What did he write?
Political commentary, anecdotes, op-ed columns, random notes, but above all, stories about the different neighborhoods of Brooklyn. He knew Brooklyn like the back of his hand.
Do you still have the articles?
Of course, as well as hundreds and hundreds of index cards about the history of Brooklyn. He had vague plans to write a book about the borough.
Was he a communist?
Anarchist, although he didn’t like to talk about it. He was viscerally repulsed by any type of proselytizing, on top of the fact that he was a very reserved and solitary person.
What about your grandmother?
Her maiden name was Gallagher. May Gallagher. She and my grandfather couldn’t have been more different. Her family was from Pennsylvania. They moved to Brooklyn at the turn of the century when she was sixteen or seventeen. Everyone called her Sister May, because she had the look of a nun about her. She was a very devoted and generous person, but with a strong personality. She met David at a street dance not long after arriving in Bensonhurst, and a few months later, they married. They had two children, a daughter who died a few days after she was born and Ben.
When was all this?
Let’s see, Ben was born in 1907, and May, I’m not sure. Around 1883, I figure—she and David were about the same age.
Did you get along with him?
With my grandfather David? Very well. I loved him. My grandfather and I had a very special relationship. He would pick me up on Sundays and take me out to explore Brooklyn. He liked taking me to places where we not only had a good time but learned something as well. He was a Brooklyn history fanatic. I have very vivid memories of our visits to the Navy Yard, the Red Hook Harbor, the Botanical Gardens, Prospect Park, the Brooklyn Museum, the Public Library, and many, many other places. One of my favorite outings was when he took me on a stroll around Brooklyn Heights. He knew the history of each building, down to the last brick. He was a member of the Brooklyn Historical Society. That’s where he got the material that he later used in his columns for the Eagle. But the greatest was when he took me to Coney Island. He called me his “research assistant” and we spent two summers going there several times a week. It’s a shame he never got to write that book. Have you ever been to Brooklyn, Abe?
He shook his head, smiling:
No, but after today, I have no excuse.
The truth is, it’s like a world without end.
And you said he never talked about politics?
Not ever. I knew he was an anarchist, because I heard everyone else call him that, although I wasn’t exactly sure what the word meant. He was obsessed with culture and progress. He liked to take me to all kinds of cultural events: concerts, lectures, and once in a while to the movies or the theater. Only once did he take me to a meeting.
How old were you then?
Fifteen, but I remember it vividly. My grandfather and I spoke about a lot of things, but what brought us together most were the long periods of silence that we shared. We understood each other perfectly well without having to talk. Many times, on the subway or the trolley, when the noise was too much, instead of raising his voice to make himself heard, my grandfather would interrupt whatever he had been telling me and just sit there quietly. I soon grew accustomed to his silences. That’s what happened the day he took me to the meeting; when we came out of the subway station, instead of going toward the Fulton Street Market he took me to Boerum Hill without offering any explanation. Halfway down one block, we saw a throng of people by the front doors of a theater. If I’m not mistaken, the place is still there. We got in line. I remember that in the lobby there were three very tall doors, but my grandfather took me by the hand to a stairway on one side, and on reaching the upper level we went into a box in which there were five or six other people already seated, waiting for the function to start. I looked down. In the orchestra, there was an immense sea of heads, but there were also people in the aisles and just about everywhere else in the theater. Soon the house lights were lowered and a murmur passed through the audience. Spotlights shone on the stage, where I saw a long table, a podium, and a few chairs. Some people filed up onto the stage and sat on the chairs as the crowd burst into thunderous applause. A woman of around fifty approached the podium and addressed the audience. I hardly paid attention to what she said. Other things caught my attention. There were little red and black flags all over the theater, and on the stage there was a banner. I didn’t make out what it said because I couldn’t take my eyes off what I saw on the wings of the stage. They were portraits of two men twice the height of a normal person, painted with broad brushstrokes and in strident colors. They looked like cartoon characters. They wore no vests and their shirts were unbuttoned. One had brown pants and the other navy-blue ones. Their heads were disproportionate to their bodies. But what frightened me most were their eyes, which in spite of the shrill colors, seemed to me very real and unsettling. I had the feeling that they were looking at me, only at me, as if they knew who I was and were accusing me of something. Only after I grew accustomed to those eyes was I able to discern the words on the banner. Now of course it’s impossible not to know those names, but when I read them that day, they lacked all meaning:
Sacco and Vanzetti (1927–1952)
The speakers came and went from the podium at regular intervals. Their words were all clearly enunciated, exalted, booming. Every once in a while, the crowd interrupted the speeches, cheering and applauding. Although I was right beside him, my grandfather seemed unaware of my presence. Not once during the entire business did he look at me or say a word. What most surprised me about his behavior was that of all the people who were in the box, or probably the entire theater, he was the only one who didn’t raise his voice or clap. Even so, I was perfectly aware of the changes in his mood, because I saw how he frowned or how his hands clenched into fists. The function was rather long and was pretty boring for long stretches, though you couldn’t help but get wrapped up in everyone’s enthusiasm—after a while, although I wasn’t sure why, every time the crowd clapped or screamed out this or that slogan, I felt a strange mixture of excitement and fear.
When we got out, my grandfather quickly said good-bye to his friends and we left hurriedly, finally heading to the Fulton Street Market. Not once did he mention the meeting. After a few minutes he picked up the story he had left half-finished when the noise of the subway had drowned out his words, as if only a few minutes had passed. At the Fulton Street Market, he took me directly to the shoe stalls and helped me pick out a new pair. Well, in truth, he chose them for me—I couldn’t make up my mind. When we got home, he wanted me to put them on so that everyone could see how well they fit me. Then he went into the kitchen to have some coffee with the other grown-ups. Later that afternoon, he came to give me a kiss and said good-bye. Ben and I accompanied him to the porch. Before reaching the corner, my grandfather turned around and waved. The sun was low and hit the front of the house head-on.
Who were Sacco and Vanzetti? I asked Ben.
And, just then, I realized how tight my shoes were and I knelt down to loosen the laces.
Take them off before you get blisters, I remember Ben saying.
I went into the house carrying the shoes in one hand and dashed to my room, followed by my father. We sat on the edge of my bed.
Where did you hear about Sacco and Vanzetti? he asked me, and I told him about the meeting in Boreum Hill.
It’s his way of telling you that he considers you a man, Ben said after I had finished. He did something similar with me when I was your age.
Four
BROOKLYN HEIGHTS
June 19, 1990
11:29 on the gas station clock. The metal shutter of the Oakland closed. My suitcase in the middle of the sidewalk where the Sikh left it. The shadow of the Chrysler fades in the distance, a yellow haze heading around a corner. Time seems to have shrunk since I last set foot in Queens. The distance between O’Hare and LaGuardia felt consi
derably shorter than the trip from New York to Chicago. My internal, subjective time. The feeling that things are happening faster than usual. The world’s unassailable external time. I try to make sure that these two do not unravel. 9:43. My suitcase appears on the baggage belt, the first one out, and for a minute or so, the only one. Arrivals area. 9:45 according to the Marlboro ad. At the taxi stand, a man wearing a saffron turban practically rips the suitcase from my hands and forces me to get into his cab. 10:07 according to the red digits on the dashboard clock. The Sikh smiles, waiting for my directions. Hicks and Atlantic, Brooklyn Heights, I tell him and the cab lunges forward, tires screeching as they grind on the asphalt. We swerve past trucks, delivery vans, and school buses, the regular morning traffic on the BQE. I like the taxi driver. For some reason, his aggressive driving doesn’t make me anxious. I settle into the back seat. I read on the yellow-card license that his name is Manjit Singh. As if he’s somehow picked up on the direction I’m looking, the Sikh raises his right hand to his turban and smiles at me in the rearview mirror. He’s in his early twenties, has a black beard and his teeth and gums are red from chewing betel. He slows down, apparently in the mood to chat. He slides open the partition and points to the stone mansions and stately buildings. We pass by streets named after fruits. Do I live in Brooklyn Heights? he wants to know. I’m going to visit a friend, I explain. Good neighborhood, very elegant, he says. On Atlantic Avenue, Manjit Singh lifts his foot from the gas pedal and lets the Chrysler glide to a spot right in front of the Oakland, perfectly lined up with the curb. He gets out solicitously, and with a succession of quick movements, deftly opens and closes the trunk, leaving my suitcase in the middle of the sidewalk. He presses his hands together in front of his chest as if in prayer, bows his head, and says good-bye before getting back into the taxi. He takes off with a lurch, as he had at the airport, leaving behind a trail of smoke that smells like gasoline and burned rubber.
There’s a light on in the back of the Oakland.
I push my hand through the grate and knock on the glass door. I hear the tinkling of the keys that hang from the lock inside, and a few moments later I glimpse a figure approaching unsteadily. I try to figure out who it is. Not Ernie, not Frank . . . till I realize it’s Gal Ackerman; it hadn’t occurred to me he would be here. He presses his face to the glass, sees me, turns the key, and pulls the door open.
No one’s here. Everyone took off for Teaneck to see Raúl’s new house. Ernie won’t open up till this afternoon.
He takes a drag of his cigarette then tosses it to the ground and steps on it, even though it’s almost whole. Something is clearly wrong. He shrugs and turns around without saying goodbye, which gives me time to put my hands through the bars and grab him by the sleeve of his vest.
Gal, please, let me in. I just got here from the airport.
He shrugs again, pulls the key ring out of the lock, and passes it to me through the grate.
They locked me in without realizing it, he explains with the hint of a smile. I can unlock the inside door, but not the gate. You have to do it. Here, it’s one of the small keys.
How was Chicago? he asks once we’re both inside.
I’m surprised that he keeps up with my affairs.
All right, I respond . . . I’m really sorry to bother you, it’s just that . . . I almost tell him why I’ve come straight to the Oakland from the airport instead of going back to my place, but I hold off. It’s too early to go into the newsroom, I say absurdly.
Gal gestures to a pot of coffee steaming on top of the counter.
It’s fresh, he says.
I leave my suitcase on the floor, pour myself a cup, and sit with him. On top of the table there’s a section of the New York Times folded in half.
Look at this, he says, pointing to the headlines. He flips the paper around so I get a better look. The news is from February 21.
MAN ACQUITTED OF KILLING
AND BOILING ROOMMATE
He lets out a nervous laugh.
What’s so funny? I ask.
He puts an index finger to his lips, leans on the wooden edge of the marble table with his elbows, flips the newspaper back, and continues to read silently. After a while, he says:
Daniel Rakowitz. The thing is, I knew this guy. I was always seeing him around Tompkins Square Park when Louise lived on 12th Street. Shit, now that I think about it, Louise bought some grass from him once. Remember the May Day concerts in the park?
Sure.
He goes on reading. When he’s done, he says:
I remember him perfectly. You must have seen him yourself.
Doesn’t he sound familiar? You were in New York last February, right?
Gal . . .
Do you remember the guy who used to traipse around Alphabet City with a chicken on a leash as if it were a Chihuahua? The poor critter ran around behind him while its owner sold bags of marijuana around the park for five dollars.
Sounds familiar.
He was from Texas. Came to live in New York in 1985. One of the witnesses, Bart Mills, a homeless man who lived in Tompkins Square Park, testified that Daniel Rakowitz used to show up in the park with a pot and a ladle and offer the beggars loitering there a bowl of stew, beef and potato or something. But the thing is that according to Mills’s testimony, one day when he and a few of the other beggars were feasting on Rakowitz’s stew, one of them found a human finger in the bowl, with the nail and everything. That’s what it says here.
I spit out a mouthful of coffee.
Look, I just added his index card to my files for the Death Notebook, with his picture and everything. Name: Daniel Rakowitz. Age: Thirty. Accused of first-degree murder. The case number follows, and then in this clipping, the jury’s verdict. How about that? But the truth is the guy has a sense of humor. When he appeared before the judge, after a group of psychiatrists had examined him, he said that he would prefer jail to the psych ward, because he had learned how dangerous drugs were, and in jail they wouldn’t stupefy him with pills. Read it yourself if you don’t believe me.
Gal holds the New York Times aloft for a few moments and then brings it back down slowly to the table, smoothes it over, reading the news story to the end. When he finishes it, he gives me a brief summary.
He lived at 614 East 9th Street, right in the middle of Alphabet City, and once in a while, he worked at Sahak, an Armenian restaurant in the East Village, when he needed the money . . . hey, Ness, is it noon yet?
I point to the clock on the wall. The minute hand is about to reach the highest point in the circle. By the time Gal glances over, the two hands become one.
Perfect. It’s time. My internal chronometer never fails.
Time for what?
To give the demons a drink! Someone has to take care of them.
He takes a bottle of vodka out of a brown paper bag that he has hidden under the table and pours a long shot into his coffee.
He murdered a Swiss girl who was studying contemporary dance at the Martha Graham Academy, name’s Monika Beerle, I think.
Sounds Dutch.
Could be. According to the reporters, Rakowitz had proclaimed himself to be the “God of Marijuana.”
He sits in thought a while.
Go on, Gal.
Some detectives from the narcotics division who were watching the area began to hear rumors about how this Rakowitz had boiled a body. Don’t tell me that doesn’t make your balls shrink! You’re a journalist, explain to me what the hell that means: Rumors that he had boiled a body? Can you imagine a junkie telling someone else in the park: Hey, that Swiss girl hasn’t been around for a while, I think the dude with the chicken killed her and boiled her body?
Yeah, right.
He laughs, but on seeing that I won’t join in, stops.
Gal . . .
All right, all right, don’t get upset. It’s just one hell of a fucking story. So, anyway, a pair of plainclothes detectives headed over to Rakowitz’s place with a warrant. They took him down t
o the precinct to question him, but he roundly denied having anything to do with killing anyone. He’d found the body, that’s all—found it and soaked it in bleach before boiling it! He he he he! Unbelievable! He said he wanted to disinfect the bones. They really grilled him, and half the things he said contradicted the other half. That’s when he told them that the head was at Port Authority. When they took him there, he led them to a bucket of kitty litter in the baggage room, in which—to make a long story short—there was the skull of a female wrapped in newspaper and in an advanced state of decomposition. Seems the bleach didn’t work very well.
He laughs and laughs, unable to stop.
Wait, he manages to say when he recovers, that’s not all. It gets better. You want to know what Rakowitz said to the members of the jury after they had delivered their verdict? Let me read it to you, otherwise you’re gonna think I’m making it up:
After jurors returned their verdict yesterday in State Supreme Court in Manhattan, Mr. Rakowitz thanked them and said, “I hope someday we can smoke a joint together.”
“I won’t fault you for your verdict,” said Mr. Rakowitz, who had frequently interrupted the six-week trial with bizarre outbursts. “The prosecution had an overwhelming case against me. But I’ll be getting out soon and I’ll sell a lot of marijuana so I can bring to justice the people who actually committed this crime.”
He he he he. But you haven’t heard the best part.
During the trial, after both sides had rested, the judge delivered a peremptory speech to the jury about its responsibilities, then ordered it to go deliberate. When the court gathered again nine days later, the jury declared Rakowitz not guilty by reason of insanity. What do you think of that?
I don’t know, Gal.
What the fuck do you mean you don’t know? I’ve told you the whole story from beginning to end, don’t you have an opinion?
If they didn’t think he was sane, then they couldn’t hold him criminally responsible. That’s the law.
Call Me Brooklyn Page 6
