by Henry Hack
I was impressed by Michael’s insight and maturity and Mort Stern said, “Good decision, Mikey,” grinning and glancing pointedly in my direction.
“But then I thought about the whole college idea, and decided I don’t want to go right now. I want to take a year off and see what’s out there in this big world.”
Although his parents and grandparents seemed stunned by this revelation, I felt it was a perfect time to begin our discussion of Michael’s true life story. I said, “Michael, I believe that’s a good decision and apropos to what we have to tell you. Alan?”
Alan began fidgeting and stammering. “Uh, Mikey… er…”
“Tell me what, Dad?”
“Uh, Father Manzo, could you? Uh, it might be better…”
You son-of-a-bitch! roared through my brain and I stared hard at him, but he hung his head and refused to look at me.
“Father, what is going on?” Michael asked.
“Michael, there’s no easy way to say this, but it’s time you know who you are.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You are Michael Simon, biological son of Andrew and Veronica Simon, who were killed when you were an infant. Alan is your father’s brother, and he and his wife, your Aunt Elizabeth, adopted you and raised you as their own child. Your sisters are actually your cousins.”
The first reaction came from Mary Beth, who was always a bit of a potty mouth. She raised the bar on her level of profanity this time saying loudly, “What…the…fuck?”
Betty Ann followed with, “Holy Crap!”
Mary Beth looked all around the table and said, “And all of you here knew this all along?”
“Yes,” Sara Silber said. “Jerry and I are not just friends, we are Michael’s grandparents, his biological mother’s parents.”
We all sat silently as Michael took this devastating news in. He finally said, “How did they die?”
Alan, having regained his nerve said, “My brother and his wife were shot dead by an intruder. Your father was a young Nassau County Police Officer. You were six months old and were in a bedroom down the hall when the crime took place.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Do you think that would have been a good idea?” he responded. “We didn’t think so – all of us.”
“You could have told me and Betty Ann,” Mary Beth said.
“And how long could you have kept that from your brother?”
“He’s not my brother though, is he?”
“Yes, I am,” he said, “and you two are my parents. Thank you for taking me in, and raising me, and educating me. I love you both, and I love my sisters as well. You will always be my parents and my sisters.”
Impressive for a seventeen-year old, I thought. I said, “Michael, take your time to wrap your head around this. Your father has a box of memorabilia from your parents and we’re all available to answer your questions when you’re ready.”
“Thank you, Father. I have one question right now. Grandma Sara, am I Jewish?”
“Yes,” she said. “Both your parents were Jewish, as is Alan.”
He nodded, looked at Mort Stern, smiled and said, “You were right, you old survivor. You had me pegged all along.”
Mort nodded and said, “Maybe being a Jew is not such a good thing, Mikey.”
Rabbi Berman shot Mort a dirty look and said, “Michael, whenever you wish to discuss your Jewishness, I will be available. As will Father Manzo. We’ll kick around this whole religious thing, and you can come to your own conclusions.”
“I’d like to be part of dat discussion,” Mort said, with a wicked grin on his face.
“That won’t be necessary, Mort,” Rabbi Berman said, ice dripping from his words. “Michael has been exposed to your views for years, and you have a store to attend to.”
No doubt Mort Stern had more to say on the subject, but he just leaned back in his chair and said, “Bah!”
. . .
One week later, at a dinner to which I had been invited, Michael said to his parents, “I have decided to enlist in the Army for two years. Although the war in Vietnam is over, the draft isn’t, and my number will come up shortly anyway.”
“If you go to college full time,” Elizabeth said, “you can get a deferment.”
“I don’t want to go to college now. Will you sign the approval?”
Alan and Betty looked at each other then over to me. Alan said, “Father Manzo?”
“I think it’s a wonderful idea. See some of the world. Learn new ideas. Learn some new curse words. Get your head straight while you serve your country.”
That’s what I said, but what I was thinking was, Yeah, Mikey, run away from your problems like I did. But that turned out to be a good thing, didn’t it? At least so far it has.
“Then we approve,” Alan said, as a tear slipped down Betty’s cheek.
“Thanks,” he said. “Can I look at that box of memorabilia now?”
“It’s in the attic,” Alan said. “I’ll go get it.”
If Michael had uneasy feelings about what he was about to see, I assure you they were mild compared to the emotions that now raged through my mind and body. Visions of bloody, bullet-ridden bed clothes, gruesome photos of the murder scene, and gory autopsy photos passed in front of my eyes, and I took a deep breath. But all that evidence would not be in that box, but still be in police custody if they suspected a second perpetrator, or disposed of if the case had been officially closed, as I desperately hoped.
Alan returned in a few moments with a large cardboard box. Printed on top in black ink were two words, “MY BROTHER.” I stifled a sob, realizing not only had Mikey lost his parents, but Alan had lost his only sibling, Betty lost her brother-in-law, the Silber’s lost a daughter, and Alan’s parents had lost a son.
This tragedy had no end.
“Go ahead, son,” Alan said. “Open it.”
Michael pulled back the brittle sealing tape and unfolded the flaps of the box. The first item he withdrew was a large white photo album. On its cover, in gold script were the words, “Our Wedding Day” followed underneath by “Veronica and Andrew Silber – November 6, 1955.”
He passed his hand over the cover, wiped a tear away that had started down his left cheek, and said, “I’d like to take this box up to my room and go through it by myself. If I have any questions, and there will probably be many, we’ll talk then.”
We watched him gently cradle the box in his arms and head for his upstairs bedroom. I started to say goodbye but Alan stopped me and said, “Father Manzo, please stay awhile longer. I’d like you to be here to help me answer Michael’s questions when he comes back down.”
With a heavy heart and raging memories of that terrible night eighteen years ago, I reluctantly agreed.
FOURTEEN
An agonizing hour later, which seemed an eternity to me as my apprehension increased to near the bursting point, Michael came down to join us in the living room and said, “I carefully went through the box of my real parents’ memorabilia, and when I finished I did have a lot more questions, the main ones being who really are these people? And what really happened to them on that night? Dad, were you close to my father, er, I mean your brother?”
Alan smiled and said, “I guess it’s all right to call us both your dad, Michael, but if you want you can call me your step-dad, or your uncle. I won’t mind.”
“No, you’ll always be my father. I cannot ever know the other one, but maybe you can tell me all about him, and my mom, too.”
“To answer your question, I was very close to my brother
who was two years younger than me. I was the best man at your parents’ wedding as you probably saw in their photo album. I won’t bore you with childhood stories right now, but I’ll tell you as best I can what I believe you really want to know. Come sit on the sofa with me and Father Manzo.”
He did, and Alan reached down on the seat cushion next to him and withdrew a book. He said, “This is a journal I kept back at the time to commemorate my brother and his wife. Here is how they met and got married, and here are the events of that terrible night from newspaper reports and my conversations with the investigating police officers and detectives. I pieced it all together and put it in the form of a story. Do you want me to read it?”
“Yes, Dad, I do,” Michael said as my apprehension grew into outright fear.
Alan opened the journal and swallowed hard. “Here goes, Michael…”
. . .
Patrolman Andrew Simon had been with the Nassau County, NY Police Department for two years and was assigned to the Fifth Precinct, which bordered the NYPD’s 105 Precinct, to its west. Nassau County, as most of the Boro of Queens, was considered a suburban bedroom community for the “City,” which meant chiefly the Boro of Manhattan. Many of Nassau’s inhabitants partook in the great, rushing, crushing, commute west each weekday morning by car, bus, and train and Andy Simon had been part of that daily exodus and return for two years prior to joining the NCPD.
Andy smiled as he drove sector car 506 to his assignment. He had the windows all the way down on this fine spring day and breathed in the fragrance of the newly-opened trees and flowers, occasionally poisoned with exhaust fumes spewing from the bumper-to-bumper, stop-and-go traffic heading westbound on Hempstead Turnpike. He cruised east at a steady thirty miles per hour. It was eight a.m. and he had been assigned by radio to cover the school crossing on Jackson Street in Franklin Square. Andy, not yet permanently assigned to a steady sector car post, was filling in this week for the regular assigned patrolman who was on vacation. This was his last day tour of five and, after his two days off, he would return to his foot post in Elmont on Thursday’s four-to-twelve shift. School crossings were not usually a favorite assignment for an active officer who would be happier to be looking for bad guys, but they were part of the job when a school crossing guard was absent or on vacation. Since he knew SCG Lynn Markey had been on her post Friday, he figured she had called in sick today.
He pulled up on Jackson Street, got out of his vehicle, donned his white cotton gloves, and awaited the first batch of youngsters to show up at the intersection and cross to their elementary school. As they arrived, full of energy and smiles, a few asked him where Miss Markey was today. Since he didn’t know, he answered, “Probably has the day off. I’m sure she’ll be back here tomorrow.”
The last few kids he crossed at 8:55 were the final batch before he would return for the afternoon crossing at 2:30 p.m. And, unknown to him at the time, that return would change his life forever. To be exact, at 2:42 p.m. a large group of children accompanied by a young woman – their teacher, no doubt – crossed the street as he held up his white-gloved hands to stop the traffic. As she passed him she nodded and smiled, and Patrolman Andy Simon literally fell in love on the spot. Head over heels in love. Knee-knocking, light-headed, dry-throated love. The immediate heart-stopping love that happens only in the movies.
His short glimpse of her revealed a dark-haired, green-eyed beauty reminiscent of Elizabeth Taylor, one of his fantasy movie idols. Liz had those blue-violet eyes, but these green ones were no less entrancing. He followed the group over and assumed the teacher must be leaving for the day. He said, “Hello, ma’am. I’m Patrolman Simon, uh, filling in for Miss Markey today.”
“Pleased to meet you, Officer. I hope there’s nothing seriously wrong with Lynn?”
“Oh, no. I found out from the desk sergeant she had a stomach virus. She should be back tomorrow. Uh, but I won’t, even if she isn’t here. I go on my days off.”
“I see,” she said, starting to turn away.
“Uh, Miss…? What’s your name?”
She looked at Andy as if he’d been a bit too bold, but smiled and said, “Veronica Silber.”
“That’s a lovely name,” he said, extending his hand.
She hesitated, but still smiling, took it and shook hands with him. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Officer Simon, but I must be going.”
“Uh, Andy,” he said. “My name is Andy. Uh, Miss Silber, before you go can I ask you a question?”
Rolling her eyes a bit she said, “Okay.”
“Will you marry me, Veronica Silber?”
She now looked deeply into this handsome young man’s dark-brown eyes and her legs quivered. She realized they were still clasping hands. She said, “Perhaps I will, Andy Simon. When can I meet your folks?”
Andy was flabbergasted, but ecstatic. He couldn’t speak for a few seconds, and it seemed Miss Silber was enjoying the state of shock she had put him into. He said, “Uh, maybe we should go on a few dates first?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “When?”
“Tomorrow night. I know you’re working, so we will do an early dinner and a movie. You’ll be home by ten.”
“Sounds great,” she said. “Pick me up at five-thirty.”
“See you then,” he said, heading back to his patrol car.
“Uh, Andy?” she called out as he strode away drinking in her lilac-scented perfume.
He turned and said, “Yes?”
“Perhaps you might want to jot down my address and phone number?”
“Oh, my God,” he said laughing. “What a jerk. See what love does to a guy?”
She wrote the information down on a small notepad she fished out of her purse and handed it to him. Love, indeed! Either Andy Simon was the biggest con man with the phoniest line she ever had put to her, or he was the real thing, wearing his heart on his sleeve, right beneath his bright gold and orange police patch.
. . .
Veronica shortly found out Andy was definitely the real thing. On their third date he had asked, “Does Silber mean silver in German?”
“Yes, but I’m not German. I’m Jewish.” She was curious to see how he reacted to that.
He said, “At the risk of dragging out an old cliché, I could say, ‘Funny, you don’t look Jewish,’ but I won’t.”
“What would you say?”
“I would say you look like a movie star to me, and I don’t care what religion is inside that body of yours.”
Veronica, Ronnie as she was called, laughed and said, “Is Simon a German name?”
“I think some Simon’s are, but some are Jewish, too.”
“No! Don’t tell me you’re a fellow Jew?”
“That I am, my love.”
With a serious deadpan look she said, “Funny, you don’t look Jewish.”
They both cracked up and that line became a favorite of theirs to start them giggling. Once, while watching the old black-and-white King Kong movie, Andy whispered, “Funny he doesn’t look Jewish, but I think he’s circumcised,” causing Ronnie to burst out laughing and to draw hostile stares from the movie goers nearby.
Their whirlwind romance culminated in a traditional Jewish wedding in November of 1955, which was somewhat ironic since neither one had considered, nor cared, their new found lover was Jewish. The wedding had not been lavish, but was the best their sets of parents could afford. Andy’s dad was a car salesman, and his mom worked as a bookkeeper in a small business. Ronnie’s parents owned a dry cleaning business in Queens and put in long hours there. The newlyweds rented a small three-bedroom house in the quiet neighborhood of Cambria Heights in eastern Queens. The house had an option to b
uy, but they were unsure if they wanted to stay there or look for something in Nassau County. For now, it was ideal, their reverse commute being less than twenty minutes in each direction.
Their son, Michael, was born in January, 1957, and when he was six months old, they moved him from the bassinet in their bedroom to his own room down the hall. And after paying a lot of rent, but managing to save enough for the down payment, they bought the house and started to make it their own home.
. . .
June 15, 1957 was a Saturday night and unusually warm for this time of year. They had opened up all the windows to the night air and even left the solid-wood front door open with the screen door latched in place to maybe catch a cross breeze in their non-air conditioned house. Although they lived in a low crime, safe neighborhood, Andy knew burglars could, and would, strike anywhere, so he kept his fully-loaded, off-duty, five-shot, S & W revolver in the top drawer of his night stand. He and Ronnie had already discussed the necessity of relocating it to a safer location when little Mikey began crawling around.
A call came into the 105 Precinct at 1:05 on the morning of June 16 and the man said, “Listen, I think I heard gunshots from across the street. Maybe they were firecrackers, but I think the owner of the house is a cop. Maybe you could have the sector car check it out?”
“I will, sir,” the desk sergeant said. “Give me the location, and your name and address, and I’ll get someone over there right away.”
The sector car was there in five minutes, and a backup one minute later, at the premises located at 119-04 on 230 Street. Two officers crept up the four brick front steps. They noticed the slit in the screen door leading into the house and motioned for the other two officers to move around to the back of the house. Before trying the door one of the officers shouted, “Police officers! Is anyone home?”
