Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale (31 page)

CHAPTER 34
 

“The Jews are not our friends. They pretend to be. They marched with Doctor King and started their Anti Defamation League—which they
say
will help
us
—but all this was rooted in self interest. The Jews stood by us in the South only because they themselves are afraid of the Klan; they themselves are scared of persecution and prejudice,
not
because they give a damn about the black man.

“Take a good look at these Jews, my friends. What have they really done for us? Well, to start, they participated in the slave trade, even owned some of the ships and companies that had transported our grandparents from their homes and villages in Africa to the so-called
New
World. These Jews have made a profit from our servitude, that’s what
they
have done for us!

“And today, what does the Jew do for us? He is the slum lord, is he not? He owns our tenements; he does not fix the plumbing or replace the lights in the hallways and stairwells where our mothers and sisters are accosted; he does not repair the chipping paint our babies ingest; he does not provide heat in the winter, and does not replace broken locks on the doors to keep criminals out. All he cares about is filling his pockets, and
that’s
what the Jew does!”

Joshua sat in the back of the class, listening to Professor Thompson’s final lecture of the semester. The professor had apparently saved the “best” for last, and Joshua couldn’t argue. The comments about Jewish landlords rang true to his experience, and the statements about Jews having been involved in slave trading were not without some historical evidence. And as for the reason some Jews marched with blacks in the South, there was some truth in that as well.

Yet Joshua was bothered by the insinuation that all whites, and Jews in particular, were bad.
What
about
Rachel,
her
father,
or
even
Mr.
Kimmel,
the
probation
officer
?

He was about to raise his hand, but lost his nerve. He knew he was copping out, doing exactly what Thompson had admonished him about, but it just wasn’t worth it. Not at this time, in this place.

The class concluded with a thunderous ovation. Joshua, too, found himself on his feet, applauding. Not because he was afraid of sticking out, but because there were things he’d learned from Thompson, and an intangible quality about the professor that he admired, despite the demagoguery.

A few minutes passed before the room started emptying. Joshua gathered his belongings and was headed for the door when he heard his name called.

What
luck
!

He turned around; the notorious forefinger was beckoning.

He ambled over.

Thompson gestured for him to sit.

He obeyed.

Thompson looked at him. “So you never did speak up,” he said.

“About what?”

“About anything.”

“I guess I didn’t have anything to say.”

“You
guess
?”

“I mean, I
didn’t
have anything to say.”

“Or you would have spoken up.”

“Yes, exactly.”

Thompson waited a beat. “I’m sure you know that you received the best grade in the class on the mid-term.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, you did. It’s obvious that you’re a smart fellow.”

Joshua said nothing.

“Anyway,” Thompson continued, “I was wondering what exactly it is that you plan to do with your brains?”

Joshua wasn’t sure how to respond. “Well, I’m a pre-law major.”

“Does that mean you want to be a lawyer?”

“I don’t know. I guess so.”

“You
guess
so. Well, you better be more convinced than that if you really want to be a lawyer.”

Joshua nodded.

Thompson pondered a moment. “Perhaps you
will
be a lawyer. Perhaps you will do your people proud one day.”

Joshua was dumbfounded.

“I could tell that you don’t agree with everything I say,” Thompson added.

“How is that?”

“Your face, it gives you away. You would be a terrible poker player.” A chuckle.

Joshua vowed to work on his poker skills. “There are some things you say that sound too simple,” he said, surprised by his own candor.

“And what might those things be?” Feigned curiosity.

Joshua offered some of his thoughts regarding Thompson’s generalizations. Thompson sat, listening with extraordinary interest, silent, reflective, rubbing his cheek. Joshua was afraid he’d said too much.

“Tell me, Mr. Eubanks, where do you live?”

“Crown Heights.”

“Ah!”

“Is there something wrong with Crown Heights?”

“No, not really. But it isn’t exactly your typical black neighborhood, wouldn’t you say?”

“If you mean that whites live there too, that’s true. But things are changing. The whites are moving out fast. When we first came there, we were the only blacks in our building, and now there aren’t any whites left in
our
building at all.”

“And why do you suppose that is?”

“I guess they don’t want to be around us, with all the crime and drugs and everything. They’re scared, and to tell you the truth, so am I. I grew up in Bed-Stuy, and I’ve seen what can happen to a neighborhood.”

“Bed-Stuy,” Thompson said, pondering. “So you do know something about black neighborhoods?”

“Some.”
More
than
I’d
like
to
admit
.

“Tell me, Mr. Eubanks, can I ask you a personal question?”

“Yes.” Tentative.

“What happened to your leg?”

“A fight with some white guys, one of them had a knife and got me in the back.”

“A fight?” He didn’t seem surprised. “Over what?”

“I was trying to help two girls.”

“Girls?”

Joshua nodded.

“Were they black girls?”

“No, they were Jewish.”

“I see.” Again, pensive. He stood up and stretched. “Well, Mr. Eubanks, you should think more seriously about becoming a lawyer. You’ll probably make an excellent one; you seem to have a gifted mind. You may even contribute to
your
people one day, help them as you did those Jewish girls. Unless, of course, you’re afraid of being wounded again.”

“I’ll think about it,” Joshua said. He would have said anything at this point to have gotten out of there.

“Good, you do that,” Thompson replied. “You can go now.”

Joshua got up, and walked toward the door.

“One more thing, Mr. Eubanks.”

“Yes.” He turned around.

“Have you ever heard of
Crow
Hill
?” Thompson asked.

“No.”

“Have you heard of
Crow
Heights?”

“No.”

“You might want to look them up in the library. You might find something interesting.” Thompson turned away, giving the impression that he wasn’t looking for a reply. Joshua left the room, forgot about his next class, and headed directly for the library.

Joshua didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, but was sure it would be some obscure little historical snippet of seeming insignificance.

Crow
Hill.

Crow
Heights
.

What
could
Thompson
have
been
alluding
to
?

Figuring it obviously had something to do with Crown Heights, he searched the card catalogue for titles about Brooklyn. He pulled three books, dealing specifically with the history of Brooklyn, and searched their indices. All had entries for Crown Heights, but the first two had nothing under
Crow
. He was just about convinced he was chasing a ghost, when he came upon an entry in the third book.

There it was, in front of his eyes:
Crow
Hill
. He turned to the page and began reading about how, during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, Crown Heights had actually been called Crow Hill. It was regarded as a hill because it was the highest point of land stretching from the hills east of Prospect Park to East New York. The term
crow
had two origins. The first was that, according to folklore, the hill had been infested with crows. The second theory was based on the fact that the area had been settled in the 1830’s by freed black slaves, who were referred to as “crows” by whites.

In either case, the black settlers lived in shacks they built on the hill. Many of them had been farmers or craftsmen, while others found work in the fish and meat markets in Manhattan. Years later, as the city limits extended, Crow Hill’s abundance of land and centralized location attracted many Protestant middle-class immigrants from Western Europe, who in turn developed the area by building churches, hospitals, parks, museums, and architecturally rich homes. By the early 1920’s, the opening of a subway line to the area led to an apartment house building boom, and brought a new influx of immigrants, most of whom were Jewish, Irish, and Italian. Over time, the blacks were forced out as Crow Hill became a highly desirable place for the city’s growing urban class to live.

An
obscure
little
snippet
indeed
.

Joshua sat and reread the chapter. It didn’t take much to guess what Thompson was trying to tell him. A story about whites taking over a black neighborhood. Vintage Thompson: the repression of historical truth to maintain the white domination of society.

The only remaining question concerned the change of name, something the book, surprisingly, didn’t discuss. It wasn’t difficult, however, for Joshua to figure that out; after all, the professor had taught him a few things.

He guessed that the new name, Crown Heights, must have been coined by the whites in their effort to upscale the area and rid it of the negative connotation associated with its former residents. As for
Crow
Heights
, a term also absent from any of the books, he guessed that it was either an interim name, between Crow Hill and Crown Heights, or a little quip for those in the know, like Thompson, used as a subtle reminder of a neglected past.

Joshua now understood. He had accused Thompson of oversimplifying, and the professor had responded masterfully, using Joshua’s own neighborhood as an example of how truly complex things are.
Touché
!

Months had passed since Joshua had seen Rachel. She called once to tell him she was pregnant. The conversation had been tense. He had felt her fear of Binny walking in and discovering her on the phone with him. He had been growing increasingly uneasy with the whole situation.

He hadn’t shared his feelings at the time, for it had been her moment of joy. He had also liked the fact that she still needed to talk with him, to share things with him. Above all, he didn’t want to lose her.

But now he was at a turning point. Perhaps it was Professor Thompson’s influence, or perhaps he was growing up; whatever, he needed to do something.

The day finally came in the middle of February, during his two-week intercession from college. She had called and asked for another meeting. It was a bone-chilling afternoon, the streets were covered with wet snow and ice from a recent storm. Rachel insisted on the boardwalk, their “safe” hideout.

As usual, his arrival preceded hers. The boardwalk was barren; the gusts off the ocean unbearable. He saw her approaching in a bright red wool coat and matching hat.
Not
very
inconspicuous
, he thought.

“It’s quite cold here,” were her first words. Her hands remained in her pocket, shivering along with the rest of her.