26 – North of Boston
“David, I hear the door bell. 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 his snoring only got worse and she never, ever got used to it. She complained, urging him to get “the snoring operation,” but he refused, saying, “When I’m dead, you’ll miss my snoring, you’ll give anything then to hear it.”
Maybe then she would miss the snoring, but not now. She was awake. She heard the first ring of the doorbell, quickly followed by a pounding on the door.
Her first thought, of course, was that something terrible had happened. There’s been an accident, she thought. Somebody died, she thought.
“David, wake up. See who’s at the door,” she said, shaking him, wondering for the thousandth time how he could sleep through his own snoring.
Pulling on a bathrobe - he still slept naked - Rosen walked quietly down the stairs, trying not to wake his daughter or the Moscowitz’s 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?” Rosen asked.
“You have people staying here with you, Mr. Rosen? Arnold, Greta and Carol Moscowitz?” the other man asked, consulting a piece of paper.
The first hint of concern, concern that this involved something other than an accident to a family member, entered Rosen’s mind.
“Who are you? Why do you want to know this? Why are you here so late? Can’t you come back in the morning?” Rosen moved to close the door, to step back into his house from the porch.
A hand went to the door, holding it open. The paper was displayed to Rosen. It was hard to read by the porch light. All Rosen really 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. The men walked into the house. 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 was approaching the hysterical.
“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 Moscowitz’s to join us, too.”
In minutes, minutes in which Rosen and the two men stood facing each other in uncomfortable silence in his living room, Estelle, joined by sleepy Arnold, Greta and Carol Moscowitz, came down the stairs and joined them.
“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 passed 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 is how it is going to work. These folks,” he said, pointing at the three stunned members of the Moscowitz family, “these folks are all coming with us. Their names are on the list and they have to come.
“You folks,” pointing this time 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, OK?”
“Certainly, sir,” the second man interrupted. “But please hurry.
“And you people,” looking at the Moscowitz’s, “you’d better get dressed and get whatever things you have together. You won’t be returning here. Whatever you want to keep, you’d better take it with you.”
Minutes later the three Moscowitz’s, 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.”
He walked away with the two men. She ran into the house, ran to the telephone and picked up the receiver, dialing for directory assistance. She’d call the lawyer at home, no matter how late it was. And then she’d call her sister, who also had a houseful of new guests, and tell her to hide them.
She held the phone to her ear, puzzled. The telephone was dead.