Ball opened the door. Ryland bolted though it and down into the street. As he stood in the dust, gasping for air, he heard the sound of wet, coughing laughter descending the stairs behind him.
Constable E. Seymour Palmer had never been inside the home of a Jew before; he hadn’t needed to.
In general, Omaha’s Hebrews didn’t get into trouble: no drunken fights, no beating of wives, no children breaking windows. Most of the time, they kept to themselves; and when he did have an interaction with them, it was as victims, not perpetrators. In fact, Palmer always said that if all the people he had to police were Jews, he could put his feet up and shine his badge.
Still, the contents of Julius Meyer’s apartment surprised him not at all. It was more Indian tipi than Jew temple; a fitting environment for a man who had spent forty years of his life helping the red man to make sense of the white. There were shelves filled with elaborate belts and moccasins, and glass-fronted cabinets displaying jewelry of many tribes. On the north wall, stretched out like a master painting, was a magnificent buffalo robe; on the south hung framed photographs of The Speaker himself, posing with the great chiefs of his day: Sitting Bull, Spotted Tail, Red Cloud, and at least a half dozen poses with Standing Bear. The place was neat and orderly, with hardly a speck of dust anywhere; and every object had been preserved as if for a museum.
Constable Palmer walked into the parlor. Seated at Julius’s immaculately organized desk he could see a small figure silhouetted against a window. The man was stooped over in what could have been taken for either concentration or grief. Laid before him were a few of the papers the deceased had left behind.
“Good evening, Mr. Eli.”
Eli Gershonson turned toward the voice and smiled to see the policeman.
“And a good evening to you, Constable. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Well, I was told you were here. My family and I offer our sympathies about Mr. Julius—and in the present circumstances, I had hoped there was something I could do for you or the members of your congregation.”
Eli stood and shook hands with Palmer. “No, thank you, Constable. I believe we have my nephew’s affairs in hand, although it will be a job of work to sort through all these things. As you know, our beloved Julius had no wife or children. He named me executor, so I suppose it’s up to me.”
“No will?”
“Just a note telling me to dispose of everything as I see fit. His attorney informs me that he left no other documents behind.”
“It’s certainly a handsome collection of artifacts,” Palmer said. “I suppose you could sell it at auction to benefit yourself or your temple.”
Eli sighed. “Unfortunately, Constable, this stuff doesn’t bring much anymore. I’ve been trying to sell it from my wagon and, mostly, there are no takers. I suppose it’s seen as old-fashioned—something from a bygone era that doesn’t fit in with telephones and typewriters. I suppose I’ll sell some, try to return a few of the nicer pieces to Julius’s Indian friends and make gifts of the rest. Maybe you would like something?”
Palmer blushed and shook his head. “I’m afraid a man in my position can’t afford to take presents—appearance of impropriety. You understand.”
Gershonson shook his head.
“Mr. Eli, I was wondering if there was anything you or Mr. Max or your people wished me to do from here.”
“From here?” Eli said. “I’m not sure I’m following.”
“Well, the way your nephew died—the two bullets in his body. That’s one more than we usually find in a suicide. And the doctor who made the determination, I only used him because the county told me to. Not to cast aspersions, but I don’t think if you or me had a choice, he’d be the doctor we’d go to. So I just thought that you might want me to take a bit of a look-see to find out if anything—what’s the word—untoward occurred.”
Eli nodded again and ran his hands over a huge headdress fashioned from the skull and horns of a bison.
“Constable Palmer, do you know why my nephew kept all these things?”
“I imagine that he felt a great affinity for them—having spent all those years as a friend of the Indian. Old-timers around here like to say there was a time when Julius Meyer was more of an Indian than Sitting Bull.”
Eli laughed quietly. “That’s probably true. He lived where they lived, ate what they ate, their enemies were his. At one time, he even was set to marry an Indian girl—very nice, from a good family. But all of that isn’t why he held on to these things. No.”
Eli opened one of the cabinets and removed a headband woven of gold and set with lapis lazuli. He arrayed it across his hand and held it up for Palmer to see.
“He kept them as a warning. To remind himself that if God turns his head at the wrong moment, an entire people can disappear. They can be killed in the thousands—their art and their ways taken from them and their children turned into slaves. Even those left alive can disappear, made invisible by shame and grief—forced to walk like ghosts among their own murderers. This is not only the world of the Indian, Constable—it is the kind of world we came from, Julius and Max and me. We came to America to keep from disappearing—and arrived just in time to watch it happen to someone else.”
Gershonson crossed the room and sat back down in the chair beside the desk.
“Thank you very much, Constable—but my co-religionists have decided it is better that you do not investigate my nephew’s death. Competent medical authority has determined that he took his own life—and the little handful of souls that make up our Temple has decided that is good enough. They also make much of the fact that Julius died yesterday and our custom dictates that he be buried by tomorrow. At least this is what they say.”
Eli ran his palms across a letter in his nephew’s hand and then turned his head to look directly in the lawman’s eyes.
“But the truth is, they are afraid. They are worried that if they make too much noise or demand the justice that is due a real American, it will not be—what is the phrase?—‘good for the Jews’—and that God will then turn his head as he did from the Indian and before they know it, two other men like ourselves will stand in a room filled with torahs and menorahs and prayer shawls and speak of how they disappeared and isn’t it a shame.”
Eli replaced the headband in the case and shut the glass door.
“No, Constable Palmer. We will bury our dead and say our prayers and leave you to keep the peace.”
From the stairway, Gershonson and Palmer could hear a loud clatter—the sharp sound of boots bounding up the steps. As the noise reached the second floor, young Ryland Norcross appeared in the doorway, his face flushed red.
“Hello, Mr. Eli,” the boy said. “I was told in the street that you was lookin’ for me and that I was to come up here.”
Eli raised his hand in greeting. “Yes, Ryland. The congregation and I wanted to thank you for all the help you provided the constable and the doctor on the day of my nephew’s death. You were quick and brave—two things a man needs if he is to do well in a country like this.”
Ryland turned more crimson. “It wasn’t nothin,’ Mr. Eli. I just did what my Pa told me. ’Sides, Mr. Julius was always real nice to me since I was little. All the kids thought a lot of him.”
“Nevertheless,” Eli said, “I am the executor of my nephew’s estate—and as such I have been charged with the disposition of his property. I’d like you to look around here and pick out anything you like.”
Ryland’s eyes grew wide. “For true?”
“Yes,” Eli said, “Anything you like. A buffalo head, a bow and arrows, a blanket, a war bonnet—anything.”
Ryland looked at Eli and then at Constable Palmer. The policeman nodded as if to give his permission, and the boy began to silently rummage through the treasures: a Springfield rifle, its stock carved in Lakota symbols; a pair of moccasins beaded to form a butterfly; a yellowed necklace of long bear claws.
“If it’s all right,” the boy said,
“I’ll take that.”
Eli pulled a key from his pocket, crouched down, and carefully unlocked the glass door of a low display case. From its second shelf, he removed a brown cedar rod about sixteen inches long, hollowed out and punched with six holes. At one end, it was curved like the beak of a swan—and near its mouthpiece was whittled the horned head of an elk. Perhaps among all the things in the home of Julius Meyer, it was the most beautiful—intricately carved and painted, and decorated with eagle feathers.
“What is it?” Ryland asked.
“They call it a courting flute,” Eli said. “At one time the braves used to play it for their women. Julius used to sell quite a few of them when he had the store. It’s really not much compared to a lot of things you could have, son. Are you sure it’s what you want?”
“Yessir,” Ryland said. “If it’s all the same.”
Eli Gershonson closed the glass door, stood, and handed the flute to the boy. Ryland’s eyes lit like fires at the sight and feel of its fine sculpture. He smiled, thanked both men, and descended the staircase.
As he walked into the street, the sun was beginning to set. Shops were closing their doors all along Farnam, and men were entering the saloons. In the distance, he could hear the calls of mothers announcing supper and the happy excuses of children unwilling to give up the day.
Ryland Norcross put the flute to his lips and blew a lonely note into the wind.
EPILOGUE
JULIUS MEYER ACCOMPLISHED MUCH BETWEEN THE TIME HE became an Indian interpreter and his death. By 1896, Julius and Max (and their two additional brothers, Adolph and Moritz) established what became a virtual retail empire in Omaha, selling just about everything for the home from cigars and pianos to jewelry and furniture. During this time, Julius founded Omaha’s first symphony orchestra and opera house and was one of the founders of the synagogue now known as Temple Israel. He is buried there. In addition to Standing Bear, Julius also counted other famed Indian chiefs among his friends. They included Sitting Bull, Swift Bear, Spotted Tail, and Red Cloud and he was the interpreter for many more. Julius was known to speak at least six Siouxan dialects and possibly more. He never married. Julius Meyer was found with two bullets in him in Hanscom Park in Omaha on May 10, 1909. If he was indeed murdered, his killer has never been found or even searched for. To this day, his death is officially recorded as a suicide.
ALEXANDER HERRMANN was the most famous magician in America before Harry Houdini and was well known throughout the world. He still holds the English record for most consecutive sold-out nights by a single performer. His stage illusions and close-up magic were among the most innovative of their time. Alexander was also famous for his practical jokes. Once while dining with comedian Ben Nye, he produced a diamond ring from beneath a lettuce leaf. While Alex was laughing, Nye gave it to their waitress (the incident formed the basis for the story in this book in which Adelaide offers up the bauble). He lived in a fabulous mansion called Herrmann Manor in Whitestone Landing, Long Island and owned the yacht Fra Diavolo. In 1896, he died of a sudden heart attack in Great Valley, New York. He was fifty two. Alexander Herrmann rests at Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx. Although there is some evidence that Julius and Alexander were related (Alexander’s mother’s maiden name was in fact, Meyer), and the historical record shows that they knew each other (the performance and attempted murder of Alex at the Ponca camp is a true story), the idea that they were first cousins is purely conjecture on the author’s part.
STANDING BEAR (Mah-chu-na-zha) continued to travel and lecture on Indian freedom, often sponsored by the great abolitionist Wendell Phillips. He was supported in his cause by other famous Americans of the time, including the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Today he is one of Nebraska’s greatest heroes and has several places named for him in the state, including an elementary school in Omaha. His final days were spent with his surviving family on a small settlement near the Niobrara River. Standing Bear died there in 1908 at age seventy four. He is arguably the most politically important Indian in American history.
ADELAIDE SCARCEZ was born in London to Belgian parents and trained as a dancer. After meeting Alexander Herrmann at age twenty two, she moved to the United States and married him in a ceremony presided over by William Wickham, the mayor of New York. Adelaide assisted her husband in his act for over twenty years, from the time before their wedding until his untimely death. Initially aided by Alexander’s nephew, Leon Herrmann, Adelaide became a famous and respected magician in her own right, continuing her husband’s act and adding much new material of her own. “Adelaide, Queen of Magic” practiced her art until 1928. She disappeared for good in 1932, aged seventy nine.
COMPARS HERRMANN was considered the greatest magician of his time. He is largely credited for the Mephistophelean look of black goatee and devilish eyebrows associated with stage magicians and still copied by conjurors to this day. After turning over his magician’s mantle to Alexander, Compars retired to Europe; but the panic of 1873 ruined him financially and he was forced to return to the stage, thus becoming a competitor to his much younger brother. In order to preserve their relationship, they divided the world, with Alexander taking the Americas and Compars, Europe. Compars Herrmann died in Karlsbad, Germany in 1887. While the two brothers had their differences, nothing in the Herrmann family history indicates Compars was anywhere near as evil as the villain of this book.
PRAIRIE FLOWER was one of many who died on the Ponca Trail of Tears. Her date of birth is unknown, but she was probably the eldest child of Standing Bear and his first wife, Gra-da-we, who died about the time the Civil War began. Her funeral was a rite of rare cooperation between Indians and whites. Hearing that she was near death, the people of Milford, Nebraska arranged for a Christian Burial. A Mrs. Borden washed her body and her husband, a local carpenter, built a coffin for her. Mrs. Mary Walsh sewed a new dress for Prairie Flower and Mennonite women brought flowers to decorate her grave. The cause of her death on June 5, 1877 was probably tuberculosis. Her resting place is unmarked today. Some accounts say that Prairie Flower was married to a brave named Shines White and was the mother of two children; others claim that “Shines White” was actually the name of her mother.
MAX MEYER continued to be an important businessman in Omaha and was well respected. He founded the Commercial Club (forerunner of the Omaha Chamber of Commerce) and was a principal of the Omaha Savings Bank. His businesses prospered until a fire destroyed his main store at 16th and Farnam Streets in 1889. He was wiped out in the depression of 1893 and spent his last years in New York City.
GENERAL NELSON MILES, after successfully defeating Geronimo in 1886, became the battle commander during the Lakota Ghost Dance uprising of 1890 and was largely responsible for the massacre of approximately three hundred Sioux at Wounded Knee. In 1895 he became Commanding General of the United States Army, a post he held throughout the Spanish-American War. Although he retired in 1903, he offered himself for service during World War I but was rejected because of his age. A Medal of Honor recipient, Nelson Miles died in Washington, D.C. in 1925 at the age of eighty five. He is buried in one of only two mausoleums at Arlington National Cemetery.
GENERAL GEORGE CROOK, after a long career fighting Indians, was ordered to the Arizona Territory to handle the rebellion of Geronimo, only to be replaced by his rival, Nelson Miles. After this campaign, President Grover Cleveland promoted him to major general and put him in charge of the Department of the West. In this role, Crook became an advocate for the tribes, taking their part in treaty disputes, land disagreements and policy decisions. In 1890, General Crook died of a heart attack in Chicago, aged sixty two. He too is buried in Arlington. Upon the general’s death, the Oglala chief Red Cloud said “he, at least, never lied to us. His words gave us hope.”
JOHN NEVIL MASKELYNE carried on with his magic and his inventions. He was also the author of Sharps and Flats: A Complete Revelation of the Secrets of Cheating at Games of Chance and Skill. Along with Houdini, Maskelyne was a
member of the Magic Circle, a group that researched and exposed fake mediums and spiritualists. Maskelyne’s son, Nevil, became a magician, as did his grandson, Jasper. Maskelyne died in 1917 at age seventy eight.
THOMAS HENRY TIBBLES was a champion of the Indian cause all his life. Tibbles witnessed and wrote about the Wounded Knee massacre and worked as a Washington, D.C. reporter at the end of the nineteenth century. He married Suzette LaFlesche (known as “Bright Eyes”), the Omaha woman who interpreted for Standing Bear at his trial. He eventually returned to Nebraska to edit the Independent newspaper and was the Populist Party Candidate for Vice President in the election of 1904. Tibbles died at eighty eight in 1928.
BILLY ROBINSON (William Ellsworth Robinson) went on to have a considerable magic career of his own. Beginning as “Robinson, the Man of Mystery,” he eventually found his niche as the “Chinese” magician Chun Ling Soo. He was so careful about hiding his Caucasian identity that he never spoke on stage and used an interpreter when talking to reporters. He died in 1918 when, due to carelessness, he was fatally shot while performing the Bullet Catch. He was fifty seven.
Lady-Jane Little Feather, Prophet John McGarrigle, Chased By Owls, Eli Gershonson, Seamus Dowie, Doris, Ryland Norcross, Lemuel Norcross, Constable E. Seymour Palmer, Adrian Calhern, Dr. Henry Ball, Half Horse, Voice Like A Drum, and Isador Hamerschmidt are fictional characters.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THERE ARE MANY PEOPLE WHO SUPPORT AN AUTHOR during the writing of a book. I am always amazed that through the long process, they continue to listen, care, and give sage advice even when they have far more important things to do.
As usual, my wife, Joan Weiner, was my rock. She calmly went about her business while a wild-eyed neurotic went mad in the next room, agonizing over each noun and adverb. She never offered a single helpful suggestion until she was asked to, and then her contributions were brilliant. I am lucky to have her love and counsel.
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