Part 50 (2/2)
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 beaten. 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 h.e.l.l 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, G.o.d, 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.
Hannah waited for the police to take control, move against the crowd, make arrests and haul them away, but that wasn't what was happening. What she saw, instead, frightened her to death. Once again, she couldn't believe her eyes as she watched the crowd break through the police line, attacking with clubs and bats, forcing the police to retreat. A few members of the mob got bludgeoned by nightsticks as the cops got a few licks in, but in the end it was all the same. The street belonged to the mob.
Hannah related what she saw to Rachel, unable to hide her dread and hopelessness. What could they do now? There was no one left to call.
”Joshua, Mama, call Joshua!” Rachel insisted.
”Joshua? What could Joshua possibly do?”
”He'll help us, Mama, I know he will. He'll get us out of here.”
Gaven Cato was seven years old, and had just finished the first grade. He lived in a two bedroom apartment with his family, and spent summer days riding his bicycle and playing with friends. His parents had relocated the family from Guyana to Brooklyn only a year earlier, with hopes of finding a more prosperous life.
Gavin and his cousin, Angela, also seven, were the two children who had been pinned beneath Yosef Lifsch's station wagon on that tragic August night. Lifsch, a twenty-two year old rabbinical student from Israel, was a devoted follower of the Rebbe, and had never been in any trouble of any sort. He was a man who prayed to G.o.d three times a day, gave ten percent of his income to charity and, like the Catos, lived in hope for a better world.
Gaven and Angela Cato were playing on a street corner, Yosef Lifsch was performing his duties to his Rebbe, and in one brief instant the fates of these three people collided. For Gaven, life ended within a few minutes. He would never have a chance at the things for which his parents so ardently labored. He would never sit behind that second grade desk, and neighbors would never again see him pedaling through the streets. For Angela, there were traumatic physical injuries from which she would eventually recover, but the emotional impact would last a lifetime. She would forever be scarred by reminders of her childhood playmate and cousin, of innocence shattered and lost one summer night on a Brooklyn corner. For Yosef, there would be an existence of grief and anguish, of the inescapable knowledge that he was the one behind the wheel of the vehicle that had marred so many lives.
For the rest of the inhabitants of Crown Heights, there was the storm; it had finally arrived.
CHAPTER 64.
It was just past eleven-thirty. Joshua's phone hadn't stopped ringing for the past two hours; it seemed the entire neighborhood had his private number. He was about to go out and take a look for himself-against his mother's better judgment-when it rang again.
”You get it, Mama. Tell them I'm out-of-town or something.”
”Wait! Joshua,” she called from the kitchen as he was nearing the door. ”It's Hannah Weissman. She sounds bad.”
He picked up in the living room. ”Hannah?”
He listened to the panic in Hannah's voice as she related what was happening. His heart began to race; he hadn't realized how bad it actually was. The previous calls had described some degree of unrest, but nothing like what he was hearing now.
”What should we do?” Hannah asked desperately. ”We have no police protection. They can just come in here and kill us if they want to. My G.o.d, what can we do?”
”How is Rachel?”
”Scared. She barely has strength to speak, and can't even get out of bed.”
”Listen Hannah, please try to be calm, and try to calm Rachel too. I'll be there. I'll get you both out, I promise. Just hold on!”
Joshua hung up. Loretta stood behind him, her expression bewildered. ”How are you going to help them?” she asked.
”I don't know.”
He took a circuitous route to his office, avoiding the streets where the violence was concentrated. He opened the front door, flicked on the light, rushed to his private office, and began searching through an old file cabinet. He'd defended a lot of clients in his time, but only one who truly owed him. He found the file, pulled it, and looked for the phone number. He prayed that Willie Johnson would still be living in the same place, would be at home, would remember him after seventeen years, and would be willing to help.
A voice came on the line, but Joshua wasn't sure. ”I'm looking for Willie Johnson,” he said.
”Yeah?”
”Is this him?”
”Who's asking?” Suspicious.
”Joshua Eubanks.”
”Joshua Eubanks! I'll be! How you been, Mr Eubanks?”
”I'm okay, Willie. Sorry to be calling this time of night.”
”Oh no! It's okay. You can call me anytime.”
”I'm glad you feel that way, Willie, because I need to ask you a favor, and I don't have a lot of time for chit chat.”
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