further fuels the flames of hatred…”
He was about finished when Thompson jumped out of his seat, and yelled, “Tell me, Mr. Eubanks, will you go to Bensonhurst to protest?”
Joshua had anticipated this. “Yes,” he yelled back. “I will go to Bensonhurst, and I will protest against violence and hatred! But I will not participate in violence or hatred, neither in Bensonhurst, and certainly not here!”
The room was quiet for a few seconds. Then came the responses to Joshua. The discussion went back and forth for a long while, until a somewhat less than unanimous decision was reached. Joshua won; there would be no official protests in Crown Heights. Everyone would encourage friends and neighbors to join the already scheduled protests in Bensonhurst. The problems in Crown Heights would be tabled “for now.”
At the conclusion of the meeting, Thompson approached Joshua. “So, Mr. Eubanks, you shall be joining us on the streets after all,” he said gleefully, as if victory was actually his.
“Yes I will,” Joshua answered firmly, cloaking any hint of ambivalence. “By the way,” he added, “it won’t be the first time. I was at the march to city hall the day after Arthur Miller died.”
“Were you now?” he asked, his grin sobered.
“Indeed. You know, Professor, there are times a man must stand up for what he believes.”
“Yes, seems I taught you something, didn’t I?”
“More than you know.”
Joshua was about to leave, when Jerome caught up with him. “Did you get my phone message?” he asked.
“Yes,” Joshua said, appearing embarrassed at not having returned the call. “I had so many messages about this meeting, I didn’t think it was necessary to…”
“It wasn’t only about the meeting.” His expression was somber.
Joshua looked at him curiously.
“It was also about Celeste.”
“Celeste?”
“I heard from her recently, and thought you might want to know.”
“Know what?”
Jerome’s eyes watered. “She has AIDS,” he answered.
“AIDS? My God!”
Joshua suddenly felt connected to Jerome in a way that he would have sworn had died long ago. Jerome was telling him because there was no one else who would understand. “Where is she?” he asked.
“She wouldn’t say. I think she’s still on the streets.” Jerome took a handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe his eyes. “I think she’ll call again; she sounded in a bad way.”
“Call me if she does, please!”
“I will.”
Joshua placed his hand on his old friend’s arm. “Jerome, you know my feelings for Celeste. If there’s anything you or she needs, I’m there.”
Jerome looked into Joshua’s eyes. “Let’s just get through this Bensonhurst mess, then we’ll see.”
“Good.” Joshua released Jerome’s arm and held out his hand for Jerome to shake. Jerome took it, as always, but this time Joshua sensed something beyond mere civility, something more akin to desperation. Or maybe even forgiveness.
They marched, three hundred strong, through the streets of Bensonhurst, only to be jeered by an equal number of white spectators, many holding up watermelons and chanting obscenities. It reminded Joshua of the protests in the deep south during the sixties, scenes he had watched on film, distant events and places in which he had never imagined finding himself. Yet here he was, almost thirty years later, inextricably tied to this legacy of indignity and defilement, wondering if he could ever have truly escaped it.
There were more protests over the following weeks, smaller in number, targeting the Brooklyn courts and City Hall. The Koch administration came under attack from black leaders, contending that the mayor had a longstanding history of insensitivity to the minority community, and had demonstrated a lack of leadership in quelling racial conflicts.
On November 7, 1989, David Dinkins defeated Rudolph Giuliani, and became the first black mayor of New York City. Pundits speculated that the election came on the heels of the Bensonhurst incident, bringing flocks of minorities and liberals to the voting booths to right some recent wrongs. They finally achieved victory; the largest city in the world now had a black man in City Hall. There was great jubilation in the community. The Hawkins incident was at rest, at least for a while.
Six months later, when the trials began, the protests and marches returned, and Thompson and Williams were once again grabbing headlines. Joshua observed their adventures through the press, seeing mostly youthful protestors struggling to balance rage with the struggle for dignity. And while he stayed away from the frontlines, he somehow always saw himself in the pictures.
Eventually, only one of a total of eight defendants was convicted of second degree murder, and sentenced to thirty-two years to life imprisonment. Two others were acquitted of murder and manslaughter, but found guilty of lesser charges and also sentenced to prison. Another two were acquitted of all major charges, but found guilty to lesser charges and sentenced to probation and community service. The remaining three were acquitted of all charges.
The jubilation was over.
CHAPTER 61
A spring day, the beginning of May, 1991. Rachel Weissman exited her apartment building and sauntered down the block, absorbing the scents of budding trees and early flowers. It was good to be up and about.
Aside from a recent backache keeping her from work for the past two days, she had been maintaining her health. It had been almost three years since the nodule in her lung had been removed. The radiation and chemotherapy had been extensive, and as horrible a memory as it was, she was determined to put it behind her. Her subsequent checkups, most recently five months ago, had all been promising. No signs of metastases. Still, no one would guarantee she was out of the woods.
But she was out of the house, and the sky was bright. Two days in bed with her back was more than enough for her. She still had some mild discomfort, but the muscle relaxant Dr. Schiffman had prescribed seemed to be doing the trick. Rachel loved these early morning walks to the dress shop. Nothing was going to spoil her day. Years earlier, she hadn’t realized how precious a simple walk could be.
She arrived at the store, and immediately got busy. She had been working on the inventory the afternoon of her last day in the store, and wondered for a moment where she had left the notebook. She tried to think, but couldn’t remember. “Have either of you seen the inventory book,” she asked her boss, Mrs. Rosenberg, and the other woman who worked with her.
“Sure, it’s right here,” her boss said, opening a drawer under the counter. “Exactly where you put it yesterday.”
Rachel felt funny for an instant; how could I have forgotten that? “It must be spring fever,” she said, feigning a smile.
Chava Sims peeked through the window of Rosenberg’s dress shop and found what she was looking for. Inside, assisting a customer with a fitting, was the woman. Chava had seen her many times before, on the avenue and in the synagogue, but had never actually spoken with her. Now, that was going to change.
For years, Chava had endured rumors of her husband’s interest in this woman. For years, she had tried to ignore them, or forget. But not today. She just had to learn more about what it was that so enthralled her husband.
Chava grew anxious at the sight of Rachel, and for a moment considered turning back. But she couldn’t. She had obsessed over this for weeks, and was going to go through with it. She grasped her pocketbook tightly, took a deep breath, and entered the store.
The bell above the door rang as she entered. It was noontime and Rachel was alone while the others were at lunch. She turned toward the door to see who it was, and thought the face familiar. She offered her saleswoman smile, and held up a finger, indicating she would be right over. Just then, it hit her: the face belonged to the wife of Pinchas Sims
. She felt a lump in her throat, turned to glance at the woman once again, and their eyes met.
Rachel nervously finished with the fitting. “Looks great,” she said to the woman who was trying on the dress.
“You think so?” the woman asked.
“Stunning,” Rachel replied.
“Okay, I’ll take it,” the woman said.
Chava was browsing through the racks. She hadn’t come to buy, but one never knew for certain, especially with such nice things and a healthy bank account.
“I’ll be right with you,” Rachel called to Chava as she rang up the cash register.
“You’re really sure?” the woman asked again.
“Positive. It’s to die for; your husband’s going to love it.”
Rachel bagged the dress, handed the woman back her credit card, and assured her that everything was returnable. The woman thanked Rachel and went on her way, leaving Rachel and Chava alone in the store. Rachel walked over to Chava, trying to conceal her uneasiness. “Is there anything I can help you with?” she asked.
“No, not really. I’m just looking.” Chava was equally uncomfortable; she hadn’t really planned on what to say.
“Okay, well I’ll be over there,” Rachel said, pointing to the register. “If you need me, just call.”
“Yes,” Chava said hesitantly, “I will.”
Rachel walked behind the counter and Chava continued perusing the dresses. The silence was cold, broken only by the screeching of hangers against the metal racks, as Chava moved the dresses, and by the turning of pages as Rachel thumbed through the inventory book. Rachel looked at the clock. About five minutes until the others were to return from lunch—an eternity.
“You’re Rachel Weissman, aren’t you?” Chava said from across the store.
“Yes, I am. How did you know?”
“Oh, I’ve seen you around,” Chava answered, her eyes on the dresses. “Your father, may his soul rest in peace, was a pious man. It’s hard having a father like that and not having people know who you are.”
“I guess so,” Rachel responded, observing Chava, as if challenging her to reveal the purpose of her visit.
“Do you know who I am?”
“I think I do. Your husband is Pinchas Sims?”
“Yes. I’m Chava.” Hesitation. “You know Pinchas?”
“I remember him from years ago. He used to come to our home for Shabbos.”
Chava contemplated what to say next. Nothing was coming to her. “Well, I don’t think I’ve found anything here.”
“I’m sorry. We’re getting in a shipment of summer dresses in about a week. Why don’t you check back then?”
“I suppose I might.” Chava moved toward the door. “It was nice meeting you.”
“Yes, same here.”
“I’ll send Pinchas your regards.”
“Please do.”
The door closed behind Chava. Rachel shuddered, and couldn’t recall the last time she’d been so unnerved. She was completely puzzled, wondering what it was that Chava could possibly have wanted. The sound of the bell distracted her; Mrs. Rosenberg was back. It was time for her lunch break, only she wasn’t very hungry.
Chava Sims walked up the block, feeling like she had made a fool of herself, and regretting having ever set foot in the store. She hadn’t found Rachel distasteful in any way; on the contrary, she’d found her rather pleasant in both appearance and manner, the kind of woman for whom most men would probably do anything. Chava didn’t see herself as that kind of woman; it was hard for her to feel anything positive about herself during times such as these.
The day passed quickly, something Rachel usually resented. Since her illness, she coveted every minute, but this day had been one she would just as soon forget. She was still shaken by its events. She would be okay, she knew, especially since tonight was one of those nights for escaping and forgetting the world. It was what she had come to call a “Joshua-night.”
She tidied up the store, tallied the cash register, and was on her way out, when she felt a sharp pain in her back. Her legs weakened and she needed to find a seat. Mrs. Rosenberg noticed and came to her assistance.
“Are you okay, dear?” Mrs. Rosenberg asked.
“I think so. It’s just my back; a spasm, I suppose. I’ve been taking medication, but it doesn’t seem to be working so well right now.”
Mrs. Rosenberg could see that Rachel was still uncomfortable in the chair. “Come, let me help you to the back room, you can lie down on the couch there.”
Rachel got up slowly and, with the woman’s assistance, managed to make it to the couch.
“I think I’ll call your mother,” Mrs. Rosenberg said.
“No!” Rachel said. “I don’t want to worry her. It’s only a backache; it will pass.”
“My dear, you can’t even walk. How are we going to get you home?”
Rachel thought for a moment. She couldn’t ask Mrs. Rosenberg to call Joshua. “Call me a cab. The driver will help me home.”
Paul Sims observed the sights of black children playing on the sidewalks, as he drove down Eastern Parkway, recalling his own childhood in Hewlett Harbor, when summer was a time for camp or the beach club. What he now saw—the stark reality of life in these parts—saddened him. Camps and beach clubs didn’t exist for these kids, only the street.
His mind turned to the task at hand. He and Yossie had recently been invited to join the Rebbe’s motorcade, a weekly entourage to the graves of the Rebbe’s wife and father-in-law in the Old Montefiore cemetery in Springfield Gardens, Queens. It was a great honor to escort the Rebbe, a reward for their dedicated service in the citizens’ patrol.
It was a modest motorcade, usually three or four vehicles led by a police car. Not quite the retinue for a head of state, but the Rebbe didn’t require grand displays of his importance, for in the eyes of his followers he was more than a mortal leader. To them, he was the messiah, the savior of humankind. And Paul, for one, was absolutely certain of this. The Rebbe would bring peace to the world, and elevate the Jewish people to their rightful position of prominence. It would happen soon, any day.
Once in the taxi, Rachel instructed the driver to take her to Joshua’s office. “But Ma’am,” the driver said, “the lady gave me this address.” He showed her the paper in his hand.
“I just need to make one quick stop on the way,” she said. It was difficult for her to talk. She thought about taking another pill, but she had taken the prescribed dose about an hour earlier.
The ride went quickly. The cab pulled up in front of Joshua’s office. Rachel tried to get out on her own, but couldn’t. The driver came around to help her.
Joshua was in his office and heard the bell as the front door opened. He looked at his watch. Knowing it was Rachel, he quickly straightened his tie. He came out to greet her and was shocked when he saw the driver holding her up.
“Rachel,” he exclaimed as he rushed to her side.
The two men sat her in a chair. The pain was so excruciating, she was finding it hard to breath.
“I think we should go to the hospital,” Joshua said reluctantly.
“No. Please, no hospitals. It’s just a back spasm.”
“But you can’t walk! You can’t even sit!”
“Maybe I just need to take another pill.”
She took her pills out from her bag, and Joshua got her some water. The driver stood by, waiting for instructions.
“We’re going to take you home,” Joshua said.
She didn’t argue.
“Have you been having any other symptoms?” Schiffman asked. “Any numbing, tingling, or weakness in your arms or hands? Pain any other place?”
Rachel shook her head.
“How about your vision? Headaches? Memory loss? Bowel problems? Stomach problems?”
Rachel thought for a second. “Not really,” she said tentatively.
Schiffman looked at her. “What do you mean?”
“Well, yesterday morning I
forgot where I had put the inventory book at work. But people always forget things like that.”
“Do you always forget things like that?” the doctor asked, already knowing the answer.
“No.” Rachel moved uncomfortably in her chair.
Schiffman ordered a bone scan and a CAT scan of the entire body, as well as mammography of the remaining breast. Both scans revealed the presence of metastases to the brain and spine, and the mammogram revealed metastases to the right breast, which had been undetected on routine examination. Rachel was hospitalized that same day, and started on an immediate and aggressive course of chemotherapy. Joshua and Hannah spent the night at her bedside. Schiffman described the prognosis as “guarded.”
The “medicine” made Rachel sicker than the disease. She was in and out of the hospital for the next three months; a week of treatment, three weeks home recuperating, then back to the hospital for another dose. A grueling cycle of unrelenting torture.
By mid-August, she had endured four treatments. She was tired, close to giving up, yet something kept her going. Perhaps it was her faith, the very same faith that had sustained her through all else. Or maybe it was her stubbornness.
Joshua stood aside as Hannah helped Rachel get dressed to go home. Schiffman came through the door, a dreary expression on her face. Rachel noticed, and asked, “What? What is it?”
Schiffman looked at Hannah, then at Joshua. To Rachel: “Your tests are back. The news isn’t great.”
Silence.
Schiffman continued, “It seems the cancer is still growing. Last month the results were inconclusive, but the recent scans and blood work are fairly clear.”
Hannah sat down on the bed. Joshua felt a surge of dread in his stomach. Only Rachel remained calm.