TWENTY-FOUR
DAY 6. MONDAY, 9/25—5:30 P.M.
Hello, Noah.”
Miriam had been placed in a room with three other patients, all post-traumatic, none of whom had been in the explosion. A woman with severe facial contusions and a fractured left orbital, a result of a beating by her husband, was asleep, sedated. A prostitute, no more than fifteen, had been treated for a gunshot wound to the abdomen. Another young woman, recovering from a mastectomy, lay staring at the ceiling, biting her lip, tears running down the sides of her face. Noah had wiped her cheeks and tried to speak with her, but the woman had refused to acknowledge him. Noah had also encountered two policemen in the hall on the way to her room.
“How are you feeling, Miriam?” he asked when he returned to her bed. “You are looking well.” She was, surprisingly. The pallor was gone, and her face had regained crispness. Her eyes were sharp and focused. He took her pulse. Strong and regular.
“What did they do for you other than the transfusions?”
“Saline solution. That’s what the doctor said. And some tablets for pain.”
“Blue?”
Miriam nodded. Aspirin was fast becoming the analgesic of choice.
“All quite right. If you continue to take liquids and nourishment, you should be able to leave tomorrow or the next day.”
“And go where?”
“Home. I’m certain there is no shortage of friends to care for you.”
“Papa is murdered, Noah. If I go home, I suspect I will be as well.”
“I’m terribly sorry about your father, Miriam.” She was correct, of course. If a rival faction had planted the bomb, as McCluskey thought, none of her acquaintances could be trusted. “But I can assure you at least he didn’t suffer.”
Miriam glared at him. What had he said?
“Papa suffered his entire life. He suffered for himself. He suffered for my mother. He suffered for people he did not even know. But mostly, he suffered for me. It is only scant consolation, I’m afraid, that he did not suffer as he died.”
“I’m sorry.” He could think of nothing else to say.
“Papa was a great man, you know, despite anything the coppers say. He was kind, compassionate, and gentle. The most intelligent man I ever knew, but the wisest as well. And, despite what you may think, he understood that violence would simply breed violence.”
“Even in Chicago?” The words were out before Noah could stop them.
“The Haymarket? Where did you hear that? McCluskey? It’s a lie. Papa was in Chicago before the riot, yes, but to try to stop the violence. He had been in war. He told me, ‘No man should die by the hand of another.’ He had terrible arguments with Spies. He said riots would only bring repression, not freedom. Spies responded by threatening Papa with a revolver. Afterward, the Chicago coppers tried to involve him, but everyone they questioned insisted Papa had nothing to do with it. Except Spies. Spies swore the riot was Papa’s idea. That he had written the incendiary pamphlets. The coppers wanted Papa, but they weren’t about to legitimize Spies by using him as a prosecution witness. So they had to let him go. The coppers have been after him for thirteen years. I suppose they finally decided if they had no cause to arrest him, all that was left was to murder him.”
“But the police didn’t murder your father, Miriam.”
“Of course they did.”
“No. I saw who did it.”
Miriam pushed herself up in bed, then winced. “You saw?”
Noah told her of Sasha’s hurried exit.
“I can’t believe it. Father rescued him. Took him in. Sasha was living in the streets. If it was anyone but you who told me . . .”
“McCluskey told me that Sasha was a communist and that the communists hated your father. Is he right?”
Miriam heaved a sigh. “As much as I hate McCluskey, it’s possible. The communists do . . . did . . . hate Papa. He refused to ascribe to violent revolution. Sasha could have been planted in our office, I suppose. Now that I think about how we met him . . .”
“How?”
“He was always on the street in the same place. In front of a clothier on Broadway. He didn’t beg per se, but was always available for odd jobs. For some reason, or so we thought, he took a liking to Papa. Papa didn’t trust him right off but eventually began to give him errands to run or messages to deliver. He was fearless, eager . . . too eager, I suppose . . . and very bright. Eventually, Papa gave him a job.” She began to breathe more rapidly and lost color.
“You need rest now, Miriam. I’ll try and return tonight. Certainly tomorrow morning. Then we can discuss your living arrangements. You’re safe enough here for now.” He ventured a smile. “And please, Miriam. The doctors and nurses are not revolutionaries. Just do what they tell you.”
As Noah turned to leave, Miriam reached out and grabbed him by the wrist. Her grip was still strong. “Papa always took care of me,” she said. “You’ll have to take care of me now.”
“Of course.”
Alan and Maribeth were waiting for him in the lobby.
“How is she?” Maribeth asked evenly.
“My Jewess?”
“How is Miss Herzberg?”
“She’s doing remarkably well. She appears to have the constitution of a horse.”
“Perfect, then, for a man with the temperament of a mule.”
Alan placed his hand on his sister’s arm. “Has she been told about her father?”
“She didn’t need to be told.”
“The police say he was a murderer.”
“He was nothing of the sort. He was a philosophy professor and a war hero. He cared for others. You would have liked him, Alan.”
“One can like a man but not what he stands for.”
“I believe he stood for the same things you do. In any event, Maribeth said there was something you wanted to tell me.”
“Show you, actually. Feel up to a trip to the hospital?”
“I’m in a hospital.”
“My hospital. Assuming Dr. Dollars isn’t about.”
Noah turned to Maribeth. “Can you trust me a little longer?”
“I don’t trust you now.” But then she waggled her fingers at him. “Go. Find out what’s killing those children. It will infuriate my parents and Jamie.”