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 crashing 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, 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 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."