“You’re damned right that Jewish money can’t pay for murdering Americans.” A man standing at the rear of the hall was grabbed by two uniformed security officers and ushered out the doors.
“I appreciate that there are hard feelings, angry feelings,” Cohen said. “But let there be no mistake. What was done by this community was what had to be done. It was the right thing. What this nation is doing, what this nation is continuing to do, is wrong. We will continue to protest and we will continue to resist when this great nation hides its head in the moral sand and does what all of us, what all of you, know in your heart of hearts is wrong.”
Cohen halted. He appeared confused, confused that his audience was not cheering what to him was obvious.
“Israel was established as a sacred home for the Jewish people. That home has been stolen from us by force. We demand that our government, the United States government, use all means available, all means, to restore the Jewish people’s homeland.
“A million people—” Cohen paused to wipe his eyes with the backs of both hands. He fought for control, overwhelmed by the concept of a million—another million—dead Jews. The room was silent. The audience, the Boston press corps included, held its collective breath. He continued.
“A million Jews have died already, from the bomb, from the armies, from the Arabs. There are concentration camps, Jews in concentration camps, in the Holy Land. We will do everything, everything in our power to convince the United States, President Quaid, to do what is right and just in this horrendous situation.”
His back straightened as the elderly man found his strength.
“In what we have done already and in all future endeavors, one ideal will guide us. One phrase will determine our actions. What words guide us, you may ask. What words?”
He stopped speaking, struggling for control of his emotions. His head rolled back as he gazed at the ceiling, as if by doing so his tears would be hidden. Both hands clenched the podium to support him under a weight of memories.
The room hushed, even the veteran reporters did not know what to expect next but knew, too, they had the lead story on that night’s broadcasts.
The cameras remained locked on the thin, white-haired man at the podium, his head now dropped onto his chest, too heavy for him to hold up. His eyes were closed as he fought for inner strength. Reporters wondered whether his knees would buckle under his invisible burden.
Barely in control of the tears that ran freely from both eyes, Cohen straightened his back, lifted his chin and ever so slowly unbuttoned the cuff of his left shirt sleeve. Standing upright now, he shoved the sleeve up toward his left elbow, exposing his forearm. He lifted that arm in the air, fingers spread wide, above his head. The small row of tattooed numbers was visible in the glare of the television lights.
“What words?” Cohen whispered.
His voice rose to a shout.
“Never again. Never again. Never again. Never again. Never again.”
He walked from the podium, followed by the other men, leaving the room in silence.
That afternoon all six US magistrates—the lowest-level federal judicial officers—spent hours signing search and arrest warrants based on the information already made public, names and addresses collected from newspaper accounts, from local police reports and from simple observation. The first search warrant was for the Jewish Community Center of the North Shore.
The Relief Committee took all the proper safeguards to protect its data from accidents, such as making duplicate backups of the database so the information would not be lost. It did not occur to anybody to set up a system where the database could be quickly and permanently destroyed.
FBI agents entering the Jewish Community Center at ten that night found the lights on and a meeting taking place about relocation efforts with representatives of Jewish communities from across the country. Computers were seized, along with all discs and backup drives. The agents left within a half hour, leaving an ominous silence behind them.
Still, the arrests later that same night were not expected. Also not expected was the visit to Verizon Communication’s North Shore business office by the FBI. The agents displayed a most unusual court order: telephone and Internet service in seven towns north of Boston was to be disconnected from ten at night until six in the morning—no questions asked, no options available. Similar court orders were served at the business offices of cellular telephone providers north of Boston. All cell towers were to be shut down as well. By the time the telephone companies’attorneys could protest the court order the next morning, it was history and phones were back in service.
The seized computers were carried to the Winnebago used by the FBI as its mobile command center. The database of households and refugees was quickly found and sent by secure wireless email to Camp Curtis Guild, a Massachusetts Army Reserve base outside Boston, and to the federal courthouse. The data was merged into more than 5,000 arrest warrants, all quickly signed by the half dozen magistrates.
Attorney General McQueeney had insisted that the raids be polite and low key. No doors were to be knocked down, no weapons were to be displayed, no shouts, no force, no helicopters and, hopefully, no news media.
Teams fanned out through suburban neighborhoods, followed by hastily requisitioned school buses. Agents knocked on doors and displayed arrest warrants. No shouting. No guns. Lots of “sirs” and “ma’ams.” But arrests were made, and arrests meant handcuffs, fingerprints, mug photos and detention, one person per household.
“David, I hear the doorbell. Wake up. There’s somebody at the door.”
Estelle Rosen shook her husband, thankful at least that she could stop his snoring. Twenty-two years of marriage and she never got used to it.
“David, wake up. See who’s at the door,” she said, shaking him, wondering for the thousandth time how he could sleep through his nasal thunder.
Pulling on a bathrobe, Rosen walked quietly down the stairs, trying not to wake his daughter or the Moscowitzes sleeping in the guest room. The pounding got louder, more insistent. He turned on the porch light and opened the door. Two men in dark suits stood there, holding flashlights.
“David Rosen?” one man asked.
“Yes, that’s me. What’s wrong? Has something happened?”
“You have people staying here with you, Mr. Rosen? Arnold, Greta and Carol Moscowitz?” the other man asked, consulting a piece of paper.
“Who are you? Why do you want to know this? Why are you here so late? Come back in the morning.” Rosen moved to close the door.
A hand went to the door, holding it open. The paper was displayed. It was hard to read by the porch light. All Rosen saw was the large type at the top, United States District Court for the District of Massachusetts. And one other word in large black letters: WARRANT.
“Can we come in, sir? We have something to discuss with you.”
Rosen nodded numbly. Estelle stood at the top of the stairs, looking down.
“David, who are these men? What is it? My God, David, has something happened? Is it my mother? Please God, not my mother.” Her voice approached hysteria.
“No, Estelle. Mother is fine. Everything is fine. Go back to bed, dear. I have to speak with these men.”
“Actually, Mr. Rosen,” the second man said, consulting his list. “It would be best if Estelle came down here. But first, Estelle, could you ask the Moscowitzes to join us, too.”
In minutes, Estelle, joined by sleepy Arnold, Greta and Carol Moscowitz, came down the stairs.
“What is it David? What do these men want?” Estelle asked.
“These men are from the FBI,” Rosen said, looking at his wife and Arnold Moscowitz, a short, dark man. Moscowitz was born in Milwaukee and emigrated to Israel immediately after college. He owned Israel’s largest chain of photocopy shops. At least, he used to. Now he owned the clothes he wore and little else. He hoped to find a cousin in Milwaukee, the only family member he’d remained in contact with after his parents pass
ed away.
“Let’s get this over with, sir,” the first man said. “Here’s how it is. We have an arrest warrant for you and for an Estelle Rosen. You are charged with aiding and abetting a whole list of crimes, ranging all the way to murder of a federal officer and—”
“Oh my God.” Estelle, all color drained from her face, slumped soundlessly to the floor. Rosen knelt beside her, patting her cheeks.
He looked at Carol Moscowitz.
“Get a wet cloth. Quickly. Help me,” he begged.
Estelle opened her eyes and sat up.
“I’m so sorry. That’s never happened to me, ever,” she said, surprised, then embarrassed. She slowly, carefully got up from the floor and stood eye to eye with the man holding the warrant.
“Do you really think you are going to charge me and David with, my God, with murder? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. David, call the lawyer. Don’t say a word to these men. Don’t say a word. Get on the phone. Call the lawyer, what’s his name, we used him when we bought the summer house.”
She turned back to the two men.
“This is all a mistake. Get out of my house. Come back in the morning. You can’t take anybody until my lawyer gets here. This is crazy, crazy.”
“Ma’am, I’m afraid there is no mistake,” one of the men said. “We have a warrant and we’re under orders. Here’s how it’s going to work. These folks are coming with us. Their names are on the list and they have to come. You folks”—pointing at David and Estelle—“only one of you has to come; the other gets this notice. One comes. One stays here with your daughter. Makes no difference to us who comes, who stays. Just decide right away. We’ve got a busy night. Who’s it going to be?”
“Can I get dressed first?” Rosen asked, taking Estelle’s hand. “Just let me get some clothes on, okay?”
“Certainly, sir,” the second agent said. “But please hurry. And you people”—looking at the Moscowitzes—“you’d better get dressed and get whatever things you have together. You won’t be returning here. Whatever you want to keep, better take it with you.”
Minutes later the three Moscowitzes, Rosen and the two men stood on the porch. A yellow school bus was parked down the street. Rosen saw other groups of people standing motionless on the sidewalk, waiting for the bus to slowly roll down the street to them.
He turned to his wife.
“I’ll be home soon. This is all a mistake. Call the lawyer, Estelle.” He turned to walk away. “Estelle.” He turned back and held both her hands. “This was my decision, not yours. We did the right thing. Estelle, I love you.”
Estelle immediately ran into the house and picked up the telephone receiver, dialing for directory assistance. She held the phone to her ear, puzzled. The telephone was dead.
CHAPTER 17
Jonathan Kantor had not left his house since the bomb destroyed Tel Aviv. One thought ran through his mind like a Motown song, repeating constantly. Without control.
I should have been there. It should have been me. I should have been there. It should have been me.
Kantor’s wife, Elaine, and their twin daughters, Rachel and Rebecca, were visiting Elaine’s parents in Israel. Jonathan had planned to join his family on the three-week vacation until his boss, a partner in a premier patent law firm in Boston, struck a tree on his mountain bike and ended up flat on his back for weeks. Kantor was at his desk when his wife and children were incinerated in her parents’Tel Aviv condominium.
I should have been there. It should have been me.
Kantor’s Bushmaster semi-automatic rifle lay on the kitchen table, looking as out of place as a dog turd on a Persian rug. Kantor bought the gun three years earlier after two men jimmied a living room window and crept into the house while he and Elaine were sleeping, only to run from the house when a police car drove by with its siren blaring. The weapon had never been fired. Having it was enough for Kantor. It went into the bedroom closet, bullets in the clip, ready to fire the next time there were late-night footsteps on the stairway. That was all he wanted. He was satisfied.
The weapon was moved from the closet to the kitchen table a week after Tel Aviv.
Kantor watched television news, absorbing everything he could from Israel—or what had been Israel. When word reached the leadership of the North Shore Jewish Council that Elaine and the Kantor girls had been in Tel Aviv, calls were made to Kantor. He was invited to memorial services, to substitute funerals. He was urged to join others in grieving.
He stayed home thinking for the first time in his life of what it meant to him to be Jewish. It had not meant anything in particular—until now. Blatant anti-Semitism was something that happened in other times. In other places. To other people. Years ago. In Europe. Not here. Not here in America
Kantor and his family, like most American Jews, had been untouched by anti-Semitism. Now, all he could think about was how the Jew-haters and killers could get to him, too. They took his wife, his daughters.
When the phone call came asking if he could put a few people up for a few nights, the words went in one ear and out the other. Kantor did not remember how he answered. But his name had made a list, a list of people called for help. And next to his name, next to Jonathan Kantor, 26 Endicott Drive, Peabody, Massachusetts was a check mark.
Kantor slept in front of the television, listening for footsteps. Some nights he sat at his bedroom window and stared at the dark street until the sky lightened.
That was what Kantor was doing when he tried to comprehend what was happening on his street. Black cars, no police markings but lots of radio antennas, stopped in front of houses. Pairs of men in dark suits rang doorbells and went inside. At one thirty in the morning, at two. Not all the houses, just a few. And then people came out their doors, neighbors, some people he knew well, some he barely recognized. And with them were other people, families it seemed—people Kantor did not recognize. They were led to the sidewalk and placed in clusters, standing there until a yellow Peabody school bus appeared and rolled slowly down the street, stopping at each cluster for the people to get on board, then rolling on to the next group of people, where they, too, got on.
All in silence, all without Kantor hearing a word spoken. All up and down quiet Endicott Drive. Kantor was stunned and could not figure out what was happening or even whether he was so sleep-deprived that he was hallucinating.
Then he understood which houses the men were going to, which people were being led to the yellow bus. “They’re rounding up Jews,” Kantor said out loud. “They are skipping the Christian houses. They are rounding up Jews. They’re arresting all the Jews in Peabody . . . I’m next.”
He looked out the window. A black SUV stopped in front of his house. Two men got out and walked toward his door.
Am I hallucinating? Is this real? he thought.
POUND POUND POUND.
It sounded like a hammer on his front door. Kantor stood. Looked around frantically. He looked at the window. Should I jump out and run away? The window led to the garage roof. He took a step toward the window and stopped.
POUND POUND POUND.
If they’re waiting in front, they’ll be waiting in the back. He looked toward the hallway door, half expecting two men to walk into the bedroom.
Then Kantor’s eyes slowly moved toward the bedroom closet, where his carefully pressed suits and polished black shoes were lined up. The bedroom closet where he kept his gun.
Kantor’s legs buckled as he realized there was no gun in the closet. The gun was on his kitchen table.
POUND POUND POUND.
Kantor raced from the bedroom and down the stairs, almost falling over his feet as he hit the bottom landing and turned toward the kitchen, running inside his own house faster than he had since the day he and Elaine moved in. He heard a jiggling, clinking sound from the door jimmy the men used to force the lock as he reached the kitchen and snatched the Bushmaster from the table, reaching forward to slam the fifteen-round ammunition clip home.
He turned and faced the front door as FBI agents William Moriarty and Angelo Ansella threw the door open and walked slowly into the dark entryway.
“Is anybody home,” Moriarty yelled. “Is Jonathan Kantor here?”
They know my name, Kantor thought.
Kantor did not wait for the two men to see him walking from the kitchen into the front hallway. As soon as he saw the men, Kantor raised the rifle, jerked the trigger again and again and again until the two men lay on the floor, motionless.
Then Kantor sat in his living room and waited for the other men, the ones he knew would still come to round up Jews.
Fifteen minutes later, tear gas canisters crashed through windows from all sides of his house. Kantor ran out the back door, firing the Bushmaster without aiming until he ran out of ammunition. He was lifting it over his head to demonstrate that it was empty when bullets from three sharpshooters’rifles pulverized his skull.
Kantor had time for one last thought.
It should have been me.
CHAPTER 18
Monhegan Island appeared as a blur on the horizon as the fog lifted and the boat sailed on the morning breeze. Levi and Reuben had spent hours debating where to make their landfall. There hadn’t been a whole lot to talk about on the three-week nonstop sail from Jost van Dyke to Maine. When the wind increased, the boat sailed faster. When the wind slowed, the boat slowed. Levi was scrupulous about not using the engine, saving what little diesel fuel the boat had on board.
With one exception, the weather had been favorable—generally soft winds, increasing during the day, lessening at night. Once in a while, the wind disappeared entirely and the boat flopped from side to side, motionless, making no forward progress at all. When that happened, they waited, as sailors have waited for the wind to return for thousands of years. And as it did for thousands of years, the wind always returned and their forward journey resumed.
Never Again Page 9
