The World Outside (18 page)

“There’s been an accident,” Papa said. “The Rebbe was returning home from the grave of his father-in-law in the Montefiore Cemetery. As you know, he travels with an entourage befitting his station.”

I nodded and he continued.

“There was a police car in front of the Rebbe’s vehicle and, behind it, a station wagon driven by one of his aides. At the corner of President and Utica, the station wagon went through a light. It’s unclear whether it was red or amber, but whatever the case, the station wagon collided with another car, jumped the curb and careened up the sidewalk. It hit a little boy and his cousin. The boy was killed.”

I sat down heavily. “Oh, no! How terrible. And the child was black?”

“Black, white—what’s the difference? The poor child is dead, may he rest in peace. How I pity his parents!”

Papa stood up, took a glass out of the cupboard and filled it with water. I waited until he drank it down.

“But I still don’t understand why those kids are rampaging around the neighborhood,” I said.

He sighed. “I don’t understand it completely myself. There’s always been tension between our communities, and the death of that poor child has angered a lot of people. But this?” He gestured toward the street. “Such hatred!”

“Are Avrohom Isaac and his family okay?”

“I called them just before you got home. They’re fine. But Avrohom Isaac reminded me that Eliyahu is coming home from camp tomorrow and that the buses will be dropping the kids at 770. I offered to pick him up because we have a car, and it’s safer to travel by car with all that’s going on out there.”

Just then, the sound of breaking glass came from the living room. A large rock had shattered the window, and shards of glass littered the carpet. As we surveyed the damage, a second rock—this one bigger than my hand—flew through the broken window, barely missing my head.

“Chanie!” Mama cried.

Yossi started toward the door. “I’m going to catch who did this and make him pay!”

Papa pulled him back. “You’ll stay here! I don’t need you injured, and if we retaliate, the situation will get out of hand. The police will take care of them. After all, this is America in 1991, not a village in Poland a hundred years ago.”

Papa and Yossi stared at each other. The tension between them was palpable.

Finally, Yossi broke away. “But the unfairness of it!” He shook his head. “I can’t believe this is happening to us.”

“I have a sheet of plywood in the garage,” Papa said.
“Come with me, Yossi, and help me carry it into the living room. We’ll cover the window with it until the glass is replaced.”

After they left, Mama began to fold laundry from the basket on the floor beside the couch. “Keeping busy takes my mind off what’s happening in the streets,” she said.

I went to the pantry and got the vacuum cleaner. While I was vacuuming up the shards of glass, I realized that my grandmother was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Baba?” I asked. “The last I saw her was when we were in the kitchen.”

“She must have gone to her room,” Mama said. “All this noise and the people in the streets must be quite frightening for her. Would you mind going to make sure that she’s okay?”

I ran up the stairs. My hand was in the air to knock, but I told myself not to be silly and just opened the door. No sign of my grandmother.

On the way back downstairs, I stumbled over the vacuum cleaner where I’d left it at the foot of the stairs. I went to the kitchen to put it back in the pantry before continuing to search for Baba. But then I heard a small noise. It seemed to be coming from under the table. I crouched down and saw Baba cowering there, silent as a mouse, her eyes tightly shut and her hands clamped over her ears.

“Baba, what’s the matter?”

No reply.

I pulled her out of her hiding place and gently pried her hands off her ears. “What’s wrong?” I asked again.

She kept her eyes closed. “They’re coming to get us!” she whispered.

“What do you mean? Who’s coming?”

“The Nazis,” she said. “I can hear them.” She cupped her ear. “Listen!”

“Death to the Jews! Death to the Jews!” could be heard from outside.

She grabbed my sleeve. “Let’s hide so they won’t find us!”

I grasped her shoulders. They felt fragile beneath my fingers, like the wings of a bird. “Stop it, Baba! You’re scaring me.”

She opened her eyes and seemed to realize that it was me. “Help me up, Chanie. I must go to bed. I’m tired.”

I felt tired too and went to my own room for the night shortly afterward. It was past midnight when it finally became quiet in the streets outside.

Everything will be okay by tomorrow
, I thought to myself.
The police will take care of everything
.

CHAPTER 19

T
he telephone in my parents’ room woke me early the next morning. I looked at the alarm clock groggily. It was six o’clock.

I heard Papa say, “Hello, Samuel!” Then: “Oh, no! What a tragedy! May he rest in peace. When did it happen?”

He lowered his voice and I couldn’t hear anything else, so I put on a robe and knocked on their door.

“Come in!” came Mama’s voice.

My parents were also in their robes. Mama was sitting on the edge of her bed. Papa was still by the phone, the receiver in his hand. His face was pale.

“I heard the phone ringing. What’s wrong?”

“That was Samuel Glasser,” Papa replied. “He read in the
New York Times
that Yankel Rosenbaum, a scholar visiting Crown Heights from Australia, was murdered last night. Just before midnight, a group of black thugs
surrounded him, beat him and stabbed him. He was taken to the hospital, but he died there. Samuel phoned to warn us to be careful. He also invited us to stay with him in the City until everything settles down.”

“That’s very nice of him,” Mama said, “but if I wouldn’t go to Rita Mae’s next door, I certainly won’t go to Samuel’s. I don’t see why we should have to leave our home.”

“I don’t either. We’ve done nothing wrong.” Papa placed the receiver back in its cradle.

“What a tragedy!” Mama said. “I don’t understand why the police are allowing such terrible things to happen.”

“There’s a rumor going around that Mayor Dinkins has directed the police not to interfere. I don’t know if it’s true, but people are claiming that he said the blacks should be allowed to vent,” Papa said.

Mama sat up straighter. “What?! Has the mayor lost his mind? What about our civil rights? Our safety? He’s allowing a pogrom to take place in Brooklyn! In America! A pogrom directed at us.”

“I’m afraid that’s exactly what’s happening,” Papa said. “And the situation will probably only worsen today, once the news about Yankel Rosenbaum gets around.” He turned to me. “Go back to bed, Chanie. It’s still early.”

I decided to look in on Baba before I returned to my room. I opened her door without knocking and stuck
my head in. She was sleeping on her side, snoring gently, so I quietly shut the door without waking her.

It was past ten o’clock when I woke up again. I dressed and decided to check on Baba once more.

I knocked on her door. No answer. I knocked again, a bit harder. Silence. I opened the door slowly and peeked in. Baba was lying on her back in bed. She was motionless, staring up at the ceiling, her eyes blank. I stepped into the room.

“Good morning!” I made my voice as cheerful as I could. “Time to get up, lazybones!”

Baba did not respond. I went to her bed and sat down beside her. She didn’t look at me. When I took hold of one of her hands, it was ice cold. I patted it gently, then warmed it in mine. “Don’t be scared. The rioters are just a bunch of hooligans. The police will take care of them.” I leaned over and kissed her cheek.

Slowly, she turned her head to look at me. “They’ll get us,” she whispered.

“Don’t be silly. This is Brooklyn in 1991, not a village in Poland a hundred years ago,” I said, repeating Papa’s words. “There aren’t any Nazis here—just a bunch of crazy kids on the streets.”

“That’s what we said back home,” she whispered.

I reached under her shoulders and helped her sit up. “I’ll help you get ready.”

“Go away!” she said. “I can take care of myself.”

My heart leapt with joy at the firmness of her tone. The old Baba was still alive and kicking!

I found Mama in her bedroom, leaning out the window.

“What are you doing?”

“Hush! I want to hear what they’re saying.”

“What do you mean?”

She moved over so I could stand beside her.

“Look!” she pointed toward the corner of President Street and Utica Avenue, where the accident with the Rebbe’s motorcade had taken place. The corner was just a few doors from our house, and we could see it easily from the window. A crowd was gathering there, with more and more people joining it every moment. One voice could be heard screaming through a bullhorn: “No justice, no peace!”

“Who’s talking?”

“That’s the Reverend Al Sharpton. He is trying to rile up the crowd against us. Some of the people listening to him are African-Americans from other parts of the City who came to Crown Heights to make more trouble here.”

“We’ve got to make them pay for what they did to little Gavin Cato!” Sharpton cried.

“Evil man! He knows that Gavin’s death was an accident!” Mama said. “And what about poor Yankel
Rosenbaum? Why doesn’t Sharpton talk about him?” Her voice mirrored her frustration.

“Why don’t the police stop him from speaking?” I asked, pointing out the dozens of officers on the edges of the crowd.

She shrugged her shoulders and slammed the window shut. “Enough of that maniac!” she said, pulling the drapes closed. “I’m worried about Avrohom Isaac and the children. I wanted them to come and stay with us, but Papa says they’re better off in their apartment. He’ll take them some of our food when he picks up Eliyahu this afternoon.” She headed for the door. “I’ll wake up your grandmother.”

“I just did that. She seems a little better today.”

“Oh, good! One less thing to worry about.”

Just then, the doorbell rang. Mama and I stared at each other, neither of us moving.

“I’ll go and see who it is,” I finally said.

“I’ll come with you.”

She followed me out of the room and down the stairs to the door, which I opened to the sight of David with a box of groceries in his arms.

“Hi! I brought food. I borrowed a car, so I was able to bring provisions for both your family and Avrohom Isaac’s.” He pointed proudly to a rusty Chevy parked in front of the house. “I made sure that everything is
glatt kosher
.”

He put the box in my arms and headed back to the car.

“I’ll get the rest of the stuff.”

I passed the box to Mama. “I’ll help him carry up the packages,” I said, running down the stairs after him.

“Come back, Chanie!” Mama cried.

I pretended that I didn’t hear her.

David loaded several bags into my arms from the backseat of the car. As I turned around to step back onto the sidewalk, I found myself face-to-face with Mrs. Elliot and her daughter.

“Hi!” I said. “Nice to see you.”

The little girl grinned at me, but her mother turned her head and kept on walking, dragging the child behind her. I stared after them with my mouth open, the bags clutched limply in my arms.

“Mama and I took food to her when she had a fire in her apartment,” I spluttered. “Did you see how she turned her head when I greeted her?”

“You did the right thing. Some people are just ungrateful,” David said as we climbed the stairs.

In the house, Mama’s eyes darted from David to me. “It’s very kind of you to bring us food,” she said.

He blushed a fiery red. “It’s nothing, Mrs. Altman. I knew it wouldn’t be easy for you to go shopping with the rioting in the streets.”

“That’s an understatement. I’ll tell my husband you’re here. He’ll want to talk to you. He’s learning in the living
room with Yossi.” She smiled. “He says that the hooligans on the streets won’t keep him away from the Torah.”

The buses from the camp were pulling up just as Papa, Yossi and I arrived at 770. David had come as well. Dozens of parents were anxiously awaiting the arrival of the children. We got Eliyahu off his bus as quickly as we could and hustled him into the car.

He looked around, bewildered. The streets were full of black teenagers throwing rocks and bottles and screaming obscenities about us.

“What’s happening?” Eliyahu kept on asking. “Why do they want to hurt us?”

No one spoke. We had no answers for the boy.

“There’s nothing we can do here,” Papa finally said. “Let’s take Eliyahu home to his parents.”

I barely recognized my own neighborhood. It looked like a war zone. The streets were littered with broken glass, and a lot of the houses had windows covered with cardboard or plywood. Now and again we passed overturned cars and even some burned-out shells. At one point, we drove by a yellow truck with several African-American passengers. They were pleading through a bullhorn for people to stay calm and go home. The rioters did not listen to them.

When Papa turned down Montgomery Street, we saw a large group of about fifty young black people
coming toward us on the road. Papa slowed the car. Before we knew what was happening, a giant rock was flying through the air in our direction.