Page 100 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt
‘I just wanted to impress upon you that your sister truly did save my life. And my... wife’s.’
He gave me a firm slap on the shoulder. ‘I got it. Listen, I really appreciate you coming all the way over here to tell me in person. Florence’d be proud, I’m sure.’ He took a large puff of his cigar. ‘You know, she kept her maiden name after she married George. She was Florence Meyer-Blumenthal. I kinda wish the prize had been named the Prix Meyer-Blumenthal.’ He shrugged. Suddenly, there was a rapturous cheer from outside, and several individuals in the diner stood up to leave. ‘That’s my cue, kid. I gotta go. But hey, if you’re ever in DC, call my secretary. We can catch up over coffee. You can tell me more of your stories.’ Eugene reached into his pocket and placed two quarters on the table. ‘Maybe we could do an article on you?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure about—’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he interrupted. ‘No one would believe the story anyway.’ He gave me a smile and a wink, before making his way out of the door.
As I sat alone in the red leather booth, I somehow doubted that I would ever meet Eugene Meyer again. My meeting had not brought the emotional catharsis I longed for. Like his sister, he clearly had a significant moral conscience, and the protest was obviously at the forefront of his mind.
There was another roar from the street. I stood up to investigate the commotion. When I left the diner, I was shocked to see that the crowd had increased tenfold in the twenty minutes I had been with Eugene. I found myself amongst a sea of protestors, many now waving their handwritten placards, which bore slogans likeEQUAL RIGHTS!andHOUSING FOR ALL!From the direction of the stage, I heard a muffled Irish accent projected through the microphone, and I began to squeeze my way through the throng to catch a glimpse of Mayor O’Dwyer.
‘Harlem! ’Tis an honour to be here!’ the mayor cried, and the crowd cheered in response, galvanised by his presence. As O’Dwyer delivered his speech about housing reforms and better funding for schools, the protestors began to jostle forward as one, and I found myself packed in tighter and tighter. After the mayor had finished, he received a huge cheer, and was replaced at the microphone by a police officer, who began to talk through crowd dispersal. Almost instantly, the atmosphere changed. The air was thick with tension, and I became aware of a large number of uniformed officers who had surrounded the protest. With their blue caps pulled down and their wooden nightsticks brandished, they looked threatening.
I heard a woman near the front shout ‘MURDERERS!’ upat the officer on the stage. Then she turned to face the crowd. ‘Those cops attacked Robert Bandy – shot him when he was unarmed and just trying to save a woman’s life. Goddamn pigs!’
A wave of anger swept across the crowd, and the microphone was drowned out by furious cries. The mass of protestors began to undulate more and more violently. As I turned away from the stage to seek a way out, my gaze fell upon a young man shielding himself from a nightstick-wielding policeman. I didn’t know what he had done to provoke such a reaction, but the officer seemed incensed, and raised the nightstick above his head to strike a blow. The man’s cardboard placard provided almost no protection, and he was struck down in the dirty street, trying to shield his head from the continued beating. Others nearby witnessed the scene and began to panic. They quickly started to disperse, and soon the crowd began to stampede. From a nearby street, officers on horseback came into view.
The horses began advancing on protestors, and it was only seconds before a full-on crush developed. My heart thumped hard as I attempted to extricate myself from the crowd, some of whom were now openly clashing with the officers. The thud of nightsticks on human bodies was sickening.
I put my head down and did my best to fight my way through the assembled hordes. As I did so, the couple in front of me stumbled. After taking a few more steps, I became aware that they had tripped over a person who had fallen to the ground in the chaos. To my shock, that person was a small white woman.
‘Can you walk?’ I cried.
‘My ankle,’ she replied, wincing.
The woman was clearly in pain. ‘Take my hand,’ I said, grabbing her tightly and pulling her up to her feet. I placedmy arm around her, and we fought our way through the throng.
‘My driver... he’s waiting for me on Lenox, over there at the end of the street,’ she gasped. I noted she had only a faint American accent.
‘Then let’s get you out of here fast; it looks like things are about to get even uglier,’ I replied.
All around us, violent skirmishes were breaking out as the protestors rallied and began to fight back against the police. As we neared the intersection, the woman pointed to an impressive-looking Chrysler car.
‘There’s Archer!’ she yelled above the melee. With a destination in sight, I swept her up in my arms and ran to the vehicle, wrenching open the rear door.
‘Thank the Lord you’re safe, Miss Cecily!’ shouted the driver, starting the engine. ‘Let’s get outta here!’
I made sure the woman was sitting securely in the back seat. ‘You take care, ma’am,’ I said. Before I could shut the door, I noted two policemen with nightsticks heading towards the car. I steeled myself, preparing to run for it.
‘Archer, wait!’ cried the woman. ‘Get innow!’ she screamed, yanking me firmly into the car beside her. ‘Go, Archer! Go, go, go!’
The driver gunned the engine and the car sped off. As we pulled away from the nightmare scene we had left behind, the three of us breathed a collective sigh of relief.
‘I can’t thank you enough for your help...’ the woman ventured.
‘It’s nothing,’ I replied. ‘I should thank you for yours just then.’ I leant back in the seat, allowing the panic to slowly dissipate from my body.
‘Can we take you somewhere?’ the woman asked. ‘Where do you live?’
I shrugged, not wanting to impose upon a stranger. ‘Just take me to the nearest subway stop.’
‘We’re just coming up to 110th Street station,’ the driver interjected.
‘That will suit me fine,’ I replied. The driver pulled the car over.
‘Can I at least take your name?’ Cecily said.
I hesitated for a moment, before reaching into my pocket and handing her my card from Arthur Morston Books. I gave her a nod, got out of the car, and slammed the door behind me.
