Posted on 12/20/2007 12:49:34 PM PST by Marc Tumin
"O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum, wie treu sind deine Blätter!"
The Commissioner set down his glass, turning the crystal tumbler until it was poised between the long grains of the golden oak table.
"I will see them now," he said softly.
A moment later, several men, attired in long coats and fedoras, were escorted to the sumptuous room.
"Mr. Murphy, we're in possession of a warrant for your arrest." And that Christmas Eve was the last time he was seen in the Great House near Washington Square.
Throughout the trial, the Commissioner maintained that he'd done nothing wrong. And when they hailed him to prison, he called out in a despairing voice: "I am guiltless of these charges! As God is my judge, I am innocent!"
Before he was lifted, the stately home had been the resort of the diadems of society, and the Commissioner was its patron, a dollar-a-year man, completely dedicated to his work, who'd often toil far into the night.
He was noblesse oblige personified, clean favored, generous to a fault, and universally well regarded. And he wore the mantle of privilege lightly, which, perhaps, proved to be his undoing.
When James, the elevator operator, had to sail home for his mother's funeral, the Commissioner had paid the young Dubliner's passage. When Byrd, the janitor, saw his son debarred from college because of his color, the Commissioner had secured him admittance to a top-drawer institution and paid his tuition. When Norman, the doorman, was down at heels, the Commissioner had supplied him with sandwiches, clothing, and an allowance of folding money.
Norman was an orphan and sorely afflicted. He'd had but one toy as a child.
Hithertofore, he'd labored in a commercial laundry. Nonetheless, he was cheerful and alert and the Commissioner was fond of chatting him up, usually lecturing him about civic history.
"The strength of our city lies not in its universities, hospitals, libraries, museums, and financial institutions, great as they are," he was wont to say. "It lies in its people. Know this: A man should desire nothing so much as to leave behind his good name, that future generations might reflect on how much he loved the metropolis."
At Christmastime, the Commissioner would send 'round his car to fetch the doorman to the tree lighting at his mansion. Norman, who was of the Hebrew faith, would stand before the splendid fir in awe, listening to Christmas carols, while servants plied him with punch and canapés. Yet, despite his unstinting generosity, upon his arrest, the Commissioner was deserted. No tenant of an uncharted isle was more alone.
The bewildered doorman persuaded someone to write letters for him to his friend, but that person neglected to post them. And the Great House was shuttered, and all its gaiety eradicated. It was said that in Heaven, the Recording Angel stained the Book of Life with his tears.
The Commissioner received few visitors across the years. Then, from the outside world, came a deathbed confession. He was innocent. He was vindicated. He was free.
A single newsman turned out to witness his return on Christmas Day. The snow was heavy. A car paused before the Great House. The Commissioner alighted, a broken man, with wavering step and a bamboo cane.
The front door opened. The building was barren, save for a cook and a housekeeper banking a fire in the living room. The Tannenbaum was practically unadorned.
The Commissioner stood in a puddle before the darkling tree. Then the housekeeper said that someone had stopped by the previous night. He was a slight man, crippled and bent with pain.
He'd told them he was the doorman at the Surrogate's Court and that the Commissioner knew him. He'd come by every year at Christmas Eve.
We apprised him of your imminent return and bade him call again, but he was uncertain he could.
Ring him immediately.
The housekeeper plied the telephone. She had a queer look on her face. Apparently, the poor man was deceased. He'd been interred a pauper — years ago.
The Commissioner took the appliance. How could this be?
Nonetheless, he'd visited here. He was cloaked in a thin jacket. He was cold. He was coughing. He'd dragged his leg through the snow, as if he'd a long chain on it.
Is that all?
He'd said he'd no money for presents, but asked to view the tree. We helped him over. His hand shook badly. He put up a small ornament.
The Commissioner stood in the frozen doorway, looking north, across the East River, across the frozen bridges, across the islands of the tidal estuary to Potter's Field.
He kept turning a small carven object in his hand. It bore an ancient alphabet. It was a child's toy, a kind of top, a wooden dreidel, a token of remembrance from the faithful friend who'd never forsaken him, who'd left a departing gift on the evergreen branches, as the old year drifted toward eternity on the excurrent waves of time.
Marc-Yves Tumin is associate publisher of the Irish Examiner.
And the point of this is?
Yeah, Marc - why the story?? WHO was the Commissioner?? Is this a true story? And, why’d you print it?? C’mon, GIVE!
Now I have to go look for the lyrics to see if I'm correct.
Nice story.
Hey folks, it’s just a story...
Rosebud.
Bravo.
If you have not perused this little story, you might like to read it.
Interesting. Interesting, but confusing.
A bit of a cop out to address this to self. I am reminded of an analysis of "The Misfit" by Flannery O'Connor. She did not suffer fools gladly. The person who wrote their piece on her work, was scathingly rebutted by her.
First, I am fairly sure that this piece is an allegory. I could painstakingly copy a dictionary reference,but to quickly use my Websters it follows.
A story in which people, things and happenings have another meaning.....allegories are used for teaching and explaining."
I switch quickly to yesterday's National Post editorial. Christmas being taken out of Toronto public schools. Even now to symbols that may have not been originally Christian. The banning of candy canes, because they are said to represent the shepherds crook.
Simply put the denigration and obliteration of things Christian do not stop. They will not stop. It goes on and on. More tradition being censored.
Pastor Niemoller(roughly) is quoted as saying "First they came for the trade unionists, then they came for the protestants, then they came for the Jews. When they came for me, there was nobody left to speak for me".
After reading the story, I caught from it, just what I believe. That being that the last person to speak, yes, the LAST person to speak and suffer for a Christian is:
A Jew.
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