TO MESSRS. LUCIANO AND LANSKY-HARRY ROTHSTEIN, ARNOLD ROTHSTEIN, ABRAHAM ROTHSTEIN-PG
NB: LET'S JUST IGNORE THAT HARRY DIED AT THE AGE OF 16.
Arnold tried to kill me once. I was five, maybe, which would have made him around three or so, I think; we shared the same room then, in order to remedy what my father saw as a lack of affection between Arnold and I. There was indeed a lack of affection, but in its place, Arnold substituted hate (for what reason I cannot say) and I substituted fear. Even before the incident, I think I was afraid of him; there was always this air of superbly controlled menace about Arnold, that I am sure you are quite aware of, if you are truly business associates of his.
The night of the incident was like any other. Mother tucked us in, closed the door, and walked all the way to the end of the hall into the parlor, where she would not hear a sound unless one of us screamed, which we never did. Arnold got out of bed (I could tell by how the mattress creaked) and he rummaged around under his pillow. Some light from the hallway was leaking in under the door and reflected off something metallic. I do not know where he procured the knife but it was almost definitely from the kitchen. It was large, something I could tell even through not-entirely closed eyes; he needed two hands to hold it. He walked over to me (not even trying to hide what he was doing) and stood at my bedside, before raising the knife high above his head. I said nothing, made no noise, praying that it was just another of Arnold's little jokes and that, as soon as he realized I could not appreciate it, he would go away.
My father entered. He asked something like 'Why' or some equivalent; it does not matter. What does and what I do remember, even today, was Arnold's reply: "I hate him." That was not some childish whim; he spoke the truth.
Arnold Rothstein was never my brother, not really. I doubt that he was ever anyone's anything; you would do well to remember that.
NB: LET'S JUST IGNORE THAT HARRY DIED AT THE AGE OF 16.
Arnold tried to kill me once. I was five, maybe, which would have made him around three or so, I think; we shared the same room then, in order to remedy what my father saw as a lack of affection between Arnold and I. There was indeed a lack of affection, but in its place, Arnold substituted hate (for what reason I cannot say) and I substituted fear. Even before the incident, I think I was afraid of him; there was always this air of superbly controlled menace about Arnold, that I am sure you are quite aware of, if you are truly business associates of his.
The night of the incident was like any other. Mother tucked us in, closed the door, and walked all the way to the end of the hall into the parlor, where she would not hear a sound unless one of us screamed, which we never did. Arnold got out of bed (I could tell by how the mattress creaked) and he rummaged around under his pillow. Some light from the hallway was leaking in under the door and reflected off something metallic. I do not know where he procured the knife but it was almost definitely from the kitchen. It was large, something I could tell even through not-entirely closed eyes; he needed two hands to hold it. He walked over to me (not even trying to hide what he was doing) and stood at my bedside, before raising the knife high above his head. I said nothing, made no noise, praying that it was just another of Arnold's little jokes and that, as soon as he realized I could not appreciate it, he would go away.
My father entered. He asked something like 'Why' or some equivalent; it does not matter. What does and what I do remember, even today, was Arnold's reply: "I hate him." That was not some childish whim; he spoke the truth.
Arnold Rothstein was never my brother, not really. I doubt that he was ever anyone's anything; you would do well to remember that.
Sincerely yours,
Rabbi Bertram Rothstein
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Owwww. Just leave me here to die.
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