by Andrew Kane
“What does that mean?” Rachel asked.
Schiffman: “We’re not sure. All we know at this point is that the chemo isn’t stopping the cancer completely. What we don’t know is whether it’s slowing the growth, or if it’s totally ineffective.”
Rachel: “How do we find out?”
Schiffman: “We continue with a few more treatments, and hope for the best.”
“That doesn’t sound too promising,” Hannah interjected.
“It’s the best we can do,” Schiffman answered.
Joshua looked at Rachel, knowing she wasn’t finished with her questions. “What if it doesn’t work?” Rachel asked, almost impassively.
Schiffman: “Why don’t we worry about that later…”
“No! I want to know now,” Rachel reacted.
“Rachel,” Schiffman said softly, “we don’t have anything else to offer you.”
“So I’m going to die.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But I am, aren’t I?”
Joshua was wordless, paralyzed.
“Stop it!” Hannah yelled.
“No Mama, I can’t stop it. I’m going to die, and I know it!”
Schiffman: “With a few more treatments…”
“What?” Rachel interrupted. “What, with a few more treatments? I’ll get even sicker than I am now from that poison you’re giving me, if that’s even possible, and then what? I’m going to die anyway!”
Joshua reached out for Rachel, but she threw her arms up to stop him. “Don’t!” she ordered. “Please, I don’t want to be touched.”
Hannah began crying hysterically.
“Rachel,” Joshua said, “Let’s go home now. We can talk about this later.”
“Talk about what, Joshua? I’m going to die, that’s it, isn’t it?” She looked at Schiffman, who didn’t respond.
“Isn’t it?” she repeated.
“We need to try a few more treatments,” Schiffman asserted.
“No! No more treatments! I’ve had enough of your poison, enough nausea, enough aches all over my body. Look at me! I’m almost dead now, why not just get it over with.”
“Please stop!” Hannah shouted. “Just stop!”
Rachel’s outburst suddenly abated. She walked back to her bed and fell into a sitting position. “I’m tired now,” she said. “I want to go home.”
Schiffman simply looked at Rachel, tears welling in her eyes, then turned away and left the room without a word.
“I want to go home,” Rachel repeated.
CHAPTER 63
Paul Sims marveled at the voice of Hasidic music’s great superstar, Mordechai Ben David, and sang along while he followed the Rebbe’s motorcade. The stereo in the new Lincoln made the music seem live. Paul was proud of the car. His father had always driven Lincolns, and now he had one. He drove at a good speed, keeping pace with the entourage, lost in the melodies, and in his elation from being among the chosen.
Yossie, as usual, fixated on his book. He was exhausted and anxious to get home to his family. They had spent the entire afternoon at the cemetery, frying under the torrid August sun, while the Rebbe prayed for his beloved wife and father-in-law. For Yossie, being among the chosen was more a burden than anything else.
It was about eight-twenty in the evening. They were the fourth and last car in the motorcade, immediately behind a 1984 Mercury Grand Marquis station wagon carrying some of the Rebbe’s secretaries and other dignitaries. The station wagon followed directly behind the Rebbe’s car, which in turn was led by a police car from the 71st precinct.
Paul followed the cars in front of him, turning from Eastern Parkway onto Rochester Avenue, and then right onto President Street, continuing west at a speed set by the police car. They were just a few blocks from home.
Suddenly, as they approached the intersection at President Street and Utica Avenue, Paul and Yossie watched as a 1981 Chevrolet Malibu, traveling north, somehow entered the intersection and crashed with the station wagon in front of them. “Oh God!” Paul exclaimed, jamming on the brakes. Luckily, the Lincoln stopped without incident. Things were not so fortunate for the station wagon.
They sat helpless, horrified at the sight of the station wagon veering out of control as it spun onto the northwest sidewalk and struck what appeared to be two black children. Neither was certain of what they had seen; it had all happened in a flash. The Malibu also spun around, but came to rest on the street, without hitting any pedestrians.
“Let’s go,” Yossie screamed, as he sprang from the car. But Paul was paralyzed, afraid to move. “Come on, let’s go,” Yossie yelled, pointing to the crowd forming around the station wagon. “We have to help.”
Paul hesitantly opened his door, got out of the car, and followed. He had a bad feeling about all this. They ran across the street, pushed through the crowd, and saw that the children were pinned beneath the station wagon. Paul knew the driver of the station wagon, Yosef Lifsch, as a gentle and righteous man, one who would never intentionally harm anyone. He saw that Lifsch was distraught, attempting to extricate the children. The crowd was angry and began attacking Lifsch and the passengers in his car. Paul and Yossie approached with trepidation, each wondering what good they could possibly do, but it was too late to turn back.
The crowd was growing by the second. Some of the bystanders endeavored to free the children, but most joined in the attack against Lifsch and the others. Paul and Yossie struggled to break through the commotion, as the crowd began to turn on them as well.
Within minutes, a Hatzalah ambulance, having overheard an EMS call, appeared on the scene, and also attempted to assist. Seconds later, two police officers and an EMS ambulance arrived. The crowd had grown to more than one hundred and fifty within less than five minutes, and was out of hand. The officers tried to contain the crowd, and called for emergency assistance.
Additional officers arrived instantaneously, and instructed the Hatzalah ambulance to take Lifsch and two other injured Hasidim to the hospital. The police continued their efforts to contain the mob, while the EMS workers succeeded in extricating the children. But the crowd quickly grew larger and angrier. The sight of the Jewish ambulance leaving with its own didn’t help.
Paul and Yossie managed to escape, and returned to the Lincoln. Yossie had a bloodied lip, and Paul had a few superficial scratches on his arms and face. Both were pretty shaken up. Paul nervously started the engine and pulled away, his arms and legs unsteady. He looked over at Yossie, who was gazing silently through the window at the angry mob. Neither of them could believe what had just happened, yet each knew that this was only the beginning.
Hannah Weissman walked to the bedroom window. She had been resting in a chair beside the bed, watching Rachel sleep, when she suddenly heard strange noises coming from the street. The window was open, the sounds loud enough to awaken Rachel. “Mama, what is it?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Hannah answered, peering out the window. “I thought it was some kind of screaming or yelling.” She looked up and down the block. Nothing. Silence. She turned from the window. “I guess whatever it is, it’s over,” she said, holding her hands up empty. “Why don’t you go back to sleep.”
Rachel had been refusing air conditioning, because the chemo had made her feel cold all the time. On most nights, a cracked window did the trick, except for periodic annoyances from the street. But what they had just heard had sounded like more than an annoyance.
Hannah moved from the window, when suddenly the screaming recurred. Her body jolted. This time it was unmistakable.
“What was that?” Rachel exclaimed.
“Shouting,” Hannah replied, turning back to the window. “People shouting.” She looked outside again, and still saw nothing. But the clamor was now unrelenting, coming from somewhere else, another street, getting louder by the second, as if it were coming closer.
“Can you see anything?” Rachel asked.
“No. It sounds like it’s from around
the corner.”
Rachel struggled to get out of bed to see for herself, but Hannah rushed to her side. “What are you doing?”
“I want to see what’s happening.” Fear.
“There isn’t anything to see,” Hannah said as she helped Rachel back to bed.
Rachel complied, and allowed her mother to cover her with the quilt. Hannah returned to the window, looked out, and finally saw something: a group of men coming down the street, shouting. At first she wasn’t sure who they were, or what they were yelling; she wasn’t sure, or couldn’t accept what her eyes and ears told her. And then there was no denying it. Hannah Weissman was staring at a mob of about twenty black men, storming the street, rocks and bottles in their hands, anti-Semitic epithets flowing from their mouths.
“Mama!” Rachel screamed, having heard shouts of Heil Hitler.
“Stay in bed!”
“What’s happening?”
“I don’t know.” Panic.
Suddenly, a loud blast and flash of light. Hannah watched as a car across the street burst into flames. “What’s happening?” Rachel shouted again.
“We have to call the police,” Hannah answered, as she moved to the nightstand and picked up the phone.
She dialed 911. A female voice came on the other end. “Police operator, what is your emergency?”
Hannah tried to remain calm. “I live on Montgomery Street, just off Albany Avenue. There’s a gang of men outside on the street. They’re yelling things and they just blew up a car.”
“What is your name?”
Just then, a sound of crashing glass.
“Mama!” Rachel called.
“Don’t worry,” Hannah said to Rachel, covering the phone, “the police will be here soon.” She returned to the phone. “They’re throwing stones and bottles, breaking windows…”
“Ma’am, could you please tell me your name and exact address.”
Hannah was reluctant, fearful to give her name. “Look, I can’t tell you my name. All I can tell you is that there is some kind of riot on Montgomery Street. It’s a Jewish area, and a gang of men are shouting terrible things and throwing things.”
“Are these men black, white, or Hispanic?”
“Black, okay. They’re black.”
“Can you give me an exact address on Montgomery Street.”
Again, Hannah didn’t want to give any identifying information. “I told you, off Albany Avenue. Get the police! Right now! Get the Police!”
“How many men did you say there are?”
“I don’t know. At least twenty. Look, my daughter is sick, she’s bedridden. We can’t go anywhere. We need the police. Now!”
“You don’t want to give me your name or address?”
“I already told you where it is. Just send the police.” With that, Hannah slammed the phone down, walked over to Rachel’s bed, sat and ran her hand through Rachel’s hair. “They’ll be here soon,” she told Rachel in as reassuring a voice as she could muster. “Don’t worry, it will all be over soon.”
Yankel Rosenbaum walked alone, as he often did, nearing the corner of President Street and Brooklyn Avenue. He was returning to the house where he had been staying, after having visited with some friends. The hour was late, eleven-fifteen to be exact, but Yankel was not concerned. He was always safe on the streets of Crown Heights.
Yankel was a tall, lanky fellow, regarded by his friends as “happy-go-lucky.” Blessed with a sharp Australian wit, he was fun to be around, and always managed to fit in, despite the fact that he was far from home. Yet, he also had a somber side. He was a student of history, with a master’s degree from the University of Melbourne in Australia, and had come to New York to do research for his doctoral dissertation on the persecution of Jews in Poland during the Holocaust. He was the twenty-nine year old son of Jews who had survived the Holocaust in Poland before emigrating to Australia, and his work was more than just a vocation, it was his life’s blood, his search for his heritage. Days and nights he toiled through archives, probing for material that most of his professors believed didn’t even exist.
First it had been Poland, where he interviewed survivors and witnesses, visiting small towns, libraries, and anyplace else he could gather new information. Then, it was New York, home of the world’s largest Jewish community, haven of capacious archives, and the sanctified residence of his revered Grand Rabbi. He had gathered much in his travels, had grown intellectually and spiritually, and he had made many new friends. And now, it was time to wrap things up, to return to his position of lecturer at the university, and complete his thesis. Three more weeks, and he would be back in Australia, back with his beloved parents and brother, in the home he missed.
Bigotry and hatred were the things that had fascinated Yankel, the things to which he had dedicated his life to analyzing and understanding. Had he found his answers? Had he achieved any profound insight into the untamed evils of the human condition? Or had he wasted his time, preoccupied with a history of antipathy and desolation that would forever recur because there were no answers? In the end it didn’t matter, for whatever his quest had unveiled, no one would ever know. And however inspired the lessons he may have learned, none could compare to the one he was about to receive.
Yankel approached the corner, and suddenly heard someone shout, “There’s a Jew! Get the Jew!” He looked around, not believing what he had heard, and immediately realized that he was “the Jew.” A group of about fifteen black men emerged from nowhere, came upon him and attacked him. He didn’t have a chance.
Seconds later, Yankel Rosenbaum lay on the hood of a car, beaten and stabbed four times in the back, left helpless, yelling, “Cowards! Cowards!” as his assailants ran, searching for other victims. Three hours later, at Kings County Hospital, he died.
Yankel Rosenbaum’s education was now complete.
Hannah and Rachel Weissman heard the sirens in the distance. Hannah walked to the window. It was now eleven-thirty, about five minutes since she had called 911. She looked outside. The street was empty, except for the rioters, who seemed to have at least doubled in number. Their shouting had grown louder. Get the Jews! Kill the Jews! Heil Hitler! The hurling of stones and bottles at cars and buildings intensified. The approaching sirens didn’t seem to deter them.
Then, finally, flashing lights from two patrol cars shone down the block. The cars moved slowly, announcing over their loudspeakers for the rioters to stand clear and desist. No one listened.
The patrol cars moved in closer toward the rioters, attempting to intimidate them. A few Hasidic men emerged from their homes, feeling safe to be on the streets now, since the police had at last arrived. Hannah was certain it would all be over soon.
And then, anarchy. Pandemonium. Incredible and disturbing things appeared before Hannah’s eyes as some of the rioters turned on the police cars with clubs and bricks, while others pummeled the Hasidic men. The furor exploded, the mob attacked the patrol cars, jumping on top of them, yelling, “Kill the pigs,” breaking their windows, and pulling the officers out. The few Hasidic men who had dared venture the street didn’t stand a chance, their fate joined with that of their supposed protectors.
Hannah gasped with horror as she watched members of the mob overturn one of the patrol cars and set it ablaze, while others trounced the four police officers and the Hasidic men. She ran for the phone, and dialed 911 again. Rachel was hysterically crying, lying helplessly in bed.
“Police operator, what is your emergency?” This time it was a man.
“It’s the police, they’re being attacked and beaten, and the men…”
“I’m sorry Ma’am, I can’t understand you. Where are you calling from?”
“Crown Heights! Where else? Don’t you know what’s happening here? The police are getting beaten up and…”
“Ma’am, may I have your address.”
“It’s Montgomery Street, between Albany and Kingston Avenues. The police tried to stop the mob, but they’re getting beate
n. Some Jewish men are getting beaten also. You have to send more police!”
“Can you describe the perpetrators?”
“They’re black men. It’s a riot!”
“Okay Ma’am, I understand. Can you please give me your name and exact address?”
“What the hell is the matter with you people? I told you where it is. Just send help! Please, send help!”
Hannah hung up the phone again, and tried to comfort Rachel. “Don’t worry, it will all be over soon.” She knew she was repeating herself. What else could she say? She lay down next to Rachel and put her arms around her daughter, cuddling her as she had when Rachel was an infant. She began to pray, “V’hu Rachum . . . And He, the merciful One, will forgive iniquity, and will not destroy; and often He withdraws His anger, and restrains all His rage. You, God, do not withhold Your mercy from me; may Your kindness and Your truth always protect me . . .”
Rachel, trembling and frail, joined in her mother’s chanting, fervently reciting the words by heart; words of her youth and ancestry; words her blessed father had recited each day of his life, through despair and ecstasy; words that were surely upon the lips of each and every Hasid in Crown Heights, and would soon be echoed by others around the globe. And as she prayed, her head nestled on her mother’s breast, she wondered, “Was anyOne listening?”
Then, more sirens. This time louder, piercing. Whistles, and voices shouting over megaphones. Hannah rushed back to the window, and saw what must have been fifty police officers in riot gear, walking up the block, accompanied by five cars.
This is the police. Stand clear and retreat!
The mob complied in part, withdrawing only enough to allow the police to retrieve their battered and unconscious comrades in the middle of the street and three Hasidic men lying on the sidewalk. The police, outnumbered by about four to one, formed a line, and an ambulance quickly came in. The crowd grew restless behind the line, shouting, throwing rocks and bottles towards the police, but the police held fast, at least for the time being. Another two ambulances arrived within seconds, picked up the remaining wounded, and hastened off.