4

Bank of the East River, Manhattan
New York City
June 1883

Lev felt relaxed and at peace, lying on his back, with the sun beaming down on his face. He always felt good to be here at his favorite spot on the waterfront, a couple of blocks north of the Manhattan tower of the great bridge. He never tired of looking at the bridge. Now that it had been completed, the crowds appeared slightly smaller. It didn’t matter to Lev. Sitting on the embankment and watching the ships go by let him escape from the dingy life of the Lower East Side. Down river, directly under the bridge he could see a large crowd, apparently involved in some sort of ceremony.

Each day, the conflict within him grew more intense. In a little more than two years, they had moved from the grinding poverty of Tsarist Russia to the land of opportunity, the United States of America. However, it just didn’t seem right to Lev. They had left Russia because his people were treated as second class scum. The very fact that the Jews had been exiled and confined to the Pale of Settlement by Tsar Alexander was unpalatable enough. On the ship over to America, Lev felt a rush of hope and pride when they entered into New York Harbor. This is the new world, the elders would say. This is the land of equality. The very thought of becoming an American thrilled young Lev. Sadly, after two years in his adopted country, things had improved only marginally.

True, there were no pogroms, and they didn’t live under the threat of daily violence, but to him, it seemed that nothing was significantly different. Their lives revolved around their neighborhood, and they were still in a ghetto — an American ghetto. Once he left the confines of the neighborhood, anti-Semitism reared its head, and he was often physically attacked. Once again, they were second class scum. This continuous discrimination is what bothered him the most. He thought that his life in his new country would be different. It also bothered him that perhaps the outward appearance of Judaism — the frock coats, the beards, the skullcaps — marked them as different. We’re the Chosen People, he had been told all of his life, yet it seemed to Lev that they were chosen to forever be hated, ridiculed, and scorned. He resented the fact that his family seemed to have transplanted their closed life to America; what he really wanted and hoped for was to be an American. He wanted no part of an orthodox life in his future. He wanted to travel across the oceans and experience life. He was both proud of his heritage and resentful at the same time. This inner conflict intensified as time went on.

These feelings were compounded by his stage of life. Approaching the age of thirteen, he was beginning to go through puberty and growing physically. His voice was changing, which made the chanting of his bar mitzvah lessons, his Haftarah, sound especially awkward. He was already taller than all of the other boys in the yeshiva and was developing a lean and muscular physique. In his frequent fights with the goyim, he could more than hold his own against any of them, a point that made him proud. The problem was that there were always several of them and the group overpowered him. He hated to run from these small bands of enemies, but he had no choice.

He sat up to admire a large steamship heading up the East River when he felt something suddenly strike his upper back. Instantly turning around, he saw a group of several boys pointing and laughing as they picked up more stones to throw at him. Lev didn’t recognize any of these tormentors, but his sixth sense told him that a very dangerous situation could be evolving. He quickly stood up as two more stones stuck him in the chest and abdomen, and he heard the usual taunts. “Kike! Jew boy!” they yelled with delight as they began trotting toward him. Lev knew he had to escape, and he began running along the water’s edge. Looking back over his shoulder as he ran, he saw that several of his pursuers were carrying knifes. His heart pounded as he tried to outrun them, thinking he could escape to safety with his long, sure strides.

Suddenly, he felt stunned and saw flashes of lights. A large stone had hit him on the back of his head, just below his left temple. He felt his legs go wobbly, and he began to stumble. Lightheaded and nauseated, he started to collapse to his knees. As he fell, he pulled his right hand from his head and could see the blood dripping from his fingers. His head throbbed violently. He tried to get up, but his wobbly legs would not support him. While he was struggling on all fours, the others arrived at his side. The leader kicked him viciously in the ribs, and Lev collapsed flat on the ground. Barely conscious, he heard their leader speak.

“Look what we got here, boys! I’ve seen this fucking Jew hanging around here on occasion. I don’t know about you guys, but I think the kikes should stay in their own neighborhood.” His friends all agreed with him in mocking tones, as he continued. “You know, kike boy, if you’re going to be among decent people, you have to at least try and not look like some old-country trash. Don’t you know how to dress? Don’t you know how to wear your hair? You are pathetic!” he shouted, again kicking him.

“We’re going to do you a favor. We’re gonna get rid of that stupid hair of yours so you’ll be a little less pathetic. Hey, don’t thank me,” he laughed. “There’s no charge for this!” he said as he bent over his prostrate victim, a sharp knife glistening in his hand. He took the long curls next to Lev’s right ear and cut them off with his knife. “There! Looks better already.” He proceeded to repeat the procedure with the curls over Lev’s left ear. “Hey, why stop here?” he laughed as his friends pinned the helpless boy on his back. He continued taking clumps of Lev’s hair and methodically cutting them off until Lev was left with very short hair over his entire head. “Say,” he laughed, “you look almost human. Christ, if I didn’t know better, I would swear you don’t look like a damn Jew at all! What do you think of that?” he asked, leaning over Lev’s face.

Still very groggy, Lev didn’t think to talk. With his tormentor inches from his face, he could only think of one thing.

He spit a large wad of phlegm directly into the face of his knife-wielding assailant.

The furious attacker reacted instantaneously. He pummelled Lev furiously with everything he had while his friends held him down. Lev quickly lost consciousness.

The boys dragged the limp body of the boy in the frock coat up to the corner of Suffolk Street and left him behind a mound of dirt and trash.

* * *

The steady clip-clop of the horse’s hooves on the pavement served to make Joseph Morrison drowsy. As their family carriage made its way up the street along the East River, young Joseph took satisfaction in knowing that seemed to be quickly recovering from the injuries he sustained on the bridge. In fact, the bridge catastrophe was what brought Congressman Morrison and his son to the base of the Manhattan Tower approach that afternoon. As the extent of the carnage became public knowledge, it also became apparent that virtually all of those killed on the bridge were constituents of the congressman. Joseph had told his father that had it not been for the actions of the orthodox Jewish boy whom he and his friends used to torment regularly, he, too, would have been one of the victims. He could only remember the boy’s first name, much to the chagrin of the congressman, who personally wanted to thank the boy for his actions. Congressman Morrison found the story of the rescue nearly unbelievable. “Imagine that,” he had said aloud when he first heard of it, “that you would owe your life to a Jew.”

The ceremony under the Manhattan approach to the bridge had been arranged by the congressman’s staff. It began with prayers for the dead led by the priest from St. Anthony’s Roman Catholic Church where the Morrisons worshiped. Next, Congressman Morrison spoke for about fifteen minutes, exhorting the crowd to honor the memory of their fallen neighbors. He reminded all of the indomitable human spirit that always triumphed over adversity. The congressman even related how his son was nearly killed that day, adding that it was only because of the kindness of a fellow human being that he escaped death. He did not go into any details about the rescue or the rescuer. When he finished, he signaled to one of his staff members to remove the sheet that covered the newly installed plaque. The simple bronze plaque read:

In memory and in honor of those who met their God
New York and Brooklyn Bridge
May 31, 1883

Overall, the ceremony went very well, and its success pleased Caleb Morrison. His heart went out to victims of the tragedy and all their families. As their carriage rounded onto Suffolk Street, Joseph blurted out, “Father, what is that?” as he pointed to a trash heap on the corner. There appeared to be something moving behind it. The elder Morrison tugged back on the reins and brought the carriage to a halt. Both of them quickly climbed down and ran over to the trash heap. “Sweet Jesus!” exclaimed the congressman when he saw the body of a young boy. “Quickly, Joseph, let’s get him into the carriage.”

They quickly lifted the unconscious boy and carefully placed him in the back of the carriage. As they wrapped a blanket around him, Joseph looked carefully at the boy, sensing that there was something familiar about him. The boy was bare-chested and wearing torn clothes, and the bruises on his face and chest indicated an obvious beating. As Joseph climbed back into his seat next to his father, he suddenly realized who it was. “Father, I think it’s him!” he shouted with disbelief.

“It’s who?”

“It’s the boy who rescued me from the bridge. Lev! I’m almost sure.”

“I thought you told me he was a Jew. This boy doesn’t look like a typical Jew,” replied the congressman. He snapped the reins, and the carriage began moving north rapidly on Suffolk Street.

“I’m almost certain. It looks as if whoever assaulted him cut his hair off. That’s what looks so different. Really, Father, I know it’s Lev! Who would do this sort of thing?” As he finished speaking, he felt a pang of embarrassment over his past behavior. He looked back at the beaten boy in the back of their carriage and asked his father, “What shall we do with him?”

“Son, we’re going to take him home with us. We’ll get Dr. Walsh to come over and see what he can do. If this is the boy you told me about, we are indebted to him.” The congressman turned the carriage toward their home on Union Square.

* * *

After a thorough cleansing, they took Lev to the guest bedroom on the second floor. Dr. Walsh arrived soon after and examined the boy for a half hour. When he finished, he descended the large spiral staircase and went into the drawing room where Congressman and Mrs. Caleb Morrison and their only child, Joseph, anxiously awaited him. As he sat down, the portly doctor removed a handkerchief from his pocket and ran it over his sweating face. Mrs. Morrison offered him iced tea, which he readily accepted. He began to speak. “The boy has been severely beaten. I believe he has a concussion, and his nose appears to be broken. In addition, I suspect he may have a couple of broken ribs.”

“Is he going to live?” asked the congressman.

“Yes, I believe so. However, some of those cuts and lacerations appear to be infected. Considering the trash you found him in, it’s not surprising. He has a fever, and that’s not a good sign. I cleaned and dressed his wounds, which should help. Caleb, are you going to notify the police?”

“No, we don’t even know his identity. Joseph thinks he may have met him before today. Hopefully, when he wakes up, he’ll be able to help us get him home. Can I count on your discretion, my good doctor? Also, can you stop by daily for the next few days? I think it’s a blessing that I don’t need to be back in Washington for several weeks.”

“Of course, Caleb. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. I’ll leave some written instructions for the housekeeper to help with the dressing changes.”

* * *

For four days, Lev lay in bed, unconscious and burning up with fever. The afternoon of the fourth day, the fever broke, and he began to stir. He opened his eyes, looked around, and saw that he was alone in the room. Looking at the beautiful furnishings in the room, he wasn’t certain if he was alive or had died and gone to heaven. Certainly, such opulence could not mean anything else. He had never seen such a beautiful room, and the bed on which he found himself was so soft that the bruises on his body seemed almost tolerable. However, he also had a terrific headache. The door suddenly opened, and there stood a boy who appeared to be about his own age. “Mother, Father!” the boy exclaimed, “He’s awake! Come quickly!” The sudden loudness of the boy’s voice made Lev’s head throb even more.

The three Morrisons entered the room and went to the bedside of their guest. At first, they just stared for a few seconds, but their expressions revealed both joy and relief that their guest seemed to be on the road to recovery. After looking at the three visitors, Lev spoke in a weak voice. “Where am I?”

“You are a guest in our house, and you are safe. I am Congressman Caleb Morrison, and this is Mrs. Morrison and my son, Joseph. I believe that you and Joseph have met.”

Lev looked at the boy, at first not recognizing him. Suddenly, he remembered. “You were the boy on the bridge that day. I do remember you.” His head throbbing, he paused a second and briefly shut his eyes.

“Do you remember what happened? How were you hurt?” asked the elder Morrison.

“I was attacked by five others.” Father and son looked at each other and then back to Lev. “I can handle myself, but not against five others,” he said, with a touch of disappointment in his voice.

“Young man, I personally want to thank you for saving Joseph’s life. It was an incredibly brave thing you did that day. Certainly, Joseph’s prior behavior toward you didn’t merit it. Nonetheless, we are forever indebted to you. Tell me, what is your name?”

“Lev Kambotchnik. My father is Rabbi Zvi Kambotchnik. He is a distinguished and revered rabbi, a leader of our people. He is the Chief Rabbi of New York City.”

“Where do you live?”

“On Ludlow Street, on the corner of Canal.”

“When you are better, we’ll be taking you home, and I will be thanking the rabbi personally. I must say, Lev, you speak excellent English. Were you born in the United States?”

“No, sir, we’ve been in America a little over two years. We came over from Odessa in Russia.”

“Lev, we’re going to leave you and let you get some more rest. Joseph will check up on you a little later. You must be getting hungry.” Morrison was impressed with this well-spoken young man. He couldn’t believe that he was an immigrant Russian Jew. He also couldn’t help noticing a smoldering anger in the boy’s eyes. “Is there anything we can do for you now?”

Lev thought for a minute. He ran his hand over his head and felt that most of his hair was shorn off. He could also feel that his face was puffy and swollen. “Do you have a mirror?” he asked. “Also, what day is this?”

Joseph fetched a hand mirror from the dresser on the right side of the bed and handed it to Lev, replying, “It’s Sunday, June 24.”

Lev held the mirror up and saw the bruised face looking back at him. His brown hair was short, and he looked disheveled. He was amazed that he looked so different. The light through the curtains reflected off the mirror, and as he stared at his image, tears formed in his eyes and began rolling down his face. The Morrisons remained silent, feeling the pain of the young man who looked at his battered image. They could only imagine how both the humiliation and degradation of his appearance could be affecting him.

However, they were wrong. Young Lev Kambotchnik did not cry over his appearance.

The day before, June 23, was the day of his bar mitzvah. He had missed it.

* * *

At the very moment Lev peered into the mirror, Rabbi Kambotchnik also lay in bed. He was heartbroken. His worst fears had been realized. He had been concerned when Lev wasn’t home on Friday evening for the lighting of the Sabbath candles. It was then that he realized that this might be the ultimate act of rebellion by his son. He actually feared that the boy had run away.

His small congregation was both shocked and confused. Everyone knew that Lev was to be a bar mitzvah that Saturday morning, yet he hadn’t shown up. The rabbi had led the services as usual, but it was obvious to all that he appeared both angry and weak. He left the synagogue at the conclusion of the service and went straight home without speaking to anyone. There, Sara noticed him sitting in the kitchen looking very pale and sweating profusely. She did not even want to bring up the situation with Lev; she was already so angry with the boy for the effect he was having on her brother. She finally spoke. “Zvi, you need to get into your bed. You appear quite ill. You are not well.” She helped her brother stand and get into his bed. How he has aged since coming to America, she thought to herself.

Lying on his bed, the rabbi felt a heavy pressure in his chest. With sweat pouring down his neck, he suddenly turned his head to the side and vomited. The pains had been coming and going all morning. At one point at the synagogue, he wasn’t sure he would be able to continue the ceremony. All he could think about was Lev. How could his son do this to him? How could he mock his father, his heritage, and his God? The rabbi’s frustration and anger continued to swell. His own son did not attend on the day he was to be a bar mitzvah! With each labored breath, he recalled the difficulty he had with his only son and the shame that the boy now brought to his entire family. The chest pains continued. He felt as if an invisible vise had clamped around his chest, making it almost impossible to breathe. “Sara,” he asked weakly, “please bring me some water and a towel.”

Sara stood up and walked to her brother’s beside. She then understood, for she always felt she could read into her brother’s soul. She knew he didn’t want her to see him suffer like this at the very end. She gently put her hand on his shoulder, and with tears in her eyes, she bent forward and kissed his forehead. Walking over to the window, she pulled the dark curtains shut to cut down the bright sunlight that entered the room. In darkness, she walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Rabbi Kambotchnik closed his eyes as tears rolled down his face. “Shema Yisrael, Adonai eloheinu,” he quietly chanted, reciting his affirmation to God. He knew death was near, but he wanted to say the prayer for someone else who was also now dead to him. “Adonai ehad.” He finished and closed his eyes. The breath left his lungs for the last time.

The Chief Rabbi of New York City was dead.