The New York and Brooklyn Bridge
Manhattan Approach
May 31, 1883
Young Lev could not wait for the opening of the new bridge. The Eighth Wonder of the World, the newspapers called it. Imagine, a bridge that connected the cities of Brooklyn and Manhattan! For the past two years, ever since his family had arrived in the United States, Lev often had gone to the waterfront in Manhattan and watched the construction. As ships sailed up the East River, Lev dreamed that one day he would travel the world aboard various ships. He felt a sense of tranquility as he watched the ships, and watching the bridge construction fascinated him. Now, finally, the bridge was complete. He heard that on the night of the official dedication, even the president of the United States had attended. From the steps of his tenement building, Lev could see the fireworks in the skies. The following week, Lev had been able to borrow three pennies for the required toll; he actually planned to walk across the new bridge!
On Thursday, May 31, Lev left the apartment on Ludlow Street and headed west toward Broadway. As he walked, he noted the throngs of people all walking in the same direction with him. All of New York City seemed to be heading toward the new bridge. Upon reaching Broadway, the crowds headed south toward City Hall Park and the Manhattan approach to the bridge.
As the crowds formed into several huge lines to pay their tolls, like everyone else, Lev felt himself being literally hemmed in and could barely move. As he approached the tollbooth, he felt a sharp jab in his back and heard, “Hey, guys, look who’s here with us! It’s that damn kike we had to beat the crap out of last week! I guess he just loves us!” As Lev turned, he saw it was the same five boys, the goyim, with whom he had fought the previous week. Their leader was a redheaded boy with freckles whom Lev referred to in his mind as Irish. The leader cut in front of Lev as the others laughed and continued to poke at him. Staring straight ahead, Lev said nothing. A tall man in the crowd next to them looked at the rowdy boys and said in a firm voice, “Leave him alone!” The gang backed off, for the moment.
The crowd inched forward on the bridge approach, and he could see the looming granite towers of the suspension bridge ahead. Lev had the same crowded, packed-in sensation he often had felt during the transatlantic crossing two years ago. All the while, the gang behind him managed to get assorted jabs into his back and shoulders. He said nothing, but continued moving slowly forward with the crowd. In front of him, Irish purposely stopped short and tried to step on his feet. Lev could hear the redhead and his friends laughing as he continued the harassment. At this point, the movement of the crowd had slowed to a crawl, and Lev felt himself tightly pressed against Irish’s back.
Unbeknownst to them all, at the center of the bridge, the crowds from Manhattan and Brooklyn had begun to converge. Many of the tightly packed people literally found it difficult to breathe. Movement in any direction became impossible. To accommodate the anticipated crowds, the Bridge Authority had opened the carriageways, as well as the central pedestrian promenade, to pedestrian traffic. Lev struggled in the center of the central promenade, just beyond the Manhattan Terminal Building of the bridge. Simultaneously, crowds pushed forward attempting to access the promenade via the stairwells from the north carriageway, while throngs of people approached the Manhattan terminal from the Brooklyn side of the bridge.
The crowds, heading in opposite directions, now found it almost impossible to move, yet the people kept plodding forward. No one had moved for nearly a minute, and the multitude became more compressed against one another. Panic set in. With the crowd compressing more and more, screams of terror erupted. The more people began shouting and screaming, the more agitated the crowd became. Then the cry began, “The bridge is unsafe! It’s collapsing!” With that cry, all havoc broke loose. As the rumor quickly spread, people attempted to escape and began surging in all directions, shoving violently against each other.
Lev sensed something terribly wrong when he heard the shouting, which seemed to be coming from all around him. People were being knocked to the pavement and trampled by the panicking crowd. As the hysteria set in, Lev felt himself being pulled forward and then to the left by the surging crowd. In a few seconds, the momentum had pushed him to the promenade railing. He saw several people being shoved over the railing onto the carriageway fifteen feet below.
“Help! Oh Jesus, help me!” screamed Irish, his back against the railing as he began to fall over backward. Lev reached out and grabbed Irish’s left hand with his own and then held on with both hands. As the hysterical crowd seemed to be swarming in every direction, Lev held on and kept his nemesis from falling over the railing. Pulling the boy toward him, he was now face to face with Irish, who seemed to be in a state of shock. All Lev could think of was to shout, “Let’s turn around and get off this bridge, or we will die!” Just as he finished his warning, the surge of the crowd knocked him forward on top of Irish. Both boys fell to the bridge surface as people around them continued to claw and scream at each other. Lev struggled to regain his feet, pushing another frantic pedestrian off of Irish, who lay face down on the pavement. As Lev struggled to his feet, he steadied himself and reached around to Irish’s chest with this right arm. Pulling hard on Irish’s lapel, he quickly brought him to his feet. The two struggled for a half-hour to get to the terminal building, moving over and around squirming, prostrate bodies.
Lev could barely comprehend the scenes around him. Children, old men, and women — all were being trampled by fellow citizens. As he struggled, he held on to Irish, pulling the boy behind him. He had to react, not think. It took over an hour to make it off the approach to the bridge on the Manhattan side
Lev’s muscles ached all over, especially his arms. He tried catching his breath as he pulled Irish over to a bench at City Hall Park. They both sat down, totally exhausted. The young redheaded boy could barely speak; he was so winded from the struggle. Every breath hurt, and he wondered if he had broken a rib or two. As ambulances rushed by to assist the crowd, the two just sat there staring at each other, unable to speak. They made a very odd couple, the red-haired, freckle-faced Irishman and the orthodox Jew wearing a frock coat and broad-brimmed hat. At last, the redheaded boy spoke.
“You saved my life. I could have been trampled to death. I’ve done nothing but fight with you, attack you, and yet you saved me,” he gasped, with tears forming in his eyes. “Why the hell would you do that?”
“I don’t know why,” replied Lev. “Are you complaining?” he asked rhetorically, staring straight ahead.
“Of course not!” snapped the redhead. “I mean, after all, all I’ve ever done is pick on you and make your life miserable.” Staring at the ground, he continued. “Now I feel like a fool,” he said somberly. “It’s really ironic, you know? I mean, where the hell were my four other buddies? I’m sure they took off like bats out of hell. Yet you’re the one who risked his life to save me. Not those worthless, jerk friends of mine.”
“Tell me,” asked Lev as he turned to face him. “What makes you feel worse; the fact that your friends deserted you or that you were saved by a kike? I’d really like to know.”
“No, well … I don’t know,” said Irish softly as he stared at the ground. “Look, maybe what’s bothering me is that I’m forced to admit to myself, if I’m in any way honest at all, that maybe that kike is a better person than I am.” He looked directly at Lev. “I never would have done the same for you, and we both know it. I would have let you die. Damn it, I feel so lousy admitting that!” Looking up at Lev he said, “Thank you; thank you very much. I mean that. And I apologize to you for everything, even though I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness.” After a few minutes of silence, he finally spoke again asking, “What’s your name?”
“Lev, Lev Kambotchnik. What’s yours?”
“Joseph, Joseph Morrison. My father is Congressman Caleb Morrison of Manhattan. Tell me, Lev, why are you always at the waterfront? I mean, I never see you Jews outside of your neighborhood. I know that’s no reason to be picking fights with you, but you don’t seem to stick to your kind.”
“Is it so shocking to you that I should enjoy the waterfront? You seem to enjoy it, and that doesn’t seem so shocking to me.”
“I know, I know,” replied young Morrison. “But, I don’t know, you seem so strange in that outfit you people always wear. Always with those long coats, wide-brimmed hats, and those funny-looking hair curls next to your ears. Yet talking to you now, you seem … like, you know, … normal. I mean, you speak perfect English. I didn’t even know you could speak English at all.” He seemed a little embarrassed with his choice of words as he looked back at Lev.
“I know we look different,” Lev acknowledged. “We have our ways, brought over from the old country. And you’re right. We mostly stay in our own areas and don’t interact with others. But let me ask you this, did it ever occur to you that maybe you make us different, too? I wonder, how many Jews have you ever even spoken to before me?”
“None.”
“I think I’ve made my point,” replied Lev as he gingerly rose from the bench. Amid all the shouting and chaos, they could see hundreds of people scurrying by.
“Lev, I’ve got to go and see if my friends survived this and are all right. Yeah, my great friends! Again, thank you for what you’ve done.” Young Morrison turned slowly, his aching body ached covered with fresh bruises. His chest hurt with every breath he took. As he walked away toward the bridge, he turned back to his rescuer and said, “Lev, thank you again. I’ll never forget what you did for me. You are a very brave individual.”
As Lev slowly began to head home, he had trouble erasing the images of the unruly crowd from his mind. The following day, the New York newspapers reported that twelve people had died when the rumor that the new Brooklyn Bridge was collapsing had started the panic. Twelve people had been trampled to death by fellow New Yorkers.