Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale (53 page)

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
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 any
One
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
God
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.