Part 50 (1/2)

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 pa.s.sengers 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 a.s.sist. 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 a.s.sistance.

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 cras.h.i.+ng gla.s.s.

”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 rea.s.suring 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 a.n.a.lyzing 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 a.s.sailants 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, flas.h.i.+ng 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.