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The Blue Book Burglar

The Social Register was a who’s who of America’s rich and powerful—the heirs of robber barons, scions of political dynasties, and descendants of Mayflower passengers. It was also the perfect hit list for the country’s hardest-working art thief.

_{By Jack Rodolico}

The Atavist Magazine, No. 168

Jack Rodolico is a freelance writer and radio reporter. His work has aired on NPR, the BBC, Marketplace, and 99% Invisible.

Editor: Jonah Ogles
Art Director: Ed Johnson
Copy Editor: Sean Cooper
Fact Checker: Jake Conley
Illustrator: Nada Hayek

Published in October 2025.

The phone inside the mansion rang relentlessly—five times, twenty, forty—echoing from the spacious kitchen to the bedrooms upstairs. The house was a 5,200-square-foot Georgian Colonial constructed of red brick. It had a pool and a tennis court, and it stood at the end of a long wooded driveway, off a secluded cul-de-sac in Greenwich, Connecticut. The town was the crown jewel of the state’s so-called Gold Coast, a swath of wealthy enclaves where Prescott Bush—father of George H. W.—was buried, where Robert F. Kennedy got married, and where Donald Trump would soon purchase his starter mansion. The owners of the red-brick mansion were a banker and his wife (herself the daughter of another banker) whose wedding had been written up in the New York Times. It was Independence Day 1980, and like many people in their social set, they were vacationing on the South Shore of Long Island.

That’s exactly what the caller was hoping for. As the phone rang again and again, his two accomplices listened outside the home. The caller hung up after fifty rings. The men hiding in the dark were confident that the home was empty, but they took one more precaution to be absolutely sure. Once the ringing stopped, they snipped the phone line clean through, setting off a silent alarm that notified police of a break-in. The men then hid in the trees near the house and waited. A Greenwich patrolman pulled up, surveyed the property, assumed it was a false alarm, and left.

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It was time. The two men broke a pane of glass near the back door, entered the mansion, and proceeded to plunder its contents. From a linen closet they took several pillowcases and filled them with approximately 350 pieces of silver: salad forks, fish knives, and bouillon spoons; a pair of grape shears and a cold-meat fork; a baby’s hairbrush and an ashtray; something called a star-footed muffineer. In the master bedroom, they emptied drawers of pearls, a gold watch, and a diamond-and-platinum band. They were thorough, searching cabinets in the library and lowering a pull-down ladder to ransack the attic. They took choice baubles, such as a porcelain umbrella stand and a tea caddy with an ivory finial.

In the living room, the men did something out of the ordinary for most house thieves: They removed a handful of paintings from the walls, but stole just two. These were landscapes by eighteenth-century Dutch and American painters whose names were unlikely to appear in an art history textbook. They were valuable pieces of art, but obscure ones.

Once the thieves had collected what they came for, they exited the house and walked to the end of the driveway. The third accomplice, who had been circling the block in a getaway car since calling the residence, picked them up there, and together they drove off into the night.

When the adjusters at Tiffany & Co. later appraised what had been taken from the mansion, the inventory stretched to five pages. The robbery was valued at more than $100,000, a figure that, when adjusted for inflation, nearly quadruples in today’s dollars—although the art has likely increased tenfold in value.

Greenwich detective Jim Hirsch had become somewhat inured to such crimes when he first heard about the burglary. Home robberies peaked nationally in the late 1970s and early 1980s, and Greenwich, where many houses were essentially poorly guarded museums, attracted talented thieves. There was the Silver Bandit, who snuck into the dining room of a home while its occupants were sleeping to steal antique silver. There was the Dinner Set Gang, who, while the rich entertained in the dining room, tore apart the bedrooms in search of jewelry. These thieves were a “pain in the ass,” Hirsch told me.

It would take Hirsch some time to discern what was exceptional about the crew that pulled off the Independence Day heist. For one, their M.O. was supremely cautious. Even more unusual was that this crew had an eye for quality, be it silver, jewels, antiques, or art. “They knew when they saw something,” said Hirsch. “They knew value.”

Actually, just one of the thieves knew value. And he was not yet done stealing the prized possessions of the East Coast elite. Not even close.

While stealing art is a challenge, selling it—and making a profit—is much, much harder.

I came across the Greenwich case in 2017. At the time, I was part of a team producing an investigative podcast about the 1990 robbery of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston. The Gardner burglary is a case of utmost superlatives. It ranks as the largest property theft in U.S. history, and has been called “the greatest art heist ever.” More than half a billion dollars’ worth of masterpieces were stolen, including Rembrandt’s only seascape. None of them have been recovered, and no one has ever been charged for the crime.

And yet I couldn’t help but wonder: Greatest art heist compared with what?

In searching for an answer, I learned everything I could about art robberies big and small, from the decades before and since the Gardner heist. I interviewed cops and crooks, academics and insurance adjusters. I pulled news clips about museum jobs across the U.S. and Europe. I read papers about organized-crime syndicates looting archaeological sites in Asia and the Middle East. I learned a lot about this rarified corner of the crime world—for instance, that the black market values stolen art at about 10 percent of the legitimate market price, and that authorities are most likely to recover missing pieces at the point of sale, whether that’s a Christie’s auction or a handoff in a hotel room to an undercover cop pretending to be a cash buyer. While stealing art is a challenge, selling it—and making a profit—is much, much harder.

So when I read a news story about the thief who had led the crew behind the Greenwich robbery, I wanted to know more. The red-brick mansion burglarized in 1980 was just one hit on a long list of them. Dozens of homes owned by members of America’s moneyed class were raided by the same thief and his crew. They were after art, but not the sort that would draw interest from the press. They wanted lesser-known works, and lots of them—the kinds of pieces that would be relatively easy to sell because the entire world wasn’t looking for them.

Over the course of my reporting, I came to believe that the ringleader of these crimes was in a class by himself. I doubt there’s such a thing as the greatest art thief of all time, but I don’t know of any burglar who worked so hard.

Jim Hirsch admired the titans of finance, politics, business, and industry he was sworn to protect. “Loved ’em,” he said. I interviewed Hirsch in a conference room at a Greenwich hedge fund where he’d taken a job as head of security after retiring from the police force. “Old money is tremendous. New money stinks. They seem to think they’re something special,” Hirsch said.

He told me about a friend of his: Andrew Rockefeller, of the Rockefellers, who passed away a few years ago. “Nicest guy you ever want to meet. Khaki pants, Top-Siders, and a sport shirt.” Hirsch was proud to know Rockefeller and his ilk. “Super, super people who remained friends with you after you left the job,” he said.

So when more than eighty homes in Greenwich were stripped of riches on Hirsch’s watch between 1980 to 1982—and that’s not counting the dozens more that happened in nearby communities—he took it a little personally. “It was embarrassing,” he said.

What the burglars stole was as impressive as who they stole it from. From the home of a political strategist Richard Nixon once included on his “enemies list,” they took a collection of oriental rugs (worth $19,400 at the time) and cracked a safe to find a sizable collection of antique stamps ($60,249). From the palatial estate of a family so rich they gifted a library to Yale University, the thieves stole three Tiffany floor lamps ($31,000). “These are not lamps, these are lamps,” Hirsch told me. “Highly identifiable tempered lampshades. They’re magnificent.”

From an insurance executive, the thieves took a nineteenth-century Swiss music box ($20,000). From a Rockefeller—not Andrew, another one—they took a platinum bracelet embedded with 280 diamonds ($15,300). They broke in to the homes of a pioneering cardiologist, the chairman of the National Audubon Society’s board of directors, and a descendant of an early investor in Thomas Edison’s light bulb. They stole a pair of handheld fans originally owned by an emperor of France ($2,000) and a full-length raccoon-fur coat ($2,000). They stuffed an untold fortune’s worth of silverware into countless pillowcases.

And then there were the paintings. The thieves homed in on eighteenth- and nineteenth-century oils, each canvas small enough to fit inside a briefcase. The works had humdrum titles such as A Hawking Party Resting at a Wayside Inn ($2,400), Hunter in Pink Coat on Brown Horse Jumping Fence ($3,000), and H.M.S. Duncannon 120 Guns ($5,000). They were painted by long-dead British, American, and Dutch artists for whom there was a boutique market of small galleries catering to the tastes of the very types of people the art was stolen from. It was uncanny what the thieves recognized as valuable. For instance, from the widow of a descendant of a signer of the Declaration of Independence they stole an 1842 painting by a French artist, a work that had not been on the open market in generations because it was passed down through the family.

Victims of these thefts returned from vacations in Europe, Martha’s Vineyard, or the Virgin Islands to find their homes ransacked—although one police report stated, “The entry was not immediately noticed due to the enormity of the house.” Losing family heirlooms was bad enough, but the violation of privacy and security was something else. “The property’s always insured,” Hirsch told me. “The problem that your home was invaded is a whole different world. There were some people that sold their houses. Some people used to greet you at the door with a baseball bat after that.”

DNA evidence was not yet a forensic tool, which was unfortunate since the thieves left behind plenty of it, often on cigarette butts stubbed out in the course of the robberies. Once, in a guest bathroom, a burglar defecated in the toilet and did not flush.

As the rate of the robberies picked up, from about one per month in 1980 to several per weekend in 1982, police began to notice patterns: the pillowcases used as loot bags, the broad array of high-value spoils, the timing (always after dark and on weekends). “You could take the complainant’s name off any of these burglary reports and exchange it with any other one,” Hirsch once told a newspaper reporter. “They were all identical.” Law enforcement concluded that the burglars cut the phone lines in the homes they targeted to deliberately trigger alarm systems, most likely to watch hapless patrolmen visit and then leave the scene.

Who was buying all the loot from the thieves? The cops figured it was someone with art-world savvy. “A burglar is only as good as his fence,” a detective from Bedford, New York, just across the state line from Greenwich, told a New York Times reporter. “A junkie doesn’t have a good fence—he goes to a pawnbroker. But someone who steals paintings, he has a good fence. You know you’re not dealing with something run-of-the-mill.”

Law enforcement also became convinced that there was a link among the victims. Not just their wealth and the location of their homes—something more singular. Detectives in Fairfield County, Connecticut, and Westchester County, New York, cross-referenced their cases. Did the victims belong to any clubs? Only the most exclusive yacht and country clubs in the country, but there wasn’t one they all belonged to. What about academic affiliations? Collectively, they’d been to every elite boarding school and Ivy League university, but they weren’t all, say, graduates of Yale. Did they use the same arborist? Was the same individual collecting their trash? No and no. The police did notice one thing: Many of the victims’ phone numbers were not publicly listed, which made the fifty-ring calls odd—to say nothing of the hang-up calls some targets had received prior to being robbed.

Two years into the crime wave, investigators were no closer to identifying the burglars, who were more prolific than ever. Over Memorial Day weekend in 1982, they hit five houses in Bedford alone. In Greenwich, they were returning to rob homes they’d previously struck. Police decided to cast a wider net via teletype, a messaging system used by law enforcement around the country, in the hope that someone, somewhere, knew something useful. According to Hirsch, the teletype spelled out the thieves’ methods and asked any department experiencing similar crimes in its jurisdiction to contact the Greenwich police.

The next morning, Hirsch got a call from a cop in Massachusetts who wanted to know: Had he ever heard of a book called the Social Register?

Blue Book members were the richest of the rich, the oldest of old money. Their homes were almost guaranteed to be chock-full of high-value loot.

America’s aristocracy traces its lineage to a time between the end of the Civil War and the dawn of the twentieth century, in the Gilded Age. Think Andrew Carnegie, J. P. Morgan, Cornelius Vanderbilt. Robber barons built obscene fortunes, monopolies lined the pockets of corrupt politicians, and unchecked capitalism opened a permanent chasm between the very rich and everyone else. The upper crust loved to throw opulent balls and banquets, which allowed hosts to show off their money, power, and influence, and prominent socialites kept so-called visiting lists of well-connected friends, acquaintances, and business contacts.

Louis Keller was not part of the new aristocracy, but he recognized a business opportunity in these quasi-private lists. He collected them, consolidated them, and produced a master copy of high society, selling it only to those who’d made the cut. First published in 1886, the Social Register was a thin, elegantly bound book with pumpkin-colored lettering on a black background. When later editions featured a blue cover, it became known as the Blue Book.

The first edition drew exclusively from the social lists of people with homes in Newport, Rhode Island, a favorite vacation destination of the elite. In time there were Blue Books for almost every major U.S. city. A group called the Social Register Association became the gatekeeper of the Blue Book, and it created strict rules for new entries. A person could be listed because of marriage to someone already included in the book, if they were elected president of the United States, or if they were nominated by an existing member. For many years, the Social Register was classist as well as anti-Semitic and racist; excluded Jewish society members in Chicago created their own version of the Blue Book in 1918, and the Social Register did not include a Black member for nearly a century after its creation.

In 1976, the city books were consolidated into a single volume covering high society nationwide. It listed approximately 50,000 names. By the 1980s, being in the book still had low-key cultural cachet, particularly for direct descendants of Gilded Age gentry. Members could flip through the Social Register’s pages to learn the essentials about each other. What school did so-and-so attend? What yacht club did they belong to? Were they related to someone on the Mayflower? And, for the purposes of correspondence, what was their address and telephone number?

While it was difficult to get listed in the Blue Book, it did not take a criminal genius to obtain a copy. “All you gotta do is one burglary in one house, and there they are!” said Roland Anderson, a retired Massachusetts detective who, as far as I could ascertain, was the first person to suspect that the burglars targeting Greenwich, Bedford, and other wealthy East Coast communities were using the Social Register as a hit list.

Anderson spent forty years as a cop in the Boston suburb of Weston, which, during his tenure, was the richest town in Massachusetts. Now 82, “Rolie” Anderson possesses a stunning memory for details about burglars he chased in the 1970s. When I met with him for an interview, he drove me around Weston as if still on patrol. “That one up there was hit,” he said, gesturing toward a single-family home large enough to be a castle. “Think of the dark of night. They entered through a cellar window near the garage. And they cleaned it out.”

When Anderson joined the force, in 1968, home robberies were common but not lucrative; burglars typically struck during the daytime, when victims were at work, stealing televisions and maybe a fistful of jewelry. But in 1978, two years before the Greenwich robberies began, a more ambitious crew commenced working in Weston. “We started to see the oriental rugs rolled up, antique furnishings taken,” Anderson said. “And, in some cases, paintings.” The thieves also cut their targets’ phone lines during robberies. Anderson questioned victims about their affiliations, hoping to figure out why the thieves had singled them out. One of them said, “Well, we are listed in the Social Register.”

Anderson had never heard of it. But thumbing through the book’s pages, he decided that what the thieves were doing made perfect sense. Any big house in Weston was likely to be a decent target for a thief, but Blue Book members were the richest of the rich, the oldest of old money. Their homes were almost guaranteed to be chock-full of high-value loot.

In an era of police work that Anderson calls “the dark ages,” he was particularly effective at shoe-leather investigating. That included combing through teletypes, which were, he said, “the only network we really had among all of us.” Though reading all the messages that came over the transom could be tedious and time-consuming, Anderson and his colleagues still did it “every single day.” That’s how he discovered a slew of identical unsolved robberies in virtually every exclusive Boston suburb, as well as tony communities in Rhode Island, New Hampshire, and Maine.

So he’d figured out the scheme. But who was behind it? Anderson studied the rap sheets of known antiques thieves and their associates, and soon built up a lengthy, almost encyclopedic list of men he believed were capable of pulling off the Social Register robberies. “Rolie Anderson is probably the best detective I’ve ever worked with,” said Arthur Bourque, a former trooper with the Massachusetts State Police’s major crimes unit. “He’s just got a ferocious appetite for background and research.”

On November 19, 1979, Bourque met with Anderson and produced the single oldest law enforcement document I obtained about the Blue Book burglaries. The memo’s subject line reads: “Intelligence regarding antique thefts in Massachusetts received from Det. Rollie [sic] Anderson of the Weston, Mass. P.D.” It includes a list of fifty-eight names, all people Anderson believed were involved in organized antiques theft. But he had no way to know which of them—if any—were using the Blue Book. “They were so adept at what they were doing and how they did it,” Anderson told me.

No sooner had Anderson handed off his list of suspects to the state police than the Social Register robberies in northern New England stopped. Bourque concluded that the thieves suspected law enforcement was onto them. “There was just too much heat going on up here,” he said.

Two years later, in August 1982, Bourque stepped up to the long roll of paper issuing from his office’s teletype machine to inspect what had come in overnight. That’s where he found the notice describing a string of burglaries in Connecticut and New York with a familiar M.O.

Convinced that the thieves Anderson investigated had moved their operations south, Bourque dialed up Jim Hirsch. “Get ahold of this fuckin’ book,” Hirsch remembered Bourque telling him, “because whoever you got in town who’s in that book is a potential target.”

Armed with intelligence from Massachusetts, Greenwich police went into Labor Day weekend 1982 as prepared as they’d ever been to catch the burglars in the act. They suspected that the crew were driving down from Massachusetts to commit their crimes, so patrolmen were directed to look out for cars with Massachusetts plates. Police were confident that the homes of people in the Social Register were at risk. The problem was knowing which ones: Greenwich was home to more Blue Book members than any suburban community in America.

At 1:30 a.m. on Friday, a resident heard banging noises next door at the house of a Blue Book member who was away for the weekend. Police arrived to find the house’s phone line snipped and a window busted; a perpetrator had slashed his arm on the broken glass and fled before entering the home. Then, at 12:04 a.m. on Saturday, a Social Register family reported that they had returned from dinner to find their power and phone lines cut and their home robbed. According to a police memo, “The intruder/s had made entry to a room which can only be described as a vault.” There they filled seventeen pillowcases with sterling silver. While inspecting the outside of the home, cops “heard what they felt to be a large subject running away,” but they were unable to track him through the dark woods. Later, on Saturday night, a third Social Register family returned from vacation to find their home stripped of more than $80,000 in valuables.

Despite law enforcement’s best efforts, the thieves had a good haul to show for the weekend. But it would prove to be their last ride in Greenwich.

The following weekend, at 10:50 on Friday night, a Greenwich cop spotted a white 1982 Plymouth Reliant with Massachusetts plates. There were three men in it, and they were cruising down Round Hill Road, where seven homes had been hit over the previous two years, more than on any other street in town. Police followed the car onto the Merritt Parkway, where it set off eastbound toward Boston, then pulled it over. According to a police memo describing the stop, the men in the Reliant said they were returning from the racetrack at Belmont Park, on Long Island, and were looking for a place to eat.

The driver handed over a license that identified him as Dennis Quinn; the car was a rental, Quinn said, from a company in Cape Cod. The other two men had no identification but gave their surnames as Gallagher and Hogan. Quinn allowed the police to check the car’s trunk. “Nothing was found,” the memo states. “Subjects were allowed to continue on their way.”

The next morning, after Hirsch learned about the traffic stop, he compared the names the men had provided against Rolie Anderson’s list of suspects and found a match: Dennis Quinn, 34, short and slight, with a mop-top haircut and an aquiline nose. Police then found that Quinn had rented a hotel room near Greenwich nearly every weekend that summer.

As for the other two men, one of them was identified as Charles Gallagher, 26, tall and hulking, with a horseshoe mustache. He wasn’t on Anderson’s list, but he had a criminal record—larceny, breaking and entering, stealing government property, assault with a deadly weapon. Police records turned up nothing about the man who called himself Hogan.

So Hirsch went to the expert. He dialed up Anderson and described the unidentified man in the Reliant: five feet ten, paunchy, with blue eyes, shaggy brown hair, and a hooked nose above a chevron mustache. Anderson knew exactly who Hirsch was talking about, but his name wasn’t Hogan. It was Raymond Flynn.

amazingly, they appeared to commit yet another burglary right under the FBI’s nose.

After years of playing cat and mouse with the Blue Book thieves, law enforcement finally had information they could work with, and in the waning weeks of the summer of 1982, a rare collaboration began. A dozen local police departments from York, Maine, down to Long Island worked with state police from Massachusetts, New York, and Connecticut to funnel intelligence to the FBI, which committed three dozen agents from six field offices to the investigation. The expansive team engaged in round-the-clock surveillance—including unmarked cars and fixed-wing aircraft—of Flynn, Quinn, and Gallagher, who were now officially known as the Social Register gang.

Eager to shut down the burglary operation, the FBI came up with a two-step plan: First observe Flynn, Quinn, and Gallagher robbing a home. Then follow the suspects to their fence. Step two was crucial. “It all revolves around their fence. And in some cases, like artwork, there’s probably only one real fence who can get rid of it, maybe two,” Bourque told me. “You can have twenty-five different burglary operations and one or two fences.”

Law enforcement tracked the Reliant the men had been driving to a rental company near Flynn’s home on Cape Cod. There they learned that the men often rented the same car. By the time the suspects rented it again and drove to the North Shore of Long Island—Great Gatsby territory, where Blue Book homes had been intermittently struck since 1980—the FBI had equipped it with a tracking device. According to a law enforcement memo, the suspects cased homes in Oyster Bay, Mill Neck, and Laurel Hollow, all towns “of Social Register caliber.” Three times, Quinn dropped off Flynn and Gallagher in ritzy neighborhoods. Though agents did not observe a robbery, they suspected that one had occurred because when the suspects convened at a Ramada Inn later that night, “they were observed to be carrying clothing, possibly attempting to conceal any contraband.”

The next morning, Flynn, Quinn, and Gallagher drove to a Western Union in Queens and picked up $1,500, which the FBI hypothesized had been wired to them by their fence as an advance on whatever they’d stolen the previous night. The suspects then proceeded to the Belmont Park racetrack. After gambling, they drove to Providence, Rhode Island, where they stopped for Chinese food. There, according to a police memo, the “suspects became involved in an argument between themselves and Gallagher walked out.” Flynn and Quinn hopped into the Plymouth and caught up with Gallagher as he ascended an entrance ramp to the highway. “Gallagher got into the car and a fistfight ensued,” the memo states. As the men threw punches inside the parked Plymouth, the FBI tail was forced to continue onto the highway to avoid being spotted. “Suspects then backed down the ramp,” the memo notes, “and FBI lost the car.”

The next weekend, the FBI were on their heels when Flynn, Quinn, and Gallagher drove the Plymouth to a Holiday Inn in Princeton, New Jersey. FBI agents booked the room next to the suspects as well as the room above, and from a surveillance van in the hotel’s parking lot, they snapped tight-framed black-and-white photographs: Quinn placing a call from a phone booth. Gallagher scratching his ass while pointing at a parked Corvette. Flynn, more than once, seeming to look directly into the camera. “Suspects were overheard to say that they only had six dollars among themselves,” reads a law enforcement memo.

Agents observed the men casing five Social Register homes in a single neighborhood on Saturday night. On Sunday night, undercover law enforcement followed the men back to the same area, where, amazingly, the crew appeared to commit yet another burglary right under the FBI’s nose. “When the suspects returned to the motel,” a memo states, “they were observed to be carrying a large box.” This time agents were able to confirm that a robbery had occurred: Someone had just stolen $25,000 worth of silver, jewelry, and three yellow pillowcases from the Princeton home of a great-great-great-grandson of President Martin Van Buren.

The next morning, the suspects picked up more cash from the Western Union in Queens and again drove to the racetrack. As they gambled, something happened that gave the FBI an advantage. “While the car was at the track parking lot, it sustained a flat tire,” a memo reads. There is no evidence that the FBI was responsible for the flat, but it was certainly a fortuitous development. When the thieves returned to the vehicle and opened the trunk to look for tools to change the tire, a photographer in the FBI’s surveillance van was perfectly positioned to see what was inside—including a yellow pillowcase. It was the kind of evidence law enforcement had been looking for.

Now all the agents had to do was follow the burglars to their fence. But when the thieves slammed the Reliant’s trunk shut, according to a memo, “the FBI [tracking] device fell from the car and was discovered by the suspects.” The men left the racetrack “very wary of any tails.”

Fence or no fence, the FBI was not about to lose the suspects again. Agents swarmed the car and arrested the Social Register gang on the Throgs Neck Bridge connecting Queens to the Bronx. Inside the Reliant, in addition to yellow pillowcases full of silver, agents found road atlases for the Northeast with various locations circled; hand-written lists of the names, addresses, and telephone numbers of 917 people listed in the Social Register; and a 1975 edition of the Blue Book for New York City and its wealthy suburbs.

Over his three-decade career, from 1967 to 1998, FBI agent Peter Melley worked all kinds of cases: terrorism, organized crime, even the bomb squad. “This was my one and only art theft case,” he told me. When I sat down in Melley’s dining room in Long Island for an interview, he presented me with an extraordinary artifact: the Blue Book seized from the Plymouth Reliant, its yellowed pages crammed with handwritten marginalia. I flipped through it with something approaching reverence.

Melley was not on the Throgs Neck Bridge on October 4, 1982, but the case landed on his desk shortly after the arrests. The Department of Justice tasked him with tying Flynn, Quinn, and Gallagher to as many Blue Book burglaries as possible and pressuring them to flip on their fence. He sent a memo to police departments requesting unsolved cases that fit the burglars’ M.O. He was quickly inundated with files—none of which definitively tied the men to the robberies.

When Melley visited them in jail, he quickly figured out who was in charge. “Quinn and Gallagher were not the most intelligent people in the world,” Melley said. Quinn was the wheelman, the getaway driver, while Gallagher struck Melley as more of an opportunist than a seasoned art thief. The two men refused to cooperate. Even if they had talked, Melley told me, “they wouldn’t have made much difference.” (Both pleaded guilty to interstate transportation of stolen property. Gallagher was sentenced to four years; Quinn got 18 months.)

Ray Flynn, on the other hand, “was a highly intelligent person,” Melley said. If the feds hoped to bring a case against the fence, Melley was sure, Flynn would have to talk.

Flynn was one of eight children raised in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and his siblings were all upstanding. Some were veterans of the Army, Navy, and Coast Guard. Some were elementary school educators. One of his brothers was a Cape Cod police officer. Flynn started out on the straight and narrow. He attended Stony Brook University on Long Island but dropped out, according to Melley. Throughout his twenties, Flynn caught a slew of larceny charges, serving two yearlong sentences in state prison. In 1974, when he was 27, his Massachusetts rap sheet abruptly ceased growing, but not because he stopped breaking the law. “He was getting busted when he was younger,” Rolie Anderson said. “He was making some stupid mistakes.” Simply put, he stopped getting arrested because he got better at his line of work.

When Melley interviewed Flynn, he was facing several years in federal prison for the Blue Book burglaries. So prosecutors offered him a deal: Confess to the crimes, identify the fence and any other people involved in the scheme, and prosecutors would grant him immunity. That would allow him to return home to his wife and their children. “We wanted to know every crime he had ever committed,” Melley said.

But Flynn wouldn’t sing. Instead, in December 1982, he pleaded guilty at the U.S. District Court in Brooklyn to interstate commerce of stolen goods. Afterward he was moved to federal prison in Danbury, Connecticut.

Within a year, circumstances changed. In September 1983, Flynn learned that his family had been in a horrific car crash. His wife and daughter would recover, but his two-year-old son was in a coma. The news pushed Flynn over the edge, and he agreed to talk if it meant getting out of prison. “He gave us chapter and verse,” Melley said. “He was fully cooperative.”

Once Flynn started talking, he had a lot to say. “We must have spent about three or four months with him,” Melley said. “He took us all over Connecticut, Westchester County, and the North Shore, and showed us all the different homes they burglarized. He remembered when they did it and what they had taken. He had a phenomenal memory.”

Flynn answered all manner of niggling questions. For example, Melley had interviewed many Social Register targets who owned large purebred dogs. “They all swore up and down that they had the best guard dogs in the world,” Melley told me. “They invariably would tell us that the burglars obviously had drugged the dog.” But Flynn said they didn’t need to. “The dogs loved Charlie,” Melley remembered Flynn saying, referring to Gallagher. Flynn’s accomplice played with the dogs, fed them from the target’s refrigerator, locked them in a bathroom, and released them when the robbery was done.

With Flynn’s help, Melley solved burglaries at the homes of 103 members of the Social Register in six states, with property losses valued at upwards of $40 million in today’s dollars. Flynn also told the FBI that his crew wasn’t the only one using the Blue Book. He gave Melley the names of nine men from New England, most of them on Anderson’s list of suspected antiques thieves, who had used the Social Register as a hit list over the years. It turned out that between 1981 and 1982, three teams of thieves were breaking in to Blue Book houses in Connecticut, Long Island, Massachusetts, and Westchester County.

But to Melley’s mind, those other thieves were dabblers. Flynn was the one who’d perfected the Blue Book scheme. He’d been involved with the lion’s share of the robberies. And the 1975 copy of the Blue Book that Melley showed me when I interviewed him? That was Flynn’s. His notes were all over its pages.

How, though, had Flynn gotten so good at identifying quality art? Knowing which paintings to steal, and which to leave behind? The answer was his fence. Or at least one of them. Because, as Flynn confessed, he actually had two.

Over time and dozens if not hundreds of robberies, Flynn came to recognize by sight the kinds of paintings His Fence was looking for.

In February 1984, the U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of New York announced that a grand jury had indicted Anthony Ursillo, a 49-year-old antiques dealer in Providence, on twenty-four counts in connection to fencing the proceeds of sixty-one Blue Book burglaries. Ursillo had done time for breaking and entering, and the FBI in Boston long suspected he was dealing in stolen goods. The Tiffany lamps, the sterling silver, the antique baubles and tchotchkes—Flynn said Ursillo took it all.

Phone records showed that the burglars would call Ursillo after a robbery, after which he would wire them a down payment. Then he would meet the burglars in Rhode Island to exchange the goods for more cash. The evidence was damning. Ursillo took a plea deal and was sentenced to four years in prison and a $20,000 fine.

But Flynn said that he’d used a different fence for paintings, a Boston art dealer named Michael Filides. The child of Greek immigrants, and by all appearances a good citizen, Filides had worked his way up from a blue-collar background. He was briefly employed in finance before opening a gallery in the heart of the city’s arts district. An artist himself, Filides specialized in appraising nineteenth-century European paintings.

A federal grand jury indicted Filides, 51, on three charges of receiving stolen property and three charges of transporting it across state lines—all in connection with thirteen Blue Book burglaries. But the case against Filides wasn’t as cut-and-dried as the one against Ursillo. Filides didn’t deny buying art from Flynn. Rather, he claimed that he didn’t know that the works were stolen. “I am a victim of the lies of a convicted felon who is trying to shift his criminal conduct … onto me,” he told the press. That argument struck at the heart of the most serious charge against Filides—conspiracy in furtherance, which meant that he knew he was an integral part of the Blue Book robberies. Filides pleaded innocent to all charges and soon became the only person allegedly involved in the Social Register scheme to face a jury.

His trial began on June 4, 1984, with Flynn the star witness. Describing himself to jurors as a professional thief who made ends meet by “selling silver, gold, jewelry, antiques, and paintings from burglaries,” Flynn testified that he originally met Filides at the dealer’s gallery in 1976, when Flynn showed up with another burglar and a stolen painting. Flynn said that Filides not buy that piece, but he did offer tips for future targets: He wanted to fence landscapes and seascapes, not portraits, which were too easy to trace. He didn’t want any paintings larger than a suitcase, because that would make it too difficult to transport them to Europe, where Flynn claimed that Filides sold stolen art to other galleries. Flynn also said that Filides wanted paintings valued between $4,000 and $50,000—anything less would damage his reputation in the art business, and anything more would draw too many questions from buyers and insurance companies. Flynn even claimed that Filides provided him with a list of more than one hundred marketable French and Dutch artists whose work he and his crew should look for. Over time and dozens if not hundreds of robberies, Flynn came to recognize by sight the kinds of paintings Filides was looking for.

Testifying in his own defense, Filides was “alternately pained and bemused,” according to Newsday. He admitted that he had never questioned Flynn on the provenance of the art he came in with—something respectable dealers routinely do. Filides testified that, yes, he did often fly to Europe, despite his gallery turning an annual profit of only about $15,000. (Prosecutors pointed to this discrepancy as evidence that the dealer spent far more money than he “officially” earned.) Filides acknowledged, too, that he had sold paintings Flynn handed him. In fact, he still had several pieces in his possession at the time of Flynn’s arrest. (Filides eventually forfeited those works, twelve in all, to the FBI. They would be the only ones ever returned to the targets of the Social Register gang.) Still, Filides maintained that he had no idea anything he did was illegal.

A jury of nine men and three women deliberated for five days. They sent the judge twenty notes asking for explanations of legal issues and readings of testimony. On the fifth day, the foreman informed the judge, “We are hopelessly deadlocked on all seven counts in this case after infinite amounts of deliberation and many secret ballots.” The judge declared a mistrial. In an interview with a reporter, one of the jurors said they didn’t trust Flynn or Filides. Asked by the press how he felt about his odds in a new trial, Filides only smiled.

Melley sat through the whole thing. He had built the case against Filides—interviewing Blue Book victims, collating police reports from more than a dozen departments, driving Flynn all over New England to get eyes on the Social Register homes the thief had robbed. He knew prosecutors couldn’t bring Filides to court a second time without new evidence.

Melley wanted another witness, someone who would testify about Filides’s criminal activities. And that person needed to be someone who wasn’t a professional thief, because the feds needed the jury to trust them. “Fortunately,” Melley said, “Flynn had a very good memory.”

Flynn had first met Jack Farrell, a Boston insurance appraiser who worked for wealthy clients, at the racetrack—a place where they each spent a lot of time. As the two became more friendly, Flynn mentioned that he needed to get rid of some paintings of questionable origin. Farrell told Flynn he knew exactly who to turn to: Filides, a dealer willing to buy purloined art.

Though Farrell introduced the men well before Flynn began robbing Social Register homes, law enforcement decided to bring Farrell in as a character witness in Filides’s second trial, someone who could attest to the art dealer’s misbehavior. The trial began in September 1984, and the proceedings unfolded much as they had the first time—until Farrell arrived in the courtroom. Melley described his first appearance as if it were a scene from a movie. When Farrell walked in, everyone turned to get a look at him, including Filides. Prosecutors had told Filides that they’d be putting Farrell on the witness stand, and he’d made no objections. Now Melley wondered if that was because Filides hadn’t remembered Farrell. “Filides was looking at him like he had no concept,” Melley said. “Then all of a sudden, Farrell starts giving all these details.” Melley kept his eye on Filides, whose face fell as Farrell’s testimony proceeded.

Farrell did exactly what Melley had hoped he would: persuade jurors to believe Flynn when he said that Filides had been in on the Blue Book robberies. On October 2, a jury found Filides guilty of receiving stolen property, interstate transport of stolen property, and conspiracy.

Melley hoped for a yearslong sentence. But a few weeks later, District Court Judge I. Leo Glasser sentenced Filides to five years’ probation, a $30,000 fine, and a thousand hours of community service in the form of art lectures to disadvantaged Boston residents. The decision still mystifies Melley. “He was a person who deserved to be incarcerated. And, more importantly, had he been incarcerated, he would surely have cooperated and told us where the art went,” Melley said.

Of everyone involved in the conspiracy, Flynn was sentenced to the most time: five years behind bars. Thanks to his cooperation as a witness, though, he was out in less than twelve months.

Finding him wasn’t easy. All I had to go on was the Boston equivalent of John Smith—indeed, shortly after Ray Flynn’s arrest in 1982, voters in the city elected a mayor by the same name.

Most people involved in the Social Register robberies are now dead. Both fences are gone: Ursillo passed away in 1994, Filides three years later. Charlie Gallagher died in 2019. His obituary recounts a favorite expression: “I’ll be with you until the wheels fall off.”

As for Dennis Quinn, when I started working on this story, I traced him to a public housing apartment in the Boston area, which I visited twice. The first time, there was no answer when I knocked on his door, so I left a note. At my next visit, his name was no longer on the mail slot. This fall, I turned up his obituary: He died in April 2025, at 77.

The person I wanted to speak to the most was Ray Flynn. Other than a passing comment to a courthouse reporter at Filides’s trials, Flynn was never interviewed by a journalist. He never spoke publicly about the extent of his crimes, which, by all accounts, were voluminous.

Finding him wasn’t easy. All I had to go on was the Boston equivalent of John Smith—indeed, shortly after Ray Flynn’s arrest in 1982, voters in the city elected a mayor by the same name. I didn’t catch a break until I talked to Rolie Anderson, who immediately remembered Flynn’s middle initial, even decades after the investigation. It was X, for Xavier.

With his full name in hand, I found records that showed the Blue Book case was not the end of the line for Flynn. In 1996, he was arrested for robbing a room in the luxurious Mount Washington Hotel in New Hampshire. A manager and bellman doing a routine security check spotted him wearing tennis shorts and a dress shirt. When they asked if he was a guest, he ran away. Police then tracked him to a country road, where they nabbed him and recovered a diamond ring, a Tiffany watch, three credit cards, and a master room key to the hotel.

Flynn was convicted and sentenced to several years in prison; he was released in 2000. Prosecutors later brought other charges against him, mostly for breaking into other hotels. But in every instance he was either found not guilty, the charges were dismissed or dropped, or he was sentenced to probation. Still, buried in one of the police reports from these cases, I found Flynn’s phone number.

“Maybe I was a little adventurous. Maybe it was challenging to some degree.”

During my first phone call with Flynn, he took credit for two major heists. Years before the Blue Book robberies, in 1975, he claimed to have stolen a Winslow Homer painting from the public library in Malden, Massachusetts, in broad daylight. The next year, he said, he broke in to the Cambridge home of the president of Harvard University and stole six paintings valued at $380,000, including works by the French landscape painter Eugène Boudin.

I knew about these robberies from my research of famous art heists, but Flynn was never mentioned in the stories or police reports I’d read. Though I couldn’t confirm his connection to the Homer theft, an FBI agent I spoke to remembered driving past the Harvard president’s home with Flynn and Melley when Flynn, unprompted, told him, “Oh yeah, I did that one.” As I looked into the various crimes Flynn said he’d committed, the evidence I found often backed up what he’d told me. It never contradicted it. Flynn might have been a thief, but he didn’t strike me as a liar.

I hoped to learn more from Flynn. When I told him that I wanted to do a recorded interview, he suggested we meet at the Barnstable District Courthouse, of all places—the same place he’d beat his latest burglary charges. So I drove to Cape Cod, where Flynn was living. When I walked in, Flynn and his attorney were there to greet me in the lobby. Flynn looked healthy. He was trimmer than in his old mug shots, with short gray hair and no mustache. Dressed in business casual, he looked like he could be on his way to a country club.

His attorney ushered us into a small, windowless conference room. As soon as we sat down, Flynn said that he’d changed his mind; he didn’t want to be recorded anymore. We talked briefly about the story I wanted to tell—at one point, he stood up to mime taking a painting off the wall—and then he left.

This was the start of what became a yearslong back-and-forth between us. Flynn didn’t shy away from questions, but he always ended our conversations quickly. Sometimes I called and left a message, and he wouldn’t get back to me. During other periods we talked on multiple occasions in a single month. He was sad when I told him that Charles Gallagher was dead. More recently Flynn asked me, “How’s Pete Melley doing?”

Mostly, though, we talked about his crimes. The master room key for the Mount Washington Hotel? “It was like picking candy off a tree,” he said. Flynn claimed that he’d used the key to rob upwards of 150 rooms over the course of a decade before management finally caught him. Did he ever struggle to sell his stolen paintings? Sometimes, he said. But he never held on to them for long. “One thing you can do, which I did 200 times,” he told me, “is burn them.”

When I brought up the Social Register case, Flynn told me that he’d hit close to 500 Blue Book homes, far more than the hundred-some robberies the FBI had linked to him. When I relayed this claim to Melley and Anderson, both men found it credible.

I don’t know of any art thief who stole more and spent less time in jail. I found police reports and court records linking him to crimes ranging from 1965 to 2010. That’s not a job—it’s a career. Not that Flynn didn’t pay a price. When I asked about his family’s car accident, he said that his son woke up from a coma but remained in poor health, and died at the age of five. “You say to yourself, ‘If I was there, it wouldn’t have happened,’ ” Flynn told me. He and his wife are now divorced.

There are as many reasons to steal art as there are to steal anything else. There’s opportunism: In 1911, long before thieves in reflective vests plucked jewelry from the Louvre, an Italian handyman who had installed protective glass over the Mona Lisa stole the famous painting from the Paris museum. (The work was recovered twenty-eight months later, and the thief was arrested.) There’s kleptomania, as in the case of the French thief who stole more than 300 works from museums throughout Europe, and who remains under house arrest today. There are also more convoluted motivations, as with a Boston burglar who stole a Rembrandt to use as a bargaining chip, returning it in exchange for a reduction in the sentence he was facing for stealing other paintings.

But Flynn had a different reason altogether. A more mundane one. He found something he did well and worked at it—hard. “I needed fast money. I went to Las Vegas a lot,” he told me. “Maybe I was a little adventurous. Maybe it was challenging to some degree.”

Even now, Flynn’s motivation hasn’t changed much. Once, on a handshake deal at a bar on Cape Cod, he again agreed to let me record our conversation—if I was able to sell a podcast about him. But he later backed out when he realized that he wouldn’t make any money off the deal.

It’s not that Flynn is cagey; he’s calculating. As one of his lawyers told me, “Ray rhymes with pay.”

I’ve Gone to Look for America

I’ve Gone to Look for America

Conversations and revelations about an ailing nation along Interstate 95.

_{Words by Masha Hamilton
Photographs by Cheney Orr}

The Atavist Magazine, No. 167

Masha Hamilton is the author of five novels. She began her career as a journalist, reporting from the Middle East and Russia. She later served as director of communications and public diplomacy at the U.S. Embassy in Kabul, and worked in communications for the Rockefeller Foundation.

Cheney Orr is a Pulitzer Prize–nominated photographer. He is a regular contributor to Reuters, and his photographs have also appeared in the New York Times, ProPublica, and the Wall Street Journal. His book War Notes, a collection of portraits and interviews from Ukraine, is in the collection of the Museum of Modern Art and the Metropolitan Museum of Art, among others.

Editor: Seyward Darby
Art Director: Ed Johnson
Copy Editor: Sean Cooper
Fact Checker: Alison Van Houten

Published in September 2025

The sky is dark. The highway hums beneath our tires. We’ve covered a lot of miles today, and the night is pressing us off the road, toward a Virginia rest stop where, years ago, a man was murdered in a bathroom. I want to see the door he pushed open, stand where he stood, feel how quickly ordinary moments can turn.

But more than anything right now, I want to stop. Stretch out in the back of Cheney’s car, let the wash of highway noise lull us for a few hours. It’s been another long day of catching strangers mid-journey, asking one personal question and then another.

We’re on the road, my oldest son and I, traveling nearly 2,000 miles on Interstate 95 from Miami to Maine, and pausing at virtually every rest stop. Our project is simple and vast at once: to ask fellow travelers where they’re headed, and where they think America is going too. I take notes. Cheney takes photos.

Listen to the audio version of this story from Apple News

For me this trip is a therapy session with my country. I fear that there is a deep crack in our union, and I’m not sure I belong here anymore. Maybe the road can convince me otherwise. I also want time with a son I once knew so well, back when I looked down at the top of his head, but whom I’m learning all over again now that he’s grown to six-foot-four and seen what he’s seen, weathered what he has.

I’m six weeks past being laid off, in a season of layoffs. Cheney is a little over a year past a breakup that shook him loose from the life he thought he’d have and thrust him into another. It marked the end of a marriage he didn’t tell me about for 11 years, a secret that would recast all the holidays we celebrated, dinners we shared, and trips we took. Now we’re driving the coast of a country that has imprinted us with its violence—me in Afghanistan when a bomb tore open a morning during America’s forever war, him on the banks of the Rio Grande when the river swallowed breath. A nation itself now bruised and battered has scarred us with pain and sorrow.

The long ribbon of road insists that life goes on. The days gather, falling into one another, changing Cheney, changing me.

A peacock at the southern terminus of I-95 in Miami, Florida.

Beginnings and endings—let’s do both now, up front. No spoilers, just a map to provide a sense of direction amid the uncertainty to come.

Our journey began Memorial Day weekend 2025, at the I-95 on-ramp in Miami Beach, where the northbound and southbound lanes split, carving through a cityscape that’s a chaotic snarl of polished skyline and subtropical thicket. Two peacocks wandered in the brush bordering I-95 North, one of them calling out in loud, catlike screeches that competed with the drone of traffic. Along the southbound side, a small community of chickens foraged beneath an overpass. Feral birds, exhaust fumes, wild color: a surreal overture to the road ahead.

We ended 17 days later near Houlton, Maine, on a deserted bridge overlooking the border with Canada. Rain had just passed—puddles were alive with mosquitoes, and the sun hung low behind gauzy clouds. We took a couple of selfies to mark the moment. The clerk at a shop offering travelers duty-free goods told me that business had all but disappeared. I was the first customer he’d seen in three hours. As if to explain, he walked me to a display of chocolate bars, their wrappers stamped with Donald Trump’s face, stars and stripes curling beneath his grin. “People come in from Canada, and they turn the chocolate around so the face doesn’t show. Sometimes they drop the chocolate on the ground. On the ground!” the clerk said with dismay. “Aren’t we supposed to be grown-ups here?”

In between the peacocks and the chocolate were startling revelations and moments of grace. They came from a Cajun great-grandmother driving an 18-wheeler. A philosophical cop from Georgia. An unhoused community living in cars, inventing rest-stop resilience. Conversations arrived unexpected, unguarded. Some drifted open, while others cracked wide in an instant. There were bursts of candor at vending machines and outside bathrooms—intimacy in the unlikeliest of places, with the murmur of the interstate a constant soundtrack.

I-95 isn’t just asphalt. It was born of two ambitions: one public, one military. In 1956, when Dwight D. Eisenhower signed the National Interstate and Defense Highways Act, lawmakers envisioned a road connecting the country’s entire eastern edge that could also be a means of moving troops and supplies if the Cold War turned hot. Now, at its busiest, more than 300,000 vehicles crowd the interstate daily, including tens of thousands of commercial trucks, those hulking giants that thunder by, rattling mirrors and nerves.

Families ride I-95 with coolers wedged between the seats of their minivans. Truckers push through the night, carrying oranges and lumber and coffins. Greyhound buses, Teslas, and beat-up sedans weave at high speeds. I-95 is an artery of ambition, movement, and flight. A place where millions of people hurry toward love and loss, carrying their hope, their grief, their ordinary Tuesdays, all at 70 miles per hour.

This story unfolds like our experience of the road: not a straight shot but a series of quick confessions, bitter jokes, whispered memories. Strangers laying themselves bare, then moving on. No two encounters were alike; wherever they went, we followed.

In every conversation, and the silences in between, I listened for the shape of an answer to my question: Are we breaking apart, or is there enough left to bind us?

“When it comes right down to it, I don’t think anyone has all their bases covered. So I focus on the things that bring me joy.”

Dale, at right with his dog, Winnie, in South Carolina

“You’re going to appreciate this trip after she’s gone,” Dale says to Cheney, tipping his head toward me.

It takes a moment to register what he means, that he’s referring to my death so casually, after we’ve known each other 25 minutes.

“I appreciate it already,” Cheney responds with a smile.

Dale, 65, retired four years ago and moved from upstate New York to Lake Placid, Florida. We found him on a weathered bench under a sky collecting dusk at the Santee Welcome Center in South Carolina, midway between the Georgia and North Carolina state lines. Death is on his mind this evening, and not just mine. He’s thinking about the end times.

“I was raised a Fundamental Baptist,” Dale offers. “I call myself a recovering Baptist. But some of those things are hard to overcome.”

Especially now. Floods, plague, conflicts, corruption, the money changers in the temple—“you look around and it looks like all that stuff we studied in Sunday school,” Dale says. “When God has had enough with the sins of humanity…”

He breaks off his thought as his mini Aussiedoodle, Winnie, tugs hard on her leash, tumbling in wild arcs around our legs, ecstatic with the kind of life that doesn’t yet know limits.

Dale stresses that he’s not a prepper. But he has thought about what he might need to survive should the world fall apart, and he’s stockpiled a bit of it. He acknowledges that this is an exercise in futility. “When it comes right down to it, I don’t think anyone has all their bases covered,” he says. “So I focus on the things that bring me joy.”

Living in Florida was a longtime dream for Dale. “Since I was a teenager and made my first trip,” he says. A job, a bad end to a relationship, and a delay in getting his pension kept him anchored in New York longer than he wanted. When finally he was able to move, he purchased a house in foreclosure, sight unseen. “When I walked in, I was tickled,” he says. “The house was about in the condition I’d expected—nothing worse.” At last he felt like he was home.

“I asked God for one year of peace and quiet to enjoy my retirement in the sunshine. And this month I’m starting year five,” Dale tells me, his voice catching with the knowledge that no one gets forever. “I feel more than blessed.”

But Winnie is disrupting that peace. So Dale is heading to the mapled city of Hornell in upstate New York this summer and saying goodbye to her there. A friend has offered to adopt her. “I think it’s a good idea,” Dale says, to himself as much as to me.

“I love her to pieces,” he adds. “But she’s too much for me. She’s a puppy. She needs more than I can give.”

Doubt flickers across his face, and I suck in my breath, feeling the sharp ache of his hesitation. At a time when he fears that the world might end, Dale is giving up something that brings him comfort as well as complication. Winnie, sweet chaos in motion.

Dale is already practicing his goodbye. I can see it in his eyes and the way his hand lingers on Winnie’s head. I want to believe I’m not practicing my own goodbyes, but long road trips, with their constant departures, stir up profound feelings about mortality, about letting go.

A man on his Harley-Davidson in South Carolina.

I have been a news junkie all my life. As a college freshman, I rose early to sneak-read the copy of the New York Times left outside my dorm neighbor’s door, sitting cross-legged on the hallway floor. But as Trump’s second term began, I found that I couldn’t stomach much beyond the headlines.

Still, I knew that avoidance was corrosive. During my five years living and reporting in Moscow, mostly during the Gorbachev era, the Russians I knew had a rule: No discussing politics except very late at night, in cramped, smoky kitchens, after a few rounds of vodka. But that kind of reticence seemed only to deepen communal resignation and embolden political leaders.

So in Trump’s America I wanted to talk, even to people who might disagree with me. At the same time, I was scared—that I’d ask the wrong questions, trigger tripwires I couldn’t see. “It’s not going to be like that out there,” Cheney kept telling me.

I wanted him to be right, to trust him. But he’d kept silences of his own.

I’d learned of his marriage only after it was already coming undone. A friend of his, crashing at my house, let it slip, either unaware or forgetting that Cheney’s mom didn’t know. I called my daughter. “Is Cheney married?” I asked. “Oh, Mom, no,” she said, brushing off the idea. Turns out she didn’t know, either. Later that day, when she pressed him, the truth came out. The woman we’d known as Cheney’s longtime girlfriend was actually his wife.

I have a 48-hour rule: When anger strikes, I try to wait that long before speaking, hoping that time will cool my ego and allow curiosity to surface. This time, 48 hours barely made a dent. Two weeks passed before I could bring it up. By then, Cheney was braced for the discussion.

The whole thing started as more whim than promise, he explained. Even he wasn’t sure that it would hold. Also, I hadn’t yet met her and was far away in Afghanistan, working at the U.S. Embassy during one of the most violent stretches of America’s twenty-year war. “If I’d told you,” he said, “it would only have added to your stress.”

“I’ve been back from Afghanistan for a while,” I said, and he laughed ruefully.

“Eventually, it seemed like too much time had passed,” he replied.

It all stung. Not just the secrecy but the assumption that I couldn’t handle the truth, that my life was too fragile to absorb it. He had decided on his own what was best for me. And not for the last time, probably. If I’m fortunate enough to grow old, there likely will come a day when Cheney and his siblings weigh my choices for me. The only consolation: When they were small, I decided for them. Maybe this is how the cosmic books stay balanced.

By the time I suggested the trip up I-95, Cheney and I had said what needed saying. Still, I longed for the kind of trust built not by declarations but by the quiet choreography of collaborating, sharing meals, spending time side-by-side for days on end. In ordinary acts, I hoped to restitch the thread of connection between mother and son.

The morning we set out, the road’s toll was already visible on Cheney. He’d been living largely out of his car for months, moving constantly in part to avoid the pain of staying still. To meet me, he drove 2,200 miles: from Colorado to Texas and on to an old storage unit in Georgia—he had places for his belongings, but not places he felt he belonged—then finally to Miami. Now small red welts freckled his skin, the work of insects so minuscule they’re called no-see-ums. The bugs had slipped through the netting strung across an open window of Cheney’s 2015 Subaru Outback the night before while he slept.

Cheney was feverish and scratched absently as we drove, his discomfort like a low drag on everything he said. We added many pharmacies to our itinerary, searching unsuccessfully for the perfect anti-itch cream. The bites were insistent, and they seemed to trouble my son beyond the physical irritation.

This is how harm so often arrives, not with sirens but with a whisper. The no-see-ums that bite through the night. The slow burn of heat that turns seasons hostile. The safety net that unravels slowly until there’s nothing left to catch you. A nation, like a body, can be marked before it recognizes the wound.

Mile by mile, I-95 leads us into the hurt.

At a Whataburger counter I meet Bill and Sienna, who have traveled the interstate around a dozen times over the past few months to join protests up and down the East Coast. Bill wears a T-shirt that reads, “Stop Pretending Your Racism Is Patriotism.” He’s spoiling for a fight. “I’m a big guy,” he says. “I love it when people ask me about this shirt when they don’t like it, because it’s a pretty good testament to their character.”

Others are fatalistic, certain that what’s happening is beyond their control. “Doesn’t matter what we think,” shrugs Don, who along with several friends just visited Monticello. “They’re going to do what they do.” That sentiment is echoed by Christy, 64, traveling with her pregnant 41-year-old daughter and her 11-year-old granddaughter. “Where are we headed? To a time when ten people run the country and the rest of us just live with it,” she says.

When I meet Joe, it’s late afternoon in Georgia. The air presses in, damp, alive with gnats. He and his wife are 12 hours into a 20-hour drive, and his face bears every one of those hours and more.

“I’m whooped,” he acknowledges, leaning against the side of his car as if staying upright is too much effort. A cigarette hangs from his fingers. His eyes stay fixed on the women’s restroom, where his wife has gone. This stop is for her. He wants the trip over.

They are headed from Saint Petersburg, Florida, to Newburgh, New York, the town Joe grew up in but doesn’t like. He needs to see his brother, who is in a nursing home. It might be their last visit. “He’s not doing well,” Joe says. He grimaces as if in pain, then wipes the expression away. Grief, it seems, is an extravagance he can’t afford, not with the miles waiting and the day mostly gone.

We change the subject. I ask how he’s feeling about America these days, and he says that the world has gotten meaner since the pandemic. “I don’t like what’s coming for my three grandkids.”

His words mirror my own worries about the flawed inheritance we’re leaving behind, unraveling like an heirloom quilt. “So what are you doing,” I ask, “to help them prepare?”

“Teaching them to shoot.”

He says this without drama or bravado. His voice is grim, resigned.

Joe carries a Glock nearly always. His wife is surprised that he left it at home for this trip. “My permit doesn’t hold in New York,” he explains.

I try to lighten the tone. I ask what he’s optimistic about.

“Reaching my destination,” he says. “Just that.” Then he draws a long breath from his cigarette and exhales, slow and deliberate, like a man letting go of more than smoke.

David, a maintenance worker at a Georgia rest stop.

By the numbers, I-95 is America’s deadliest highway. It claims hundreds of lives every year. The emotional impact of this loss is everywhere. Truckers describe wrecks they’ve passed; motorcyclists recall friends killed on the road.

At a rest stop in Seabrook, New Hampshire, Mary, 59, tells me about a long-ago family trip to Florida. She was a teenager then, one of five siblings. “There was a bad crash,” she says. “My dad, being who he was, pulled over to help.” The man’s leg was nearly severed. Her father held it in place until the ambulance arrived. Her sister cradled the man’s head. “It was in the local papers,” Mary says, then looks off toward the trees.

David, a maintenance worker, describes the evening of February 21, 2024, when a speeding 18-wheeler barreled into the rest stop where he works near Savannah, Georgia, slamming into multiple vehicles and igniting a fire that engulfed several rigs. Two truck drivers were killed. The flames lit the night sky.

There are other legacies of harm etched into the earth beneath the interstate, held by the asphalt. To build I-95, bulldozers carved through cities, leveling blocks, erasing whole neighborhoods. Often Black. Often poor. Families were scattered, churches toppled, maps redrawn in the name of progress. People watched the America they knew vanish beneath pavement.

The interstate reminds me and Cheney that, no matter where you are, this country’s violence is never far away. Not that we need reminding.

April 6, 2013. A suicide bomber struck members of my team in Zabul Province, southern Afghanistan. I was the director of communications and public diplomacy at the U.S. Embassy. I boarded the first helicopter out of Kabul to get to my people.

We’d lost Anne Smedinghoff, who was 25, my daughter’s age at the time. Four other people died, three soldiers and a translator. At least ten more were wounded. One of my staff lay in a coma; another was unable to walk.

Someone handed me Anne’s purse, punctured with shrapnel, her phone still inside. It felt impossibly heavy. I wanted to set it down. I wanted to never let it go.

February 24, 2024. Piedras Negras, Mexico. Cheney watched as a small group of people waded into the Rio Grande, trying to cross to Eagle Pass, Texas. Among them: a young couple, Rossana, 25, and Widman, 26.

Cheney photographed them as they entered the murky river. He watched them retreat from its force, regroup, and try again. On the U.S. shore, a Coast Guard officer shouted warnings through a loudspeaker, but it was too late. Cheney saw the current pull the couple apart. He saw their heads bobbing, their hands reaching. The water took them under.

Rossana’s body washed ashore in Mexico and was quickly returned to her family. Widman drifted toward the U.S. side; his body was not repatriated to Guatemala for four months. Cheney traveled there, to the town of Yepocapa, to stand with Widman’s family as they sealed his casket into a tomb.

These deaths did not happen to us directly. Grief belongs to those who lost their kin, to the friends left with nothing but memories. And yet. America’s violence—its wars, its borders, its history—folds itself into the stories of those who witness it, along with a stark question: What could we, should we, have done differently?

The bathroom where Bobby Lee Durham Sr. was murdered near Dale City, Virginia.

Cheney and I spend a night at a rest stop near Dale City, Virginia. Here, in December 1996 around 3 a.m., a man named Bobby Lee Durham Sr. pulled in driving a white Cadillac. A 51-year-old trucker from Dover, Pennsylvania, he was headed home from South Carolina, where he and his family had been handling things following his father’s death.

Durham helped his disabled sister to the restroom and crossed the breezeway to the men’s room. Two teenagers were waiting inside. They demanded his wallet. He handed it over. “Please don’t hurt me,” he said. They shot him anyway. The triggerman later wrote a crude rap song boasting of the killing: “Three to your head. Bang, bang, bang. He’s dead.”

I photograph the entrance to the restroom, trying to see it as Durham might have. A brick archway. A drinking fountain. A metal door glowing sickly yellow under artificial light. Haunting yet heartbreakingly ordinary. No sign that this would be the end.

The next morning, birdsong rises from the trees, but the rest stop feels uneasy. Most of the picnic tables are chained off, with signs that read, “Out of Service, Do Not Use.” Heavy slabs of concrete that once promised community are now stripped of function. They feel like a sign of our shrinking commons, a warning to the country’s travelers: What we share is now cordoned off. Proceed; do not gather.

Back near the bathroom where Durham died I meet Jobert, 55, a prosecutor visiting from the Philippines. He and his family—his wife, three children, and two aunts—are tracing their own version of the American road trip. They stopped in Texas to visit a friend, then made a pilgrimage to Disney World. Next up, they’re going to the nation’s capital. When he mentions his job, I tell him about the murder.

“Really? A murder?” Jobert grows quiet. “No one deserves that in any jurisdiction in the world,” he said, shifting into legalistic formality. “But I’ve been stopping at many rest areas, and I think they are normally safe. I’ve always looked up to America as a friend, a kind nation, a hopeful nation. I hope this trip will show me that it still is.”

His words linger. He’s looking for reassurance. So am I.

“We’re on the same page. Black, white, we all want the same thing. You want your kids to be taken care of. You don’t want to work until you drop dead.”

Gary, at left, a trucker, in Virginia

And it comes, in fits and starts.

I don’t have a script, but I start asking travelers what it means to be American. At the Ladysmith rest area in Virginia, Gary, a trucker and self‑described progressive from Mississippi, puts it this way: “We’re on the same page. Black, white, we all want the same thing. You want your kids to be taken care of. You don’t want to work until you drop dead.”

At the Biden Welcome Center in Delaware, Bob, 57, a Trump supporter with a dog leash in one hand and his mom’s voice coming through his earbuds, offers a version of the golden rule: “Don’t do to others what you wouldn’t want them to do to you.”

Joann, 55, originally from Liberia, tells me about recovering from an illness the doctors couldn’t explain. She woke up one day paralyzed: hands curled, feet twisted, limbs locked. For six months she lived in stillness. She vowed to become a caregiver if she got better. And she did. She’s a nurse now, taking care of all kinds of patients. “What I love about this country,” she tells me, “is its diversity. That’s what makes it powerful.”

Mark, with a graying ponytail, is adamant and assured. “We’re all red, white, and blue in the end. We want a democracy, not a king,” he says. The owner of a chain of spas and salons, he’s parked at a rest stop in Hardeeville, South Carolina. He and his girlfriend, along with their Australian kelpie, Termita, are one month into a slow drift north from Mexico, sometimes taking back roads or exploring bike trails in forgotten places. “I’m seeing fewer political signs than I expected,” Mark says. “Less of that roadside yelling.”

He’s been talking to strangers, too—asking questions, swapping stories. Proximity, he’s found, is a low-tech fix for a high-volume problem. “It’s the fringe radio shows, the influencers selling rage—they make it sound like we’re tearing each other apart,” he says. “But out here, when you actually talk to people? That’s not what I’m seeing.”

Ladd, 26, is a natural storyteller. He’s been a rest-stop supervisor for less than a year, but already he’s seen enough to fill a book. “Some insane things,” he says, grinning, shaking his head at the memories. A woman trying to bathe her Chihuahua in the bathroom sink. A mime who stopped in (“He didn’t have much to say,” Ladd deadpans). A wild boar that sent tattooed truckers into a scared huddle as it tore around the parking lot.

In Ladd’s telling, rest stops like his are more than breaks in a journey. They’re a kind of stage where the absurd and the ordinary collide. He calls them “the great equalizers.” A shiny new Mercedes slides into a parking space alongside a ’91 Corolla. Young and old, rich and broke, weary and restless all shuffle toward the same humming drink machines, the same toilets. For a moment, divisions fall away, and hierarchies flatten out.

Ladd tells me he sees people you might not expect to interact talking and laughing together all the time. “I’ve seen truckers flying the Confederate flag on their vehicles. They hover around the vending machines, and they’ll strike up conversations with Black truckers, or we have Mexican truckers as well that come in,” Ladd says.

Harmony isn’t always a given, he acknowledges. His biggest headache? Two of his employees fall into such bitter theological debates—both are Christians, but from different denominations—that he has to keep them on separate shifts.

A morning view from the car in Virginia.

Cheney cues up a road-trip playlist he found on Spotify. Johnny Cash belts, “I’ve been everywhere, man.” It feels like we have, too. We keep stopping, keep talking—we meet some 250 people in all. The encounters collect in my mind like a stack of Polaroids, each a flash from the road, beckoning me to return to it later.

“My whole life has been driving,” Mary Ann tells me. She used to operate “forklifts that could lift a truck to the top of a two-story building.” Fifteen years ago, she started driving a rig professionally. Now she calls trucking her “retirement.”

After a year driving solo, she decided she needed a partner, for company and for safety—someone to stand beside her when she pulled into lonely stops in the dark. She started asking around and found Archie, a veteran trucker who had 24 years on the road. “I met her in the parking lot,” Archie says, leaning against the side of their truck. “I said we could give it a try.”

They’ve been partners for 14 years now, sharing an 18-wheeler that’s become their home, trading the driver’s seat back and forth across thousands of long nights. Mary Ann invites me up into the cab, where the seat smells faintly of diesel and sun-warmed vinyl. On her phone, she shows me photos of her five grandchildren and one great-grandchild, all of whom live in her hometown of Sulphur, Louisiana. She only sees them once or twice a year. “But they know I’m out here working,” she says, her voice firm with pride. “I want them to know hard work matters.”

Archie’s load is heavier. The life he chose strained his relationships with his eight children. He says that he doesn’t want them coming to his funeral. “They weren’t there for me when I was alive. Why should they be in death?” His words carry the ghosts of things already buried—the hope of reconciliation, the promise of remembrance.

Mary Ann tells me that she has a problem with drivers who don’t speak English well, and it jars me. Then she talks about sharing dinners with those same drivers over camp stoves, the air alive with spices she can’t name, hands of different colors passing bowls back and forth. Suspicion at the threshold, welcome once the table is set: This is Mary Ann’s America.

For others we meet, America is faith and uncertainty interlaced, inextricable.

Taha, 21, has just finished praying with his brother when we meet him at a Pennsylvania rest stop. He says that personal freedom is what defines being American. “The thing I’m worried about the most,” he adds, “is misinformation.”

Ayesha, 43, a calligrapher and mixed-media artist, is traveling with her husband and three children from Tampa to Washington, D.C., for a flight to Lahore, Pakistan, to visit her parents. She wonders if she should leave the U.S. for good. Her husband believes the country still offers them the best chance for stability. “He is seventy-thirty sure we should stay,” Ayesha says. “I’m fifty-fifty.”

Yuri, 52, a trucker from Tashkent, Uzbekistan, left the former Soviet Union a decade ago to get his daughter a better education. He isn’t certain that the school system lived up to his hopes, but he does feel sure that U.S. democracy will survive. “As long as you have elections every four years, don’t worry,” he says.

At a rest stop in Georgia I meet Jesús, 31. He came from Mexico, his wife from Colombia, and he now works in the restaurant industry. He wants to apply for U.S. citizenship, but he’s also considering returning to Mexico with his wife and eight-month-old daughter.

Jesús chooses his words with care. “We will be with family. It’s OK,” he says. His smile widens when he speaks of his daughter. “She’s an American citizen. She has good opportunities.”

Hope, fragile yet determined, rides in the back seat of his car.

Grief and humor, weariness and wonder—the balance between them propels us forward. In South Carolina, Cheney and I interrupt the motion: We rent kayaks, paddle out into a bay, and are rewarded with dolphins. So many of them, and so close. They swim beneath us like shadows, quick and playful.

We pull up alongside a fisherman tossing fish guts over the side of his boat. The dolphins gather like guests at a dinner party. We drift into their celebration and strike up a conversation with the man. His biggest fear? The rising tide. Not the fact of it, but how few people seem to notice.

“I met her in the parking lot. I said we could give it a try.”

Archie, at right with Mary Ann, his driving partner, in New Jersey

I meet Betsy in Delaware on a sweltering afternoon, the kind where the heat makes the asphalt shimmer. She stands by her Tesla as it charges. With her are two young asylum-seeking brothers from Venezuela. They linger in the shade of a thin tree nearby.

“It’s scary when you can’t let an 18-year-old go play soccer because ICE is all over the neighborhood,” Betsy says, nodding toward the young men. Her voice is as sharp as a snapped twig. “The terror that puts people under—it’s beyond anything I’ve experienced.”

Betsy is an ordained priest and retired psychiatric nurse who once helped run a shelter. She tells me that her late husband, Ralph, would hate today’s America. They took a long road trip through the country in 2010, a few years after Ralph was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

Betsy planned the trip with care. She tracked down Ralph’s college roommate, his med-school buddy, distant cousins, friends she’d only heard about, former neighbors who’d moved away. Ten weeks. Ten thousand miles. Each stop a chance to connect. “We stayed with someone we knew every single night,” she says.

Remembering wasn’t the point really. Presence was. Giving Ralph one last taste of everything that made him who he was before the disease took hold. He loved cold beer and ice cream, and many of their hosts greeted them with one or the other. Sometimes both.

They were still a year or two away from Ralph getting lost one door down from their home of thirty years, but forgetting was already a creeping shadow. When they were listening to an audiobook Ralph loved, he didn’t want the driving to end. He knew that by the next morning the plot would have slipped his mind. Once Betsy drove four hours past their destination just so the story could reach its conclusion.

“He didn’t always know what state we were in,” she tells me. “But he loved every minute.”

My own husband died of early-onset Alzheimer’s. Even as the disease tightened its grip, pieces of him—essential ones—remained. I prefer to remember those parts: his stubborn sense of justice, his friendliness. Also, his joy riding horses near the pyramids, and his laugh in the snow.

Betsy and I exchange contact information. She’s 81 now, and she carries the memory of her journey across the country with Ralph like a lantern. It reminds her that there are many ways to show up, to hold on, to keep going.

A woman with her pet ferret in Maryland.

Memory has always pulled at me: what we carry forward, what fades, what we revise without meaning to. The things we remember become in some way immortal—but only as long as we keep returning to them. As a child, I tried to memorize moments. Not just milestones but flickers: coyotes calling in the desert, the cool edge of a desk, a friend’s whispered secret. Remember this, I told myself.

As a nation we’re reshaping, and in doing so allowing ourselves to forget—our common stories, our hard-won lessons, our fragile bonds of trust. On I-95, the smallest exchanges start to feel like a way back, landmarks amid the rage and outrage that signal common ground. I’m a child again, willing my mind to map a path I can follow whenever I get lost.

Remember this.

John and Maryanne in Kennebunk, Maine, showing off their Kawasaki bike with a Hannigan sidecar. They traveled I-95 together for their honeymoon 34 years ago. For them the highway is a vow kept.

Mike Valentino, 70, wiry, racing from Key West to Ticonderoga, New York. “To see my lover,” he booms, then adds more softly, “who is ill.”

Another Mike, whose wife died of cancer this year. When she first got sick and told him she was ready to leave Michigan to chase warmth, he said, “Whatever you want.” So they moved to Miami. Now it feels cold there without her.

A woman on her way south, giving her tomato plants fresh air in Virginia. “They cost $9 for three in New York and $20 for two in Florida,” she explains. “So I’m carrying them as passengers.”

A man from Appalachia pointing out a mound of fire ants to his wide-eyed daughter.

A Ukrainian-American woman cradling her pet ferret, lamenting the children she lost custody of.

A young woman in a crop top describing a friendship gone sour.

Remember this.

John and Maryanne show off their motorcycle and sidecar in Maine.

Here is what I will remember of Michael: Dawn, a Smokey Bear statue, the rest stop glowing under first light. I wander toward a man sitting alone on a bench. He gestures for me to join him.

“Where are you headed?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he says, and I laugh.

“I’m trying to cross off all of the lower 48,” he adds after a moment.

Michael is a police officer with 28 years on the force, serving in the town where he was born, 30 minutes south of Atlanta. The job comes with trauma. “I’ve tried therapy, medication. None of it works. Being on the bike is literally the only time I feel free. Out here alone, riding in the wind, it’s just you and your thoughts. And it’s amazing.”

Still, he knows he’s gambling with his life. “Every time you get on a bike, someone will try to kill you,” he says, grinning in a way that doesn’t dismiss risk but makes room for it. “Not on purpose. They simply don’t see you.”

Any miscalculation on his part can also be dangerous. Michael knows this in his bones. In January, he laid down his bike when someone he was following too closely slammed on their brakes. He suffered a few broken ribs. “Hurt worse than I ever thought that would hurt,” he says.

But he treated the accident as part of the bargain. “If I get run over, I get run over,” he says. “It’s probably better than some of the other ways I could’ve left this earth.”

We talk about his hometown, where violence seems to be getting worse. “Used to be one murder a year was a big deal. Now there are several.” But he doesn’t buy the idea that the country is in inexorable decline, coming apart at the seams. “I think the bulk of people in America can sit down and share a meal or talk about anything,” he said. “There’s more we have in common than we do different.”

Here is what I will remember of Michael: his faith in community, and his belief that freedom, even with risk, is worth the ride.

“When we were planning this trip, I didn’t expect to feel this way,” Cheney tells me one afternoon. He’s logged more than 25,000 miles on the road since the end of his marriage. Now I-95 seems to be asking him, almost kindly: How much farther can you really go before you need to stop?

Since moving into his car, I’ve learned that it runs on more than gas. It runs on order, a collection of rules my son has honed in the time he’s been on the move. He pulled out the back seats to install a sleeping platform and storage, and everything has its place: stove, camera gear, water, paper towels. If I stash a sweater where his tennis shoes go, I’ll hear the quick snap of his correction.

He isn’t being fussy. He’s protecting ballast, the modest mooring he’s been able to create after losing so much.

In time he trusts me to know where to store the plates and drape damp towels. And somewhere between interstate exits, between chasing the first blush of morning and the soft spill of dusk with his camera, Cheney has also realized that he wants something more grounded than an organized car. The idea of settling down again is no longer something to resist.

I study him as he drives. I admire that he’s meeting his sorrows, moving through them, and staying open to what comes. Our pursuits aren’t so different. His search is for home, mine for country. Both of us are circling versions of the same question, trying to find our place in a world restless with change.

“We’ve made this like a home. You know, we live in our car, but life is not bad.”

Maryanne, at left with Ángel, her partner

One night we find ourselves in a neighborhood improvised from asphalt and exhaustion. About 30 people live in their cars next to a rest area. Most are in their fifties, sixties, and seventies. Together they’ve turned an in-between place into something enduring.

Among them: Brian, once an HVAC installer, sidelined by a fall from a roof. Joe, who works as a pizza maker at a local restaurant. Mary Beth, unhoused now for more than two years, who unwinds at night with an episode of The Andy Griffith Show on her phone. “When you lose your home, you lose a lot of things,” she says. “But one of the first things you lose is neighbors.” Here she’s found them again, the fabric our country depends on.

The residents tape holiday decorations to their dashboards, give one another birthday cards. They gather to watch the sunset through the large windows of the rest-area café, sometimes lingering to gossip. They call out good night before climbing into their cars to sleep.

Maryanne and her husband, Ángel, give us the lay of the land. “Liz lives in that green car. Brian is in that brown car. Tina and her sons live in this one,” Maryanne says. “They’re like family for us now. We’ve made this like a home. You know, we live in our car, but life is not bad.”

Together forty years, with four kids to show for it, Maryanne and Ángel were evicted last year. They tell us their love story: They worked at the same grocery store, he in produce, she in the meat and fish department. “He wrote me love letters in Spanish,” Maryanne says. She’d taken only a little bit of Spanish in school. “I had to spend hours trying to figure out what he wrote.”

Ángel, now in his seventies, is recovering from a leg operation and visits the hospital frequently to have his bandages changed. “I’m in pain,” he admits, wincing.

They’ve lost so much, but not each other.

This place. It’s remarkable. And infuriating. People who’ve built lives, worked, raised children, paid taxes, now exposed to every hard edge. That night Cheney and I enter briefly into their community, sleeping in the parking lot. Rain taps on the car roof while I lie awake, listening, thinking about loss. How to guard against it, and how to lean on others when it happens.

As dawn breaks, the women at the rest area gather. Men stretch. Coffee steams in Styrofoam cups. As Cheney and I pull away, I watch the makeshift neighborhood shrink in the rearview mirror, half in shadow, half in light.

The author on the porch of the house in Maine where she lived the summer before her senior year of college.

When we reach Maine, I know that I’ve found what I was looking for with Cheney: a bond reforged. In a thousand fleeting gestures, we’ve recovered our rhythm and ease. My relationship with my country remains complicated, but the America I’ve met on the road is also far more recognizable, resilient, and generous than the noise of now would have us think. Online, we’re a nation of factions. In parking lots and at picnic tables, we’re a nation of encounters. Strangers have offered small gifts freely and with care: a joke that cracks the heat, a baseball cap, a paper cup of fresh orange juice, a story about a stray cat hitching a ride across state lines atop an engine before emerging at a rest stop with a startled meow.

Before ending our trip, Cheney and I step into what feels like a loop of time, detouring to a rambling three-story house where I lived with his father the summer before my senior year in college. We wander around the house, now gutted for renovation, and climb to the second-floor porch overlooking Kenduskeag Stream. I remember sitting there on warm evenings with the man I would marry, imagining the future.

Later we hike the Beehive Loop trail in Acadia National Park, clinging to iron rungs drilled into a cliff face. Sometimes Cheney extends a hand back to help me up. The scramble demands trust—in the metal, the rock, each other—and a willingness to keep moving, even when the next hold is out of sight.

The lesson of the cliff follows me back to the highway. Do I belong in America? The truest answer is: for now. Because belonging is a practice, a choice remade again and again, even as trust frays and the horizon blurs. It means offering what we can, and receiving what comes. Public life doesn’t pause; it unfolds continuously, sometimes violently, and it spills into private life, upsetting our balance. But we can turn our grief into guardrails and keep groping our way forward, one handhold at a time.

Maybe this is what hope looks like today: stopping, listening, recognizing one another. Treating presence itself as a radical act. Deciding, day after day, to remain, to take part.

At the northern terminus of I-95, Cheney and I turn around in his car, heading back toward my home in Brooklyn. Storm clouds gather overhead, the edges rimmed in gold. The highway stretches on with no guarantees, still becoming.

All That Glitters

All That Glitters
His alleged victims say he bribed New York Police Department officials, stole millions in diamonds, and persuaded Floyd Mayweather Jr. and Kim Kardashian to shill for a scam cryptocurrency. So why is Jona Rechnitz still free?

By Miranda Green

The Atavist Magazine, No. 162

Miranda Green is a journalist based in Los Angeles. She was the national investigative reporter at HuffPost and director of investigations at Floodlight News.

Editor: Jonah Ogles
Art Director: Ed Johnson
Copy Editor: Sean Cooper
Fact Checker: Alison Van Houten
Illustrator: Lily Qian

Published in April 2025.

It was like something out of a fairy tale—or the Los Angeles society pages. As a crowd of celebrities and reality-show cast members mingled near displays of diamond jewelry at the five-star Hotel Bel-Air, Beverly Hills plastic surgeon Ben Talei got down on one knee to propose to his girlfriend. “Congratulations!” a bewildered Kim Kardashian said to the couple. Then she looked at the stone. “Come on, now’s your time,” she joked about the ring. “You want it thicker.”

The November 2019 scene, caught on phone cam and later shared with the New York Post, was exactly the kind of spectacle the event’s organizer, Jona Rechnitz, must have hoped for. Rechnitz, the proprietor of a jewelry firm called Jadelle, had put together that evening’s Holiday Diamond Showcase to celebrate his business. Smiling wide, Rechnitz mingled easily with the attendees. Faye Resnick of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills was there, as was Kris Jenner—the event’s official host. Yet Rechnitz didn’t stray far from Kardashian, who graciously accepted requests for selfies throughout the night.

Six-foot-four and 300 pounds, Rechnitz cut an imposing figure, but his dimpled cheeks and engaging eyes made him look younger than his 37 years. It was a face people tended to trust. His company’s profile was growing. That September, Kardashian had worn some of Jadelle’s bling to the Emmys. Jadelle recently announced a partnership with storied handbag brand Judith Leiber, and its jewelry had landed on the cover of Vogue Japan—huge accomplishments for a company that had existed for only two years.

The night was an opportunity to make big-ticket sales and to claim Jadelle’s spot as the go-to jewelry company for the city’s privileged class. Attendees tried on high-carat, multicolored diamond rings, necklaces, and earrings between hors d’oeuvres; a portion of the proceeds was promised to Toys for Tots. The party also marked a successful homecoming for Rechnitz, who had returned from New York to his native Los Angeles to launch Jadelle. His father was there, as were diamond dealers Rechnitz had worked with on both coasts. By all appearances, he was living his best life: he owned a Bugatti, rented an office at a premier Beverly Hills address, and paid $17,000 a month for the estate he lived in with his wife and six children.

Rechnitz’s return to the West Coast, however, was less a fresh start than an escape. In 2016, he had pled guilty in New York City to conspiracy to commit honest services wire fraud, meaning that he had attempted to bribe public officials. When he left New York, he told a judge that he hoped to put his past behind him, to become a better man. Jadelle was his vehicle for doing so, and Los Angeles’s celebrity culture was the fuel, Rechnitz told the judge, that he needed to power his rebirth.

But shortly after the Holiday Diamond Showcase, much about Jadelle’s success would come into question; even the marriage proposal was later revealed to be a stunt. Within months, Rechnitz faced multiple lawsuits for fraud and theft, allegations that he’d taken out multimillion-dollar loans using stolen property as collateral, and accusations that he’d leveraged his celebrity connections to create a false impression of credibility.

Yet, despite a decade of legal troubles, Rechnitz to date has escaped serious consequences. He has yet to spend a single day in prison, even for the New York conviction. In reporting this story, I reviewed thousands of pages of legal documents and spoke to 15 associates, former friends, and lawyers involved in more than a dozen lawsuits against Rechnitz. Many of them think Rechnitz avoided justice because he cooperated with federal authorities in New York, and may still be acting as a government informant—something Rechnitz himself is said to have claimed. Whatever the truth, nothing seems to stick to him.

Chapter 1

Rechnitz was born into an affluent Orthodox Jewish family with roots in California. He attended Yavneh Hebrew Academy, a prestigious private school, and graduated from Yeshiva University Los Angeles High School, in the same class as conservative pundit Ben Shapiro. Rechnitz’s father, Robert, worked as a real estate developer, served as the national finance cochair for Republican senator Lindsey Graham’s 2016 presidential campaign, and was active in American Friends of Likud, a not-for-profit outfit that promotes Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s political party through educational programs. After attending New York’s Yeshiva University, Rechnitz married his girlfriend, Rachel, and followed his dad into real estate. By 2007, he had a job at the U.S. branch of international development firm Africa Israel Investments, owned by Israeli billionaire diamond magnate Lev Leviev. He eventually rose to become the company’s director of acquisitions.

While at Africa Israel Investments, Rechnitz noticed that a client of his had a car with plates marked “Sheriff,” which allowed him to park wherever he wanted—street cleaning, tow-away zones, and handicap signs be damned. The client offered to introduce him to the man who’d provided them, Jeremy Reichberg, an official liaison between the New York Police Department and Borough Park’s Orthodox Jewish community. As luck would have it, Reichberg would soon be hosting a benefit for the NYPD’s football team. Rechnitz spent $5,000 on a ticket to get into a room with the department’s top brass. According to later testimony by Rechnitz, he made an impression on Reichberg. His donation even netted him a plaque from the team.

“It made him look good, made me look good, and we started to become friends,” Rechnitz said in court, according to The New York Times. “I didn’t know many people that had connections with police, growing up in Los Angeles, and I thought this would be an awesome tool for me personally and for my business.” His time with Reichberg also scored him points professionally. When Rechnitz’s boss came into town on a business trip, Reichberg had the police escort Leviev from his private plane.

In 2011, on the verge of turning 30, Rechnitz decided to establish his own real estate firm. He named it JSR Capital, using his initials. Rechnitz rented an office in the heart of the midtown diamond district. It was at JSR that Rechnitz developed a taste for the high life. He’d later testify that he charged more than $1 million annually to his credit cards; one lawyer claimed Rechnitz’s receipts showed that he spent more on tickets to New York Knicks games than he did on his taxes.

Though his real estate company was considered a midlevel firm, Rechnitz spent liberally to forge connections at the police department. The first of many trips he helped finance occurred in February 2013, when he and Reichberg coughed up nearly $60,000 to charter a private jet to fly themselves and two police officials to the Super Bowl in Las Vegas. According to prosecutors, they also bankrolled the group’s stay at the MGM Grand, as well as a female escort who joined them on the plane wearing a sexy stewardess outfit provided by Reichberg. Once home, according to court documents, Rechnitz and Reichberg continued to send gifts to at least one of the officers. In August, they paid part of the hotel bill for that officer’s vacation with his family in Rome. A few months later, the pair bought him a $3,000 watch and paid $6,000 to install railings at his Staten Island home. They even showed up to his house at Christmas—two Hanukkah-celebrating Jews in elf costumes, delivering jewelry and a Nintendo.

It was around this time that Philip Banks III, the top Black official on the force, was promoted to the NYPD’s highest uniformed position, and requested that his protégé, Michael Harrington, move from Brooklyn South to work as his executive officer. It just so happened that Harrington was one of the officers who did favors for Reichberg, and he was happy to satisfy yet another request: introducing Rechnitz and Reichberg to Chief Banks. The three men began dining out twice a month. Rechnitz paid for meals at glitzy Kosher restaurants, and they bought Banks a ring that Rechnitz testified had belonged to Muhammad Ali.

In December 2013, Rechnitz and Reichberg decided to charter another private jet, this time to the Dominican Republic. The guest list included Banks and his longtime friend Norman Seabrook, who was president of the Correction Officers’ Benevolent Association (COBA), a union for New York City’s jail guards. During one especially debauched evening, Rechnitz testified, Seabrook admitted to wishing he’d been more financially successful—he was in crippling mortgage debt. What’s more, he’d recently lost his beloved dog. Distraught and inebriated, he opened up his shirt to show Rechnitz the tattoo of the animal on his chest. “You should be making money,” Rechnitz told him, according to testimony. Seabrook agreed. “It’s time Norman Seabrook got paid,” he responded.

Rechnitz soon connected Seabrook with an old family friend, Murray Huberfeld, founder of a hedge fund called Platinum Partners. Rechnitz’s grandfather and Huberfeld’s father grew up in Poland, and both had survived the Holocaust. Rechnitz had sold Huberfeld apartments on the Upper West Side, and he came to Huberfeld with a new business opportunity: Would Platinum Partners be interested in investments from Seabrook’s union? The only catch, Rechnitz told him, was that Seabrook would have to get a kickback.

Eventually, Seabrook directed $20 million of COBA’s money to the fund, according to court documents. To uphold his side of the deal, Rechnitz needed a way to pay Seabrook. Rechnitz decided he would pull $60,000 from his own savings, then make himself whole by sending fake invoices to Huberfeld for eight pairs of courtside Knicks tickets. He allegedly routed the ticket transaction through a business acquaintance of his, who was later charged for a Ponzi-style ticket-reselling scheme. Now he just needed to get Seabrook the cash. One day in December 2014, Rechnitz visited the Ferragamo store on Fifth Avenue. Emerging with a new men’s handbag, he stuffed $60,000 cash inside and walked a few blocks to an idling SUV where Seabrook was waiting. Little did the men know that law enforcement was watching everything—and the exchange of money would eventually take everyone down.

Everyone, that is, except Jona Rechnitz.

“Rechnitz has been, without exaggeration, one of the single most important and prolific white collar cooperating witnesses in the recent history of the Southern District of New York.”

Over the next two years, investigators questioned more than twenty police officials and charged seven people with crimes ranging from misapplying police resources to conspiracy to commit honest services wire fraud. Eight people associated with Platinum Partners were indicted in a $1 billion investment-fraud enterprise for operating “like a Ponzi scheme,” according to a press release from the U.S. Attorney’s Office for the Eastern District of New York. Rechnitz was facing significant prison time. But according to court records, Rechnitz cut a deal with prosecutors to become a cooperating government witness. Rechnitz subsequently met with the U.S. Attorney’s Office some 80 times. He spilled dirt on his business transactions with Huberfeld and Reichberg, and cooperated with a probe of New York mayor Bill de Blasio’s fundraising practices after testifying that he’d helped raise $100,000 for de Blasio’s 2013 campaign, expecting political favors in return. (Asked about Rechnitz by CBS News, de Blasio called him “a liar and a felon.” De Blasio was not charged.)

The federal case was considered the biggest modern corruption scandal in New York City at the time. In signing the cooperating witness agreement, Rechnitz agreed to plead guilty to the fraud conspiracy charge and to testify against his co-conspirators. Fighting for his freedom, Rechnitz appeared to hold nothing back on the witness stand. Though Rechnitz was facing 20 years in prison, prosecutors nevertheless praised his candor. “Rechnitz has been, without exaggeration, one of the single most important and prolific white collar cooperating witnesses in the recent history of the Southern District of New York,” wrote Assistant U.S. Attorney Martin Bell in a 51-page memo.

As Rechnitz awaited his sentencing, two new realities became apparent. First, he was no longer seen as a macher in his community of God-fearing, family-minded men, but as another of the city’s countless grifters. Second, his name was synonymous with fraud and snitching; who would invest with him now?

And Rechnitz desperately needed income. While he claimed that his real estate firm owned as much as $100 million in property, he faced foreclosure on one of his prime holdings: 32,000 square feet of retail and office space that took up an entire block in the Borough Park neighborhood in Brooklyn. Rechnitz also had mounting legal fees and was facing millions in potential restitution payments to COBA. So Rechnitz did what innumerable dreamers have done: He went west to reinvent himself.

Chapter 2

When Rechnitz returned home to Los Angeles in 2017, he needed a place to live. Finding one was no easy task. The house had to be large enough to fit his family of eight, within walking distance of a reputable synagogue, and owned by someone who wouldn’t slam the door when they looked up his credit or googled his name. To help, Rechnitz turned to the Jewish community. A local real estate broker suggested a home owned by an ER doctor and property investor named Joe Englanoff. At first Englanoff demurred; he’d heard about Rechnitz’s past. But then Englanoff’s father called. “Look, I’ve known Jona’s dad for years,” the elder Englanoff told his son. “We don’t do business, but he made a personal call to me, and if you could find it in your heart to give him a second chance, because he’s trying to move out here to California from New York. He’s really in a bad way. He’s reformed.”

Englanoff offered to rent Rechnitz a house down the street from his own in the coveted Beverlywood neighborhood. The modern Italian-style estate had a pool, waterfall jacuzzi, basketball court, in-ground trampoline, and balcony with city views. The rent was $17,000 a month.

The two men settled into a friendly relationship. Their families saw each other at temple functions and waved hello on the street. Englanoff’s family was charmed by Rechnitz’s generosity and personal touch. After Englanoff’s son mentioned that he liked basketball, Rechnitz showed up at his house with former Celtics forward Paul Pierce.

With his family established in one of L.A.’s trendiest neighborhoods, Rechnitz turned his attention to building his new company, Jadelle Jewelry and Diamonds. The company was registered in late 2017 in Delaware under Rechnitz’s wife’s name. The logo, a butterfly, carried its own significance—the endeavor would be a metamorphosis and a new beginning.

It would take more than a logo to grow the company; Rechnitz needed both gems and clients. Soon, Jadelle was trumpeting its first big get: Former Lakers center Shaquille O’Neal, with dozens of carats of glittering diamonds hanging from his neck, appeared on the company’s Instagram account in June 2018. “Another satisfied client @shaq wearing the Jaddelle [sic] HAMSA proudly,” read the post.

Two weeks later, Jadelle’s account shared a post from celebrity realtor Josh Altman, of Bravo’s Million Dollar Listing. “@jadellejewelry of Beverly Hills got me looking like Mr. T today,” read the caption. “Not sure this is good for my neck.”

One connection Rechnitz made in those early days was Peter Voutsas, who remembered Rechnitz striding into his Rodeo Drive storefront with otherworldly levels of confidence. “He told me, ‘I’ve heard you’re my biggest competition. We should work together on sales, because we have mutual clients,’” said Voutsas, who had never heard of Rechnitz.

At first, Voutsas was skeptical of Rechnitz’s pitch, so he consulted his peers. The network of diamond dealers and wholesalers in L.A. was small and tight-knit. Many of them, like Rechnitz, were Orthodox, and had followed previous generations into the industry. Updates and gossip flowed easily. When Voutsas called several other jewelers whose names Rechnitz had dropped, they vouched for him and told Voutsas that they were impressed by his celebrity clientele. No one had a bad word to say. That was enough for Voutsas, and the two began what Voutsas called a “successful and trusting relationship.”

Jewelry is sold largely on consignment, known as memorandum or memo, and while there is usually a written agreement, paper is only as good as the person behind it. “This is one of the few businesses left on this earth that’s done on handshake, where it’s based on trust,” said Jerry Kroll, a lawyer who handles insurance cases in the industry. It worked like this: Rechnitz would approach Voutsas with clients and ask to take some of Voutsas’s jewelry on memo. Voutsas would tell him how much a piece cost; if Rechnitz sold it for more than that, he kept the difference. If Rechnitz didn’t complete the sale, he returned the item. In short order, the two men did more than thirty successful transactions together, which Voutsas said totaled $39.4 million, and were hobnobbing basketball stars like O’Neal, Scottie Pippen, and Sam Cassell. “At the beginning it was legitimate,” Voutsas told me.

Rechnitz even told Voutsas about a tactic he used to drum up high-net-worth clients: He bought the best seats at basketball games. “If you have front-row seats on the floor or one or two rows back, all you have to do is look to the left or the right and you see famous people,” Voutsas said. There, Rechnitz could mention his businesses and work his charm.

It was at a game, Rechnitz told acquaintances, that he met the man who would become one of his most loyal clients and business partners, boxing legend Floyd Mayweather Jr. Early in Jadelle’s posts, Mayweather appeared in two videos on the company’s Instagram account, wearing hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of gem-encrusted watches and thick gold chain necklaces. “It’s one thing to buy jewelry from @jadellebh but it’s another thing to wear it fashionably,” read one caption that tagged Mayweather. Another post promoted Jadelle’s appearance at a jewelry expo in Miami Beach: “@JadelleBH in MIAMI—By day you can find us at The Original Miami Antique Show… and after dark, we’ll be catering diamonds to our local clients—with #tbe @floydmayweather. Thanks Champ🙏🏼.”

One day in June 2019, Rechnitz told Voutsas that he had a meeting scheduled with the Kardashian sisters at one of their homes. He asked if he could borrow a security guard for the day to protect the jewelry, Voutsas told me. Over the following weeks, Jadelle posted a slew of photos: Kim in a diamond cross necklace, Kylie in a double strand necklace of teardrop diamonds, Khloé with trillion-cut diamond earrings, and Kourtney in heart-shaped diamond studs. It’s unclear whether the Kardashians paid for the jewelry or Rechnitz gifted them the pieces in exchange for posts, but Voutsas said he was paid for the items he’d given to Rechnitz. The social-media campaign brought Jadelle significant celebrity clout—and helped grow its Instagram followers to more than 175,000.

The coup de grâce was an appearance Kim made on the red carpet at the Emmys that year, wearing three layers of diamond chains and a thick cross. Two months later, she was the star of Rechnitz’s Holiday Diamond Showcase. There was just one thing holding Rechnitz back from a future of glitz and glamour: He had to fly back to New York for sentencing.

“I am a changed man,” Rechnitz wrote to U.S. District Court Judge Alvin Hellerstein ahead of his December 2019 sentencing hearing. Rechnitz was facing up to 20 years in prison and millions in restitution.

Rechnitz blamed his actions on his naivete and a work culture that rewarded social climbers. “While living in New York City, I wrongly felt pressure to become a big shot,” he told the judge. “I was in my late twenties, and big people in the real estate industry were dealing with me. My ego was big, and I so badly wanted to impress these people in order to advance my career and profile.”

Family and friends focused on the new, redeemed Rechnitz. His wife, Rachel, promised the judge that her husband had “become a much better, humble, more open and truthful person.” His neighbor and landlord, Joe Englanoff, wrote a letter saying that Rechnitz appeared to be making amends and wanted to leave his past behind. His father, Robert, even tried to accept some of the blame, saying, “It was unfair of me to allow Jona to take so many responsibilities upon himself without my guidance and involvement.”

Judge Hellerstein, however, had followed Rechnitz’s testimony in the other trials and drew his own conclusion. “He cheapens people. He works on their insecurities and their quest for material possessions and just does the opposite. He diminishes people,” Hellerstein wrote in his decision.

Rechnitz’s co-conspirators had already been sentenced. Huberfeld and Reichberg received two and a half and four years in prison, respectively; Seabrook, who took the bribes, was sentenced to nearly five years. Harrington, who had introduced Rechnitz to Chief Banks, was sentenced to two years of probation and 180 hours of community service. (Banks, who appeared to have learned that the feds were closing in and abruptly quit the NYPD a day after investigators applied for a wiretap in the case, was never charged.) In light of those sentences—and how vital Rechnitz had been to the case, according to the assistant U.S. attorney—Hellerstein sentenced Rechnitz to five months in prison and five months’ house arrest, and ordered him to repay as much as $10 million to the union. Rechnitz immediately vowed to appeal and was released on bail. He flew back to Los Angeles and his growing jewelry business.

What’s more, according to court records, Voutsas later got wind that Rechnitz hadn’t sold the jewelry at all, but instead pawned it for a $1 million cash loan.

Peter Voutsas had consigned roughly $7 million worth of jewelry with Rechnitz before the 2019 holidays, including two pieces Voutsas took on memo from another jeweler, David Rovinsky: a 43-carat yellow diamond ring with a $1.9 million price tag, and a 134-carat yellow radiant diamond necklace priced at $1.5 million, according to court filings. Voutsas was told that 16 pieces sold, but by late January 2020 he had yet to be paid for them. What’s more, according to court records, Voutsas later got wind that Rechnitz hadn’t sold the jewelry at all, but instead pawned it for a $1 million cash loan with an interest rate of 6.5 percent per month. On January 21, Voutsas received a series of panicked texts from Rechnitz.

“I’m dealing with a huge crisis now and my dad is at bank trying to sort out issue for me in regards to all this,” Rechnitz texted Voutsas, according to screenshots included in a later lawsuit. “I understand if you never want to deal with me again or see my fave [sic] ever again i’m so sorry.”

As the men texted back and forth, Voutsas learned that other jewelers were hounding Rechnitz for money, too. One of them was Oved Anter, who had consigned seven pieces of jewelry worth $2.8 million to Jadelle, according to a lawsuit Anter later filed. When Anter asked for his money, Rechnitz offered various excuses, and at one point begged for leniency claiming that his mother had suddenly become ill. “Dont say a word paramedics were here. So i’m not in the mood. My siblings dont know. She had a blood clot. Please,” he texted Anter. But by then, Anter had begun to doubt everything Rechnitz told him. “You already use that excuse a few days ago with somebody else,” he responded.

Four days later, Rechnitz texted Voutsas, asking him to keep quiet about any issues between them—particularly since another jeweler had flown in to check on his own diamonds: “I also have Moty Klein in town at the same time while this is all going on which is extra stress as he can’t hear any of this.” Klein, whose name is spelled Moti, was one of the owners of Julius Klein Diamonds, which shared the same office building as JSR Capital in New York. Even after Rechnitz’s criminal conviction, Klein’s son had consigned several jewelry pieces with Rechnitz at the holiday showcase. Now Klein wanted his money, as did David Rovinsky, the jeweler whose pieces Voutsas had loaned to Rechnitz.

On March 18, 2020, Rovinsky sued Voutsas for loaning his jewelry to a known felon. The two settled and in April 2020 filed a joint suit against Rechnitz, claiming that he had stolen jewelry worth $7 million. Anter filed his own suit in June. Each lawsuit echoed the other: stories of early sales followed by bounced checks and pawned jewelry. In his suit, Anter referred to the ordeal as one of “Jona Rechnitz’s blazing trail of Ponzi scheme frauds.”

In fact, according to a separate lawsuit brought by real estate investor Victor Franco Noval, Rechnitz had been bankrolling his company for at least a year on borrowed money. The suit alleged that, in January 2019, Rechnitz had taken out a sizable loan with an astronomical interest rate in Jadelle’s name. He borrowed the money from Noval, who was trying to sell one of the most coveted plots of land in Beverly Hills, known as the Mountain, for $1 billion. In an email exchange coordinated by his lawyer, Noval told me that he was introduced to Rechnitz through their fathers, who worked in real estate. Shortly after, according to Noval’s suit, he gave Rechnitz a $2.9 million loan with a 9 percent monthly interest rate. As collateral, Rechnitz handed over diamonds valued at more than $7 million and a 2012 Bugatti worth $400,000. But in his lawsuit, Noval claimed that by the end of the year, Rechnitz had failed to make any payments on his loan and his debt had ballooned to $5.8 million.

Just weeks after Rechnitz was formally sentenced in New York, according to Noval’s suit, Rechnitz asked Noval’s brother if he could sell the jewelry he’d used as collateral at an upcoming trunk show; whatever profit he made from sales would pay down the loan. Noval allowed Rechnitz to retake ownership of the jewelry pieces for one day, and in exchange Rechnitz wrote two checks, for $2.5 million and $1.3 million.

The day after the trunk show, Noval’s brother went to Rechnitz’s office to collect the jewelry, only to be told that Rechnitz had an interested buyer and wanted to keep the pieces. When Noval tried to cash Rechnitz’s checks, they bounced. Noval filed a report with the Beverly Hills Police Department alleging that he’d been “swindled and defrauded.” A month later, Noval filed his suit against Rechnitz. In it he stated that he believed Rechnitz wasn’t the legitimate owner of the diamonds he’d used as collateral; he suspected that they, too, were on loan.

Noval’s suit claimed that Rechnitz had acted as if he was impervious to criminal convictions, and it blamed his attitude on Rechnitz’s cooperation with federal authorities in New York. “Rechnitz mistakenly believes that this provides him immunity from committing fraud in California,” it read. “The fact that Jona only received 10 months custody time with 5 months house arrest has only emboldened him to commit more fraud, grand theft, and to issue worthless instruments.” Rechnitz and his wife both pled the fifth, declining to provide their side of the story for the record during the proceedings.

In April, Noval joined Voutsas and Anter in filing an involuntary bankruptcy suit against Jadelle Jewelry and Diamonds in an effort to liquidate the company’s assets and recoup some of their money. As proceedings continued into the summer, a motion was filed by an unexpected third party—the Department of Justice. Government attorneys submitted a request for a limited stay of discovery in the trial, arguing that it could jeopardize “parallel civil and criminal” FBI and IRS investigations into Noval “and associates.”

“The government believes that its investigations would be severely compromised if discovery into matters under criminal investigation were permitted, as it would likely reveal sensitive facts,” the filing read. (Additional details were sealed; a judge denied The Atavist’s request to unseal the documents.)

The motion revealed that Noval may have financed real estate transactions and development, including the Mountain, with money stolen from the government of Kuwait and transferred from a bank identified as “AUB” into California accounts. “Based on the government’s present investigation, some or all of the funds for the Noval-Jadelle Transfers appear to be traceable to the AUB Transfers,” the attorneys wrote in the public filing. (Noval’s attorney said that no criminal charges were filed, and the government told him that any criminal investigation related to the properties has been closed.)

The motion also announced that the FBI was separately investigating “the alleged theft or taking by fraud of millions of dollars in diamonds while on consignment with Jadelle.” Agents had recently obtained 31 pieces of jewelry believed reported stolen by jewelers. The pieces were confiscated from the home of a person identified by the initials TT; Fish and Wildlife Service agents had raided TT’s home earlier that month looking for two endangered ring-tailed lemurs, which are illegal to own in the U.S. For those suing Rechnitz, the DOJ’s motion gave them some hope that authorities were looking into Rechnitz’s business in California. But no charges have been filed against Rechnitz for the allegedly stolen jewelry.

Ultimately, the judge denied the DOJ’s request for a stay, arguing that there was no cause to grant it. And after months of legal filings, the trustee appointed to oversee the bankruptcy case moved to dismiss, because it was unlikely to generate any financial recoveries. Instead, the trustee accepted a settlement of $215,000. Noval, Anter, and Voutsas objected, arguing that “rather than proceed with the pursuit of tens of millions of dollars of potentially avoidable and recoverable transfers, the Trustee instead has capitulated and decided to do a deal with the devil, in the process allowing Jona Rechnitz, the perpetrator of this massive fraud, to buy his way out of this case.” The judge dismissed the case anyway.

Voutsas’s and Rovinsky’s case was ultimately settled, and Anter withdrew his suit. (His lawyer said he could not disclose the reason for withdrawing it.) Despite those victories, Rechnitz’s troubles continued to mount. Three more companies sued him for fraud from mid-2020 to early 2021. In all, the six lawsuits against Rechnitz asserted that he owed more than $15.5 million. L.A.’s diamond industry had by now largely blacklisted him, and it seemed as if Jadelle’s reputation was finished. One day in September 2020, Jadelle posted an Instagram photo of musician Justin Bieber wearing its jewels. The caption mentioned “ups and downs.” “We keep pushing and are here to stay. We shall prevail. Love always wins. Thank you to our customers and your loyalty. ❤️,” it read. The day after that post, Jadelle’s Instagram went quiet.

Then, in the spring of 2021, Rechnitz announced a new venture—one that would bring him into the highest echelons of the sporting world.

Chapter 3

On May 5, 2021, Rechnitz called Joe Englanoff, his neighbor and landlord, with a proposition. He was working with Floyd Mayweather to organize a fight against YouTuber Logan Paul. Though Mayweather retired in 2017 with a 50-0 record, the 44-year-old had recently agreed to an unsanctioned fight with the 26-year-old Paul. Rechnitz was now considered part of Mayweather’s entourage, called the Money Team. He’d traded his suits for black T-shirts, “TMT” baseball caps.

“He said to me, ‘You know, I just got off the phone with Floyd, and we have this wonderful opportunity to buy these tickets,’ ” Englanoff told me. If Englanoff fronted some money—about a million dollars—Rechnitz could sell the tickets for up to ten times the face value; Englanoff would get his money back plus 25 percent of the profits. Rechnitz had introduced Englanoff to Mayweather. In fact, Englanoff tried to sell a Bel Air property to the boxer. In 2019, he visited Mayweather’s home in Las Vegas, and joined Rechnitz on a private flight to the Super Bowl aboard Mayweather’s jet. (The boxer did not join them.) Englanoff felt comfortable enough to invest $1.4 million, with Rechnitz acting as Mayweather’s agent.

In June, Englanoff flew to Miami for the fight. When Mayweather stepped into the ring at the Hard Rock Stadium to shake Paul’s hand, he wore a T-shirt bearing the red logo of EthereumMax, a new cryptocurrency Rechnitz was helping to market. The fighter told reporters that he was paid $30 million to wear the logo on his shorts. (According to a press release, EthereumMax would be the “exclusive cryptocurrency accepted for online ticket purchasing for the highly anticipated Floyd Mayweather vs. Logan Paul Pay-Per-View event.”) The match went the full eight rounds and no winner was declared, but that barely mattered: Mayweather reportedly made as much as $25 million from the event. After the fight, Englanoff joined Rechnitz in a hotel room, where Rechnitz sat at a desk tallying bricks of cash, surrounded by armed guards. In one corner, men operated whirring cash counters. “There was money everywhere,” Englanoff told me.

According to the lawsuit Englanoff later filed, things soon began to unravel. Weeks after the fight, Englanoff still hadn’t received a penny for the tickets. At the end of June, nearly a month after the fact, Rechnitz met with Englanoff in person and said that there had been a change of plans: The team reinvested Englanoff’s profits into an August exhibition fight between Yordenis Ugás and Manny Pacquiao in Las Vegas. Rechnitz told Englanoff not to worry, he would now make even more money.

Englanoff didn’t want assurances—he demanded to be paid the amount he was promised. According to the suit Englanoff later filed, Rechnitz agreed to send Englanoff a wire for the profits, and one of his partners would send a check for the original investment. Neither materialized. “Instead,” the suit read, “a series of false statements and excuses began.” First, Rechnitz claimed to be in Hawaii, and said that the wire didn’t come through “because of the different cut-off times.” Then Rechnitz claimed that his account had been locked because of fraud. On July 23, nearly two months after the Mayweather fight, Rechnitz wrote Englanoff a check for $100,000, calling it a “religious act and gesture.”

Eventually, according to the lawsuit, they reached a written agreement: Englanoff would agree to invest in the second fight and receive at least $4.9 million no later than September 6. But when the day came, Rechnitz had bad news: Sales for the event were lower than anticipated. Still, according to the lawsuit, he promised Englanoff $5.7 million within ten days. Again the money didn’t arrive. According to the suit, Rechnitz dispatched his father, Robert, to reassure Englanoff. On the phone, the elder Rechnitz said that he had invested in the tickets himself, and assured Englanoff that his son was good for the money. Englanoff said he told him: “Your son’s running a Ponzi scheme.”

The next day, Rechnitz wired Englanoff another $100,000, calling it an “act of good faith,” according to the suit. Rechnitz followed up with an in-person meeting with his father at Englanoff’s home later that week. There the Rechnitzes said that they had great news. They had reinvested Englanoff’s money into a third match between Tyson Fury and Deontay Wilder scheduled for October, and would pay Englanoff a total of $5.8 million, according to the suit. Robert Rechnitz personally guaranteed the full payment. He put his hand on a Torah to drive home the point. But that fight, too, failed to meet financial expectations, according to the suit. Rechnitz reinvested Englanoff’s money in a fourth fight. By then Englanoff no longer believed he’d ever recoup his investment.

But as it turned out, Rechnitz was facing another problem: EthereumMax, the cryptocurrency he’d helped promote during the fights, had gone belly-up—and was about to come under investigation.

EthereumMax launched on May 14, 2021, with copious celebrity endorsements, including Mayweather, Paul Pierce, and Kim Kardashian. Just two weeks after EthereumMax was unveiled, Pierce tweeted that he had made more money since the cryptocurrency’s launch than he had as a commentator for ESPN all year. Tampa Bay Buccaneers wide receiver Antonio Brown promoted it on Instagram three days later. That same week, Miami’s Liv and Story nightclubs announced that they would begin accepting crypto as payment—but only EthereumMax. Kardashian shared the announcement on her Instagram.

Despite the hype, EthereumMax lost 93 percent of its value in just two months. In January 2022, ten plaintiffs filed a lawsuit against the company for making false or misleading statements to investors through social-media advertisements that disguised their control over a large percentage of the tokens. “It just stood out as one of the most egregious examples of a crypto scam,” said John Jasnoch, the plaintiffs’ lawyer, when I interviewed him. According to the class action lawsuit, Rechnitz had been instrumental in drumming up publicity for the currency. “EthereumMax’s entire business model relies on using constant marketing and promotional activities, often from ‘trusted’ celebrities, to dupe potential investors into trusting the financial opportunities available with EMAX Tokens,” the lawsuit claimed. “Rechnitz provided … access to several high-profile celebrities that were willing to tout EMAX Tokens in exchange for under-the-table payments.”

The lawsuit alleged that Rechnitz had made hundreds of thousands of dollars from liquidating his EMAX tokens when he knew that promotions were going to drive up the currency’s value. It also said that Mayweather was paid $2.5 million as a “marquee promoter.” (This wasn’t Mayweather’s first brush with crypto, or with legal trouble for promoting it. He’d was fined $615,000 in 2018 for promoting Initial Coin Offerings, another blockchain currency, with DJ Khaled.)

This time the federal government intervened. The Securities and Exchange Commission brought charges against Pierce and Kardashian in 2022, and announced settlements with each—for $1.4 million and $1.26 million, respectively. Neither Mayweather nor Rechnitz were fined by the SEC. Investigators there declined to comment for this story, and wouldn’t confirm whether any investigations into Rechnitz or Mayweather were ongoing.

As Englanoff’s family exited, Rechnitz stared at Englanoff’s 15-year-old son, made a threatening gesture, and yelled, “Do you have something to say to me?”

After eight months of waiting for his money, Englanoff filed a February 2022 lawsuit against Rechnitz and Mayweather for breach of contract, asking for $15 million. Less than a week later, Englanoff claims, he and his family began receiving threats. On February 7, Englanoff parked his Tesla outside his office and tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. “I look up and there’s this really big, like six-foot-five thug, and behind him is a second guy, and they said, ‘We’re sent here by Jona. You’re fucking with the wrong guy,’ ” Englanoff told me. (He subsequently made the same claim when applying for a restraining order against Rechnitz.)

In mid-June, Rechnitz filed his own lawsuit against Englanoff, alleging that Rechnitz had been defrauded because Englanoff’s house was in poorer condition than originally stated. (Englanoff had filed a petition to evict Rechnitz from the property.) Two weeks later, Englanoff said, Rechnitz approached him on their street and made what Englanoff considered a blatant threat. “He said, ‘Either you drop the case against me or I’m going to bring up this whole thing about you being a tax cheat,’ ” Englanoff told me. “And I said, ‘Jona, it’s not true. It’s not even close to true.’ His response to me was, ‘Who cares about truth? Once I get your good name through the mud, try and get [it] back. You’ll never get the genie back in the bottle.’ ” (Englanoff reported the incident to the FBI. Rechnitz did not respond to a request for comment on this or any other allegations reported in this story.)

Where once the Englanoffs and Rechnitzes had waved to each other on the street, now every interaction was heated. The feud continued undiminished for nearly a year. In the spring of 2023, Englanoff’s wife was shooting video of the house rented by Rechnitz when he approached her car and began arguing, according to a restraining order request she later filed.

“Now I’m gonna turn ugly quick,” Rechnitz allegedly said.

“Oh, like you haven’t yet,” she responded.

“Oh, you are about to see, I’ve been holding back. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Uh ha, that sounds like a threat, sweety,” said Englanoff’s wife.

To which Rechnitz allegedly responded: “It is a threat!”

Finally, on June 14, 2023, an incident sent the two families over the edge. That night, Englanoff was out having dinner with his family for his mother’s birthday when he saw Rechnitz at the same restaurant. As Englanoff’s family were leaving, Rechnitz stared at Englanoff’s 15-year-old son, made a threatening gesture, and yelled, “Do you have something to say to me?” according to a request for a permanent restraining order filed by Englanoff’s wife the day after the confrontation. In the request, she cited the threats made to her family, writing that Rechnitz “knows dangerous and violent people” who were “not afraid to cause harm to people.” She also noted that her husband had spoken to the FBI about the harassment.

Rechnitz offered an alternative version of events in a statement he gave the court, claiming that the teenager had made faces at him throughout dinner. “It appeared that the Englanoffs had enlisted the teenager to vex me and cause an incident to erupt,” he wrote. (Englanoff briefly received a temporary restraining order. In July 2023, a separate request for a long-term restraining order filed by Englanoff’s wife was dismissed without prejudice when neither party appeared for a hearing. After an August 2023 hearing for Englanoff’s request for a long-term restraining order, a judge ruled that he had “failed to sustain [his]burden of proof,” ordered him to pay $15,000 in legal fees to Rechnitz, and dissolved the temporary restraining order.)

On the same day as the restaurant confrontation, a bizarre YouTube video of Englanoff had appeared online. It was titled “Exposing LA’s Biggest Tax Cheat,” and was produced by an influencer named Spencer Cornelia, whose channel has more than half a million subscribers. Most of Cornelia’s more than 500 videos focus on juicy celebrity lawsuits and wily scams. The ten-minute clip about Englanoff, which as of this writing had more than 116,000 views, argued that Englanoff illegally claimed he resided in Nevada to avoid paying state income tax. (Englanoff denied these allegations and told me that he offered to show Cornelia his tax records.)

It wasn’t the first video Cornelia posted about Englanoff—it was the replacement. The first, still viewable on the media-sharing platform Rumble, was about Englanoff’s lawsuit against Mayweather for the proceeds from the fight tickets. After Cornelia uploaded it, he got a call from Rechnitz. “The defendants in the case reached out to me and said, ‘Hold on, everything in that lawsuit is false, and here’s the proof,’ ” Cornelia told me. “That led me down a pathway of looking into Englanoff and making a video on him.” Cornelia uploaded the new video and then did something he said he’d never done before: He registered multiple URLs incorporating Englanoff’s and his wife’s names and embedded the YouTube video on them. He denied that Rechnitz paid him to do so, but Cornelia told me, “Admittedly, I’ve hung out with Jona a couple times.”

That September, Englanoff told me, he was followed as he and his wife drove to a sushi restaurant in the San Fernando Valley. Halfway through their meal, Englanoff told me, two large men walked into the restaurant and threatened him. “They started screaming at me, ‘Hey, you tax cheat. Hey, Floyd’s gonna fuck you up. Jona’s gonna fuck you up,’ ” Englanoff said. “I take my phone and I flip it on them, and it’s kind of like turning on the lights on cockroaches—they start to scatter and get out of there.” (Englanoff showed me soundless security footage in which the men left once Englanoff started filming them, retreating to a black SUV outside.)

Ten days later, Englanoff says, his 20-year-old daughter was approached by a man in the parking lot outside her doctor’s office. She called her father, terrified. To Englanoff the message was clear: We can get at your kids.

Englanoff reported both incidents to the FBI and provided the license plate of the SUV in the restaurant footage. He said that two FBI agents came to his home to interview his family and told him that a recent federal law against cyberbullying might be applicable. Later, an agent sent Englanoff a photo and asked his daughter if it was the the man who’d approached her. She said that it looked like him, but Englanoff has yet to hear anything more from the agency. (The FBI declined to comment.)

In the summer of 2023, something rare happened to Jona Rechnitz: He lost in court. In June, a judge granted $17.7 million plus interest to Noval, the real estate developer. “Ultimately the jewelry was never returned, and the loan was not repaid,” the judge wrote in his decision. He concluded: “There is no doubt in the court’s mind that the jewelry was taken by fraud.”

The victory seemed to pierce what Rechnitz’s alleged victims had come to believe was his impenetrable veneer. But Noval still had to collect the money, and Rechnitz claimed that he didn’t have it. Noval and his lawyer needed to file subpoenas to prove that Rechnitz was wrong—but doing so would take time and a lot of money.

Enter Joe Englanoff. By October 2023, Rechnitz had finally moved out of the Beverlywood house, but Englanoff was still waiting for a trial date for his own lawsuit. He and Noval shared the same lawyer, who now approached Englanoff with a proposition: Instead of waiting on his own judgment—and for Noval to be paid first—Englanoff could buy a controlling interest in the Noval settlement. Noval was tied up in his own legal battles with the federal government, but Englanoff had money to spare. The two hammered out an agreement. Englanoff registered a company to be the official party to the judgment, entitling him to any money collected from Rechnitz. He tauntingly named it Pay Up JR.

Since then, Englanoff’s team has received hundreds of pages in subpoenaed bank accounts associated with Rechnitz. Statements from September 2022 to September 2023 show payments to LLCs that Englanoff’s legal team says can be tied to Rechnitz, including $7.6 million from billionaire Robert Smith, who is producing a documentary series on Mayweather, and nearly $6 million paid to a company called Mayweather Promotions. The records also show payments totaling $680,000 to Rachel’s father. The bank statements from that year alone reveal transactions totaling tens of millions of dollars—more than enough to pay what the court ordered.

As Englanoff continues his efforts to recoup his money, two new lawsuits alleging Rechnitz’s involvement in fraudulent schemes were filed in the past nine months. The first, by Miami jeweler Leonard Sulaymanov against Mayweather, the rapper Tyga, and Mayweather’s Money Team, claimed that Rechnitz represented himself as Mayweather’s exclusive agent in a scheme to take watches and jewelry worth $4.15 million without paying a full or fair price. Though the lawsuit alleged that Mayweather posted images of himself wearing the jewelry on his social-media account, the jeweler claimed that he was never paid. (The case was voluntarily terminated in December 2024.)

The second suit, filed on behalf of a Miami digital artist named Jayson Winer, alleged that Rechnitz and his associates promised they could get Mayweather to use his close ties with billionaire Elon Musk to persuade the tech mogul to purchase Winer’s art and to reverse a shadow ban on his posts on X. (Rechnitz told Winer that Mayweather trained Musk for a much-hyped boxing match with Meta’s Mark Zuckerberg that never materialized.) All it would cost, Rechnitz told Winer, according to the suit, was several million dollars.

As it happened, Winer worked at Platinum Partners in New York around the same time Rechnitz helped illegally transfer funds there from COBA. Despite Rechnitz’s reputation, Winer told me, he initially trusted him. If Rechnitz knew a boxing champ, why not a billionaire? Winer said that he only came to believe it was a scam when the duo kept asking for more money up front without connecting him with Musk. In his response, Rechnitz admitted that he’d told Winer that Mayweather could arrange a call with Musk about Winer’s collection for a price, but denied any wrongdoing. (Mayweather did not respond to requests for comment.)

Instead, Rechnitz filed a counterclaim arguing that Winer failed to pay for services rendered by Mayweather. “To feed his celebrity obsession, Winer promised funds he knew he did not have for the chance to make himself and his ‘art’ known to Musk,” the counterclaim alleged. It went on to say that Winer “launched a scorched-earth defamation campaign falsely accusing Counter-Plaintiff Jona Rechnitz of extorting him.” The suit is ongoing.

Chapter 4

Though it has been nine years since Rechnitz pled guilty in the New York COBA case, he has yet to serve any time in prison—even as his co-conspirators were given years. In July 2023, he successfully overturned his 2019 sentence of five months in that case when a court ruled that Judge Hellerstein should have recused himself because he had a close relationship with a witness in a related case. Sentencing was reassigned to Judge Katherine Polk Failla, who ruled in October 2024 that Rechnitz only owed the correctional officers’ union $891,000—some $9 million less than in the judgment handed down by Hellerstein. But Failla has yet to rule on how much prison time Rechnitz will serve; she delayed the hearing eight times over the course of two years. The next date is set for June 2025, though most believe that it, too, will be deferred.

“Jona’s pretty much judgment-proof. He is the Jewish John Gotti,” said Andrew Smith, the lawyer representing the Miami jeweler who sold the watches to Mayweather and Tyga. “He gets charges brought against him. Then he turns out to be a confidential informant and he gets charges relaxed.”

The delays and inaction have led many to believe that Rechnitz may be protected by authorities. Several jewelers say Rechnitz claimed not only that he was a prolific government informant in New York—but that he was still working in that capacity.

Smith believes that the clearest indication that Rechnitz has some sort of influence with the government is that he has yet to be sentenced in the COBA case. “Jona robbed the New York City corrections officers pension fund. I mean, that’s as bad as stealing from the FBI, right?” said Smith. “You don’t get indicted, take a plea in 2016, and not get sentenced for nine years,” said Smith. “It doesn’t happen.”

The delays have incensed those who sued Rechnitz, many of whom wonder how he managed to escape prison time and further criminal indictments for years. “Rechnitz, a serial informant for the Justice Department, appears to believe that he can defraud victims with impunity, relying on his relationship with the Government to protect him from liability,” Winer’s January lawsuit read.

There have been at least 13 suits filed against Rechnitz or his companies since he moved to Los Angeles, but the courts have only ruled against him in two of them. Others were quietly settled. The EthereumMax class action has a trial date scheduled for January 2026. Englanoff lost his case against Mayweather last summer—the jury didn’t find sufficient evidence that Englanoff had entered into a contract with Mayweather’s production company. But a trial date against Rechnitz and other listed co-conspirators is set for July 2025.

For now Rechnitz remains free, and his alleged victims are left to commiserate with one another over a shared WhatsApp chat where they monitor what Rechnitz and Mayweather have been up to through social media and online articles and videos. The two met with injured Israeli Defense Force soldiers in Jerusalem last October; they were seen courtside at an L.A. Clippers game in early March; and Mayweather even thanked his “close friend” Rechnitz on a recent Fox Business appearance promoting a new line of workout supplements.

The FBI has not charged Rechnitz with any additional crimes. Some hope that will change soon. In January, Winer told me, two district attorneys flew to Miami to interview him about his lawsuit, with an FBI agent joining via Zoom. The Department of Justice then subpoenaed Winer to provide documents before a grand jury in Los Angeles at the end of February as part of a criminal investigation being conducted by the DOJ’s Criminal Division, Fraud Section, according to a copy of the subpoena obtained by The Atavist. But federal grand jury proceedings are secretive, and the government won’t comment on them—or even confirm their existence.

Several jewelers say Rechnitz claimed not only that he was a prolific government informant in New York—but that he was still working in that capacity.

“I cannot go on record,” Jona Rechnitz told me when I first spoke to him last summer. “I am a government witness, and I cannot be making public statements.” But, he added, he’d been thinking about talking anyway: “I did my homework on you. And because you’re an independent and you’re not controlled by anyone, that’s why I said, ‘You know what? Maybe I will actually take her call and respond to her.’ ”

We agreed to meet at Lamalo, a Kosher restaurant near Beverlywood. When I followed up by text the day before, he replied: “I think I have Covid! I’m getting tested if I’m ok then yes.” He texted later to say that, indeed, he was sick. We rescheduled for mid-August, only for Rechnitz to text me the weekend before that he was traveling and could no longer make it. We agreed to a time two weeks from then, but again he canceled. The fourth time we were supposed to meet, he texted me that morning, explaining that his flight had been canceled and it would have to wait until the following week. When I asked him for a new date, he didn’t respond.

I eventually did speak to Rechnitz face-to-face. After spending weeks at the small Santa Monica courthouse for the ongoing Pay Up JR lawsuit, I had all but abandoned hope that Rechnitz would ever appear. But as I sat amid the fold-down seats of the damp courtroom one foggy Monday morning, in he strode with his wife, Starbucks cup in hand. Rechnitz was dressed in a black T-shirt, black jeans, and black Vans. Rachel carried a plush Chanel bag. Englanoff followed shortly after, dressed in a suit, quiet and subdued. The Rechnitzes said little as their lawyer fought attempts by Englanoff’s team to force the release of more of Jadelle’s financial records.

I caught up to Rechnitz afterward and introduced myself. Towering over me, he smiled, as if we’d already met dozens of times. He waved off his worried lawyer, who cautioned him against speaking with me, and took me aside in the hallway. He asked me if Englanoff had said anything to me. I shrugged. “He won’t. He’s a tax cheat and has much too much to hide,” Rechnitz said. “Have you seen the videos about him? I’ll send you the link.” He promised me he’d be available following Yom Kippur; he had a lot to tell me. But after a few more days of fruitless texts, I lost hope of ever getting a sit-down interview. (While Rechnitz initially agreed to answer questions during the fact-check process for this story, he ignored a detailed list sent both by email and by text.)

The first time we spoke, last summer, Rechnitz did offer brief explanations for the more than a dozen lawsuits filed against him or Jadelle. The jewelry he had taken on memo from various jewelers back in 2019? He says his office was robbed. “That was a lot of merchandise, OK, but I wasn’t allowed to tell anybody, because it was an active police investigation, FBI investigation,” Rechnitz told me. But he didn’t clarify the alleged date of theft or provide proof that he’d filed a police report. (The Beverly Hills Police Department said that it had no record of any theft complaint by Rechnitz between December 2019 and August 2020. The FBI wouldn’t comment.)

Furthermore, he claimed he had proof of his innocence: The U.S. Attorney had called him a “victim” in a letter. But when I found the letter in question, written by Assistant U.S. Attorney Joseph Axelrad, it did not include the word victim. Instead, it read: “The United States Attorney’s Office for the Central District of California (‘USAO’) has informed you that, based on the USAO’s current investigation and information known as of this date, Jona Rechnitz is considered a witness in any investigation relating to Jadelle Jewelry.”

Before we ended our call, Rechnitz told me that my article was focusing on the wrong angle. “Your real story is how shady the diamond district is,” Rechnitz said. “They’re all bullshitters hiding behind beards and yarmulkes.”

CLARIFICATION: After publication, the Atavist learned that the Englanoffs filed a second restraining order request that was denied after a hearing. The story has been updated to reflect that information.

The Crash of the Hammer

_The Crash _{of the} Hammer

^{How concerned citizens} ran a neo-Nazi _{out of rural Maine.}

_By Mira Ptacin

The Atavist Magazine, No. 156

Mira Ptacin is a literary journalist, memoirist, ghostwriter, editor, and professor of creative writing. She is the author of the award-winning memoir Poor Your Soul and of The In-Betweens: The Spiritualists, Mediums, and Legends of Camp Etna. Her writing has appeared in The New York Times, Vogue, Poets & Writers, Harper’s, Tin House, Lit Hub, and other publications. She lives on Peaks Island, Maine, and is currently at work on her next book.

Editor: Seyward Darby
Art Director: Ed Johnson
Copy Editor: Sean Cooper
Fact Checker: Kyla Jones
Photographer: Greta Rybus

Published in October 2024.

^{45.371120°N,} _68.155465°W

The first step in establishing a neo-Nazi compound is to clear and level the land. These sites tend to pop up in rural America, which means that there’s brush to hack down, tree stumps to pull up, and piles of debris to burn. All this work is done to make room for the barracks, kitchens, and meeting halls where modern-day devotees of Adolf Hitler will live, work, and train together.

When Christopher Pohlhaus moved to the forested lot where, like other neo-Nazis on other forested lots before him, he planned to start a fascist revolution, he brought two RVs with him. That meant he had somewhere to bunk down at night. But he didn’t have running water. I can’t say how he bathed when he first arrived; as for other matters of hygiene, perhaps he used the woods.

Pohlhaus’s parcel of 10.6 acres does not have an address. Technically, it’s in Springfield, Maine, a hamlet of fewer than 300 people. The closest city, about an hour’s drive away, is Bangor. That’s where Pohlhaus, a gym rat, eventually joined Planet Fitness. To get home after a session of lifting, showering, and doing whatever else he needed to do, Pohlhaus would take Route 2 north, then turn eastward on Route 6. He would drive to Bottle Lake Road, take a right, and drive about two miles before taking another right on a gravel lane called Moores Road. Eventually, among scattered hunting camps, Trump banners, and “Support the Blue” signs, he would come to a metal gate situated on a dirt road. Behind the gate sat the land of Pohlhaus’s dreams.

Pohlhaus, 37, is a former U.S. marine, an itinerant tattoo artist, and a hardcore white-supremacist influencer. He is loud and hostile, and proud to be both. His voice is pitched surprisingly high, and he has a slight Southern drawl. He has a large body and small bald head; a blue-black tattoo crawls up the right side of his face, from his chin to his forehead. Over the years, Pohlhaus has collected thousands of social media followers, who know him by his nickname: Hammer.

Hammer had been living in Texas for a few years when, in March 2022, he bought the land in Maine. He told his followers that he was going to use it to build a haven, operational center, and training ground for white supremacists. He invited them to join him. Together, he said, they would plant the seed of a white ethnostate, and they would engage in violence, if necessary, to nurture it. “An unarmed man sacrifices his family to the unpredictably [sic] of chaos,” Hammer wrote online in 2021.

Hammer packed his bags and headed north, meeting with various white supremacists along the way. He solicited donations for his new compound in the form of cryptocurrency, and later set up a page on GiveSendGo, a Christian crowdfunding site. He raised close to $10,000 before the campaign was shut down earlier this year.

Once he’d settled in Maine, Hammer kept his followers abreast of his progress breaking ground, frequently posting photos and uploading videos to Telegram. There was Hammer standing next to a pile of freshly chopped wood, snowshoeing through the forest, holding a beer in front of a bonfire. Followers saw him cradling an AK-47 in his arms. (Caption: “All this Slavic war training in the Maine woods has me exhausted!”) Hammer posted footage from a celebration he held with about eight of his followers, where he claimed they sacrificed a goat. Another clip showed Hammer helping a man in a balaclava slice the palm of his hand as part of an initiation ritual.

Hammer appeared excited, optimistic. He was careful—or thought that he was careful—not to reveal his exact location, lest it attract unwanted attention from his enemies, including the media and the FBI. If people wanted to join him at the compound, they could get in touch directly.

But unbeknownst to Hammer, he was being followed. A longtime Mainer was determined to wipe the smirk off the neo-Nazi’s face. Indeed, he hoped to run Hammer out of the state for good.

Maine has fewer than two million residents, most of whom live on a mainland about the size of Ireland. Others, myself included, live on one of the state’s 4,000-plus islands flecking the Atlantic Ocean. Maine is a place of independence and modesty, of irreligious Catholics and liberal conservatives, where the unofficial slogan is “The Way Life Should Be.” It is the country’s number one supplier of blueberries and lobsters, and home to the world’s leading provider of genetically engineered mice. The state’s rocky, rolling landscape is a point of pride—billboards are banned, lest they sully the views from Maine’s roads.

Maine is also the grayest state in America, with a median age of 45. It tends to attract retirees and to retain older residents. One of those residents is Crash Barry. Crash, 56, is a lot of things: a homesteader, a lumberjack, a rabble-rouser. In past lives, he was a McDonald’s grill cook, a clerk at a health-food store, an alpaca herdsman, and a janitor. He is tall and broad-shouldered, with soft eyes and hair the color of rain clouds. In the summer he wears paisley Crocs, size 12, when he isn’t barefoot, which he prefers to be. He is gritty and clever, and speaks in sweeping, unfiltered paragraphs.

Above all Crash is a storyteller. Years ago, for a magazine called The Bollard, he wrote “One Maniac’s Meat,” a series of essays in which he waxed with affection and dark humor about his quest to live more closely with nature. He has authored several books, including the novel Sex, Drugs & Blueberries. (Amazon synopsis: “Failed Portland rocker Ben Franklin moves Down East with his poet wife to start a new life. Desperate for cash, Ben signs on for the Maine blueberry harvest where he’s lured into a seamy world of sex and drugs that could lead to his downfall.”) Crash has also published a memoir, Tough Island, which recounts the years he spent 20 miles out to sea on Matinicus, Maine’s most remote inhabited island, working as a sternman on a lobster boat with “resourceful individuals and scoundrels.”

I first met Crash about a decade ago, when we were both invited to compete in a live storytelling event in Portland called Literary Death Match. He arrived with a large wicker basket filled with cannabis, which he’d cultivated himself. This wasn’t to bribe the judges. Crash just wanted to share his harvest, spread the love. He handed the basket to a person in the front row and invited everyone to take a bud and pass the rest along. He was a force on stage, both in stature and in performance—he has the physicality you’d expect of someone who works in the woods, and he has a background in improv comedy. By the time Crash finished presenting the story he’d prepared for the event, the basket of weed was empty.

These days, Crash still spends a lot of time around cannabis—his wife grows it near their homestead in the western hills of Maine. When Crash isn’t outdoors tending to his land, he’s often researching people he calls the “sewer-dwelling monsters of New England.” People like Hammer.

For years, Crash has been doing the dirty work for the rest of us, documenting pockets of hate in America. He first started tracking fascists as a journalist in 2003, going undercover to report on the World Church of the Creator, a white-supremacist cult that promoted “racial holy war.” (The WCOTC collapsed in 2004, after its leader was convicted of solicitation of murder—he asked someone who turned out to be a government informant to kill a federal judge.) Crash got back on the beat in earnest in 2017, amid a surge of far-right recruiting and organizing after Donald Trump was elected president.

Crash isn’t an armchair reporter. He isn’t content to merely gather information online—though he does plenty of that, going down rabbit hole after rabbit hole. When he can he tails people, sometimes in disguise, and reports what he learns in his newsletter, The Crash Report; on social media; and on his podcast, The Crash Program. He focuses his energies on bad guys in his own backyard. “If I didn’t limit myself to Maine, I would never get anything done,” Crash told me. “There are just so many of them.”

With his podcast cohost, Andy O’Brien, he exposed Tom Kawczynski, the town manager of Jackman, in the western part of the state, for espousing white-supremacist views. A few weeks after Kawczynski was booted from office, Crash donned a long wig and hid recording devices near a table at a Thai restaurant, where Kawczynski and a collection of like-minded folks planned to talk about their grand plans for establishing an all-white community. (Crash knew about the meeting because he’d posed as a man named Walt—“one of my numerous online alter egos”—to get into Kawczynski’s good graces.) Crash later turned his attention to Larry Lockman, an arch-conservative state representative and the founder of the Maine First Project, which seeks to defund sanctuary cities, eliminate the state income tax, and ban “political indoctrination” in public schools, among other objectives. Crash has also covered local chapters of Moms for Liberty and the work of anti-trans zealots.

^{Hammer insists that} Blood Tribe is more hardcore _{than other white-supremacist groups.} (This is a claim _{many fascist organizations make} in relation to one another: _{We’re better neo-Nazis than you are.)}

Hammer is different from Crash’s other subjects: He is a virulent white supremacist in the vein of onetime WCOTC acolytes. In 2020, while living in San Antonio, Hammer burst onto the right-wing scene when he created an Instagram account that mainly shared hateful memes; it was eventually banned. He created another Instagram account, which was also banned, then another, and so on. Eventually he pivoted to Telegram, then Odysee, BitChute, Gab, and other dark corners of the internet that tolerate neo-Nazi chatter. He launched a Web-based talk show, Hammerstream, in which he exhorted the dominance of whiteness and the importance of physical fitness. He summoned white people to a “last stand, a righteous war” against those who “call for the destruction of their birthright and posterity.” He also peddled propaganda and swag: books by or about Hitler, swastika flags and fitted caps, and “Hammer Shades”—Oakley knockoffs available for $25.95 a pop.

By 2021, Hammer’s popularity had grown to the point that he was able to launch a membership-based organization called Blood Tribe, or Blutstamm; Hammer is fond of German terminology. Blood Tribe joined a bewildering array of neo-Nazi groups active in the U.S. today: the Goyim Defense League, Werewolf 88, Aryan Freedom Network, and the Nationalist Social Club (often styled as NSC-131*), to name a few. While these bands of fascists hold the same core beliefs about racial superiority and the pressing need to protect Western civilization, some venture into more obscure territory. Blood Tribe subscribes to Odinism, a neo-pagan faith that honors ancient Norse gods. Some neo-Nazis appropriate the religion to celebrate the white race, which they contend originated in Northern Europe. Ron McVan, one of the most prominent ideologues of this bigoted variant, which is sometimes called Wotanism, has described it as “an ancestral faith that puts race first” and “the inner voice of the Aryan soul.”

Hammer frequently refers to himself as a “son of Wotan,” and the tattoo emblazoned on his face is runic text that spells “Wotan.” He also flirts with esoteric Hitlerism, a fringe belief system holding that Hitler was a deity. “I believe he was an incarnation of Wotan,” Hammer once said on Telegram.

Hammer insists that Blood Tribe is more hardcore than other white-supremacist groups. (This is a claim many fascist organizations make in relation to one another: We’re better neo-Nazis than you are.) To prove his group’s preeminence, Hammer established a vetting system for aspiring members to weed out those he called “snakes” and “fragile people.” In Telegram chats that the group calls the Camps, hopefuls haze one another—think hypermasculine taunting and verbal abuse. “Expect confrontation,” a Telegram announcement about the Camps reads. Wannabe members who are deemed worthy receive an invitation to join Blood Nation, a private chat group. Participants may then be approved to attend Blood Tribe events in real life.

Reportedly, only a select few members become part of the organization’s inner circle, a privilege commemorated by rubbing one’s blood on a spear shaft. According to Hammer, this unites an initiate with the “bros of the past and bros of the future.” Should any of his lieutenants be so brazen as to challenge him for the group’s top job—Hammer calls himself Blood King, or Blutkönig in German—they may do so in a duel with weapons of Hammer’s choosing. “The likelihood of that being legal in this country, I don’t know,” Hammer admitted during a live-streamed meeting to discuss the group’s constitution. “Maybe you could go to, like, some international waters.” (Presumably, this has yet to occur.)

Women are not permitted to join Blood Tribe. Like a hastily scribbled sign on a boys’ treehouse, an invitation to the Camps declares, “No girls allowed.” Hammer doesn’t trust women. It’s fair to say that he doesn’t even like them, especially if they’re white and liberal. “I do find them to be enemies to us,” Hammer has said. “They should be treated as such.” Hammer promotes claiming women as “war brides,” which involves taking away the “rights and control of how their reproductive system is to be utilized.” To his mind, stripping women of their bodily autonomy, and deciding when and how they have children, is a masculine imperative and an urgent matter of racial survival.

What made Hammer this way? It’s hard to say. Radicalization can be a circuitous process. He was born and raised in a middle-class Pentecostal household in Baltimore. As a teen he was devout, a youth group leader. At some point his family moved to Mississippi, after which his parents split up. He went to boarding school for a year, then dropped out and joined the Marines, serving two years stationed in Japan and another two in California. After that he scraped together a living by tattooing, mostly swastikas and other racist symbols. He considers this “a unique niche that I’ve got cornered.” (I tried for several weeks to make contact with Hammer, who openly disdains the media, but only hit dead ends. I pieced together a portrait of him from publicly available source material, including social media videos, chat transcripts, and interviews he’s given to like-minded individuals. When he was reached for comment during the fact-checking process, Hammer declined to answer questions.)

Crash Barry refers to Hammer and his Blood Tribe brood as “chuds,” from the acronym “cannibalistic humanoid underground dwellers.” The term is from a 1984 sci-fi horror movie, the plot of which revolves around several New Yorkers, including a cop and a homeless-shelter manager who team up to investigate a slew of disappearances, people who it turns out were killed by sewer-dwelling CHUDs. That’s how Crash sees Hammer—a lowlife, a bottom-feeder. “I’ve been following assholes like him for years. And when you dig down deep into these guys, their most core belief is misogyny. They’re like roided-out orcs,” Crash told me. “They look back at this ‘idealistic’ time when women were essentially property. Perhaps Hammer expected things to be easy, and that’s why he is so full of hate.”

Crash and his wife, Shana, are madly in love. When I met her, she wore gardening clothes and a brimmed hat, still dressed from her job at a nursery. She knows everything there is to know about medicinal plants. She also writes, sings, and records music. Crash sent me one of her tracks—she sounds a little like Edie Brickell—about a pink whale that doesn’t want to be hurt by humans. Crash and Shana have a production booth in their home where she records her songs and he produces his podcast.

Crash has been following Hammer for nearly two years. He has pored over Hammer’s videos and photos to determine where they were shot. He has examined public records and genealogical information. (Crash told me that, based on some sleuthing he did with a volunteer genealogical researcher, he thinks Pohlhaus’s great-great uncle once removed might have been Jewish and sent to a concentration camp.) And he has tracked Hammer’s movements carefully, hoping to understand the one that to Crash mattered most: his relocation to Maine.

Maine is the nation’s greenest state—90 percent of its land is forested, and the farther north you go, the denser the woods. Maine is also the whitest state. The 2020 census shows that its population of almost 1.4 million is more than 90 percent white. Taken together these conditions help explain why Hammer picked Maine to embark on his grand plans for neo-Nazi domination.

Maine’s whiteness isn’t accidental. It was intended, orchestrated. To understand this history I spoke to Samuel James, a journalist and the creator of the podcast 99 Years, which he describes as “a Black exploration of the deliberate creation of the whitest state in the nation.” James is tall and tattooed, with large brown eyes and a goatee. He is the descendant of a slave and grew up in Biddeford, Maine, “in cornrows and Rollerblades.” His father was a Black session musician, and his mother was a white dancer, the daughter of a church pianist.

To make his point about Maine’s racist history, James cited Malaga Island, a fishing community settled by free Blacks around the time of the Civil War. “The Great Migration begins in 1910, and powerful Northern racists freak out,” James wrote to me in an email. “Maine’s then governor Frederick W. Plaisted was one of those racists, and the following year he began the ethnic cleansing.” The state forcibly removed people from Malaga Island, committed many of them to the Maine School for the Feeble-Minded, and even dug up the graves of their dead. “This made national news and gave all the right and wrong signals to all the right and wrong people,” James explained . Signals, that is, about the kind of state Maine was and wanted to be. (It wasn’t the only state outside the South to embark on such an openly racist path. In 1859, Oregon entered the union with a law excluding Black people from moving there; though rendered moot by the 14th Amendment, the legislation wasn’t formally repealed until 1926.)

By 1925, when the Ku Klux Klan was at its peak, it had more than 150,000 members in Maine—roughly 20 percent of the state’s population—who helped elect a governor and informed public policy. The Klan’s organized influence was short-lived; it all but collapsed nationwide before the end of the 1920s. But as James pointed out to me, its members didn’t go anywhere. “They didn’t just suddenly find Jesus or move out of state,” he said. “Rather, the mission continued with redlining their towns. Some stayed in the PTA and chambers of commerce. They became town managers and state governors. They became those racist grandparents, excused by their children for being ‘from a different era.’”

Given the state’s white-supremacist history, James isn’t surprised that Hammer set his sights on Maine. “In 2020, there were still three islands with the word ‘nigger’ in their names, and when the state finally redesignated them, the Press Herald said it acted ‘swiftly,’ ” James told me, referring to Portland’s daily newspaper.

In Telegram chats dating back to early 2021, Hammer and his followers discussed Maine’s other assets: cheap property, geographical isolation, and lax gun laws, the same attributes that had enticed white supremacists to build compounds in northern Idaho (Aryan Nations) and West Virginia (National Alliance). But for Crash, pinpointing where Hammer put down roots in Maine wasn’t easy, because he didn’t broadcast it. When Crash started looking for answers, in late 2022, he had to turn to property records.

And there it was: a quitclaim deed for the acreage in Springfield, listing the sale price at $25,110. Hammer had purchased the lot with a promissory note and a cosigner named Fred Boyd Ramey, who calls himself Fred the Felon. Ramey, a long-haul truck driver, supported Andrew Yang in the 2020 presidential election, then changed his political tune and fell in with Hammer. Around the same time he helped Hammer buy the land in Maine, he registered a short-lived company in Wyoming called White Working Class Consulting.

At first, Crash kept the information about Hammer’s compound to himself. He was still deciding how to proceed with his reporting. Then, in March 2023, a few months after Crash found the land deed, Blood Tribe members showed up at what was billed as a Rock-n-Roll Humanist Drag Queen Story Hour in the small city of Wadsworth, Ohio. Hammer traveled from Springfield to be there and carried a firearm on his hip. The neo-Nazis were in uniform: balaclava, black pants, red shirt. This made their identities hard to determine. But Hammer didn’t cover his face; he wanted to be seen. As he led chants, his face turned red and the veins in his temples popped out. “Pedophiles get the rope!” he screamed. And: “Seig heil!” (A few months later on a podcast, Hammer said of his group’s tactics, “We go to the enemy, scream at them, give them PTSD, and leave.”)

Back in Maine, winter was turning into spring, which is known locally as mud season. That meant it was time for Crash to complete various tasks on his land before new life arrived. He oiled up his chain saw, felled and bucked ash trees, built a new paddock for his goats. He also researched Hammer as much as he could—the demonstration in Ohio had sent Crash into overdrive. He’d spend an hour cutting wood, return to his desk, listen to a few episodes of Hammer’s podcast while taking notes, then go outside to turn the compost. He’d familiarize himself with pagan neo-Nazi practices and then dig holes for fence posts. Working on the land helped him recharge mentally so that he could keep wading into Hammer’s muck. It also gave him time to think. He’d be tending to his animals when a new avenue of investigation would open up in his mind.

_{Word that a neo-Nazi} shopped at Smith’s _{spread over family dinners, at store counters,} and in sidewalk conversations. ^{The gossip fuse had been lit.} In small-town Maine, _{few things are quite as powerful.}

On March 19, Crash released his first podcast episode about Hammer. He didn’t replay much of what Hammer had said on his own show, because the words were too appalling—instead Crash summarized and paraphrased. “Hammer is on a whole other level,” Crash told me. “The audio I have of him talking about taking war brides is chilling.” Listeners inclined to do so could seek out Hammer’s unfiltered content themselves.

Crash described “details about Hammer and his precise location in Maine” as “very scarce,” but he told his listeners that he was aiming to change that. He announced that Hammer was living in Springfield, and explained the location’s appeal. “He was on a lot of podcasts talking about, ‘Come to Maine,’ ” Crash said. “I listened to one where he was talking about, ‘You know what’s so great about Maine up here is that the people working in the convenience stores are white.’ ” He also criticized what he saw as Hammer’s attempts to build a homestead, based on what he’d seen and read online—Pohlhaus claimed, for instance, to have a sawmill on his land. “I’ve been homesteading for over a dozen years, so I think I can offer a fair assessment of the land and the plan that he’s got. Yeah, that land is pretty useless,” Crash said. “It’s woodland, but all the good lumber was already cut, probably taken twenty or thirty years ago. So there’s lots of small to medium trees—you can maybe get some firewood out of it. But there’s no timber for dimensional lumber to build anything. And there’s no agricultural land whatsoever. There’s really no way to grow anything.”

In other words, Crash was pretty sure Hammer was doomed to fail. But why not hasten the inevitable? On March 22, Crash reached out to state authorities to report that he suspected Hammer was running an illegal tattoo operation, and he provided the latitude and longitude coordinates of the property (45.371120°N, 68.155465°W). White supremacists are often brought to heel by the government not because of violent acts but because they violate basic laws and regulations. “They got Al Capone on tax evasion,” Crash reminded me.

Crash also alerted local journalists to Hammer’s presence in Springfield, hoping to prompt more widespread coverage. According to Crash, no one bit—not fast enough, anyway. “The mainstream media claims that they don’t write about chuds because they don’t want to give them attention and amplify their message. But that’s a lame excuse,” he told me. Eric Russell, a reporter at the Press Herald who was in touch with Crash, explained that his paper did look into Hammer, but on its own terms. “Crash’s work is niche,” Russell said. “I’m a fan, but he’s a different type of reporter than I am. He has different ways of getting his information and different ways of reporting it.”

On April 4, Crash released a second podcast episode about Hammer. He addressed Mainers directly, suggesting what they should do if they ever came face-to-face with Hammer or another neo-Nazi in the wild. “Don’t be afraid,” Crash said. “You guys know the Nazis are losers, right? Mock them!” He insisted that white supremacists have “shitty lives” and should be reminded of it. After the episode aired, at least one Springfield resident took the advice to heart.

Smith’s General Store is a cream-colored gas station off Route 6. The entrance is flanked with an old plastic Coca-Cola sign and a 2004 Red Sox World Champions banner. An American flag hangs above the door. The store sells fishing lures, laundry detergent, firewood, Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, light bulbs, basic household hardware, maxi pads, milk, eggs, bread, and small plastic toy toilets that dispense sour candies shaped like poop. There’s a deli in the back, and one aisle contains deer, mink, and lynx hides. Next to the cash register is a billboard pinned with the business cards of fishing and hunting guides.

When you live in a town with a population of 293, the general store is where you get to interact with other humans—or where you have to, depending on your worldview. Zac Chickering, a carpenter with a scratchy voice and a chain saw he calls Missy Mac, leans toward the latter. He likes to spend his time alone in the woods. It was in the late spring or early summer of 2023—he can’t recall the date—when Chickering encountered Hammer at Smith’s. Chickering had heard about him from Crash, whom he’d met decades prior when they were young punks together in Portland. He’d been listening to his old friend’s podcast. Now was his chance to do something.

Chickering approached Hammer cooly. “Get the fuck outta here with that Nazi shit,” he said.

According to Chickering, Hammer said nothing. He just sneered, paid for his items, and left. Abruptly, the other people in the store started talking—it was as if they’d all been frozen for a moment and now were able to react. From there, word that a neo-Nazi shopped at Smith’s spread over family dinners, at store counters, and in sidewalk conversations. The gossip fuse had been lit. In small-town Maine, few things are quite as powerful.

Shortly after I moved to Peaks Island, Maine, I was in the checkout line at the local market, talking to the woman at the register. She told me that as a newcomer, I was being noticed. This wasn’t Brooklyn, where I’d lived for more than a decade. This was a place where I couldn’t be invisible—where no one could. “There is something you should know about living here,” the woman said. “If we don’t know anything about you, we’ll make something up. And if we like our story better, we’ll stick to it.”

Thanks to his digital profile, and to Crash’s early efforts to bring his arrival in Maine to public attention, the people of Springfield didn’t have to make anything up about Hammer. After Chickering’s confrontation with Hammer at Smith’s, Crash got several tips from locals: where they’d seen the neo-Nazi, whom they’d seen him with. Chickering drove by Hammer’s compound for what he called “a lookie-loo.” When town elders got wind of the fact that Hammer was a fascist, hackles went up. A good portion of them are World War II veterans, and they were insulted by Hammer’s politics. They also didn’t want their wives knowing about—much less encountering—a man who spewed violent misogyny.

Soon Springfield’s righteous NIMBYism spun up into something bigger. On July 23, as part of a lengthy investigation of white supremacists in Maine, the Press Herald reported on Hammer’s compound. A few days later, Crash made a juicy discovery. Hammer posted a video on Telegram complaining that his gym had kicked him out because patrons didn’t like the T-shirts he wore, emblazoned with racist slogans, or his tattoos, including a giant swastika inked over his heart. He flashed an email the management had sent him banning him from the gym. He referred to the establishment as “PF,” and it was easy enough to figure out what that stood for: Planet Fitness. The closest one was an hour away in Bangor.

Crash called the facility, disguised his voice, and explained that he was a concerned father whose daughter had told him about a creepy guy with a Nazi tattoo who frequented the weight room. An employee confirmed that Hammer had been banned. Crash hustled to his computer and posted what he’d learned on social media; the Bangor Daily News picked it up the next day.

The same week, the Southern Poverty Law Center released a report on Hammer’s presence in Maine. (According to the SPLC, it was tipped off by a gym employee.) When researcher Jeff Tischauser reached out for comment, Hammer responded with a voice message. “Breaking news, Nazi buys a piece of property. Tell everybody, run the presses. He owns property,” he ranted. “What the fuck do you expect me to do? Where do you expect me to go? You want me to go to your neighborhood? Why are you guys so goddamn awkward? This isn’t a news story.”

“The more I think on it, ^{the more I realize we need to make it}ABUNDANTLY clear _{that Chris isn’t welcome here,”}one commenter wrote. ^{“[He] lost the right to feel safe.”}

Except that it was, whether he liked it or not. In early August, Kathleen Phalen Tomaselli of the Bangor Daily News published a story about Hammer. A seasoned reporter with a Stevie Nicks haircut and a nose ring, Phalen Tomaselli had written for papers in New York and Pennsylvania before buying an old farmhouse in Maine and relocating with her husband. She brought unique experience to the Hammer story: She’d once investigated the East Coast contingent of Aryan Nations.

Phalen Tomaselli is bold and wanted to see Hammer’s land for herself, so she drove down from her home near Maine’s border with New Brunswick, Canada. The people of Springfield were eager to assist. “Town officials were really helpful in showing me exactly where it was, helping me find the registry of deeds. And people gave me information like, ‘If you pass this thing that looks like this particular landmark, you’ve gone too far,’ ” she said. She went into the woods with her camera to document what was there, which wasn’t much. Hammer’s construction plans appeared to be moving at a glacial pace.

Around the time Phalen Tomaselli published her story, one Mainer came to Hammer’s defense. Her name was Kathie Greear, and she lived in Lee, a town not far from Springfield. “I am not a Nazi sympathizer or supporter but I still thought this country allowed people to have different opinions without being accused or cancelled,” Greear wrote in a letter to the editor, published by the Lincoln News on August 3. She referred to Hammer by his first name, Chris, and described him as “a very talented, intelligent young man” who was always “willing to have a conversation.”

Greear didn’t explain how she knew Hammer, but internet sleuths figured it out soon enough. Greear ran the Loon’s Nest Lodge, which rented rooms through various websites, including Airbnb. At some point since relocating to Maine, Hammer had spent time there. He was even featured in a photo on the lodge’s Facebook page, wearing blue jeans and straddling a cider press next to a plastic bin filled with apples.

On Reddit, where Greear’s letter got plenty of attention, commenters were blunt: “Wow, someone drank the kool aid.” And: “Eat shit Kathie.” Also: “I’m sure the folks at AirBNB wouldn’t like it to be known that a Nazi sympathizer is hosting a property.” (Airbnb soon banned Greear from the platform.)

Another commenter focused on the bigger problem: what to do about Hammer. “The more I think on it, the more I realize we need to make it ABUNDANTLY clear that Chris isn’t welcome here,” they wrote. “[He] lost the right to feel safe, and should honestly be run out of the state, sooner rather than later.”

I first heard the buzz about Hammer not in the papers or on Crash’s podcast, but from my church’s pastor. Peaks Island is just one square mile in size, and its inhabitants form a very tight, more or less intentional community. Everyone knows and looks out for one another. If the island has a hub, it’s New Brackett Church.

Originally NBC was Methodist, but until recently the Methodist church didn’t welcome same-sex marriages, so the congregation voted unanimously to disaffiliate. When Reverend Will Green married his husband, Tyler, the reception was at the church. Eventually, NBC became affiliated with the United Church of Christ and the Unitarian Universalist Association. I’m not really a person of faith, but I love our small, 161-year-old church and attend, well, religiously. Every Sunday at 10 a.m., the pews support the rear ends of Christians, Jews, Buddhists, pagans, abortion doulas, antiracist activists, psychics, atheists, and the occasional tourist.

One day in 2023, my spouse caught up with Reverend Will while he was walking his dog and proposed several sermon topics. Among them was the paradox of tolerance. Challenge accepted. A few weeks later, Reverend Will delivered the sermon.

The concept of the paradox of tolerance is usually credited to the Austrian-British philosopher Karl Popper. In his work The Open Society and Its Enemies, published near the end of World War II, Popper writes in an extensive footnote:

If we extend unlimited tolerance even to those who are intolerant … then the tolerant will be destroyed, and tolerance with them.… We should therefore claim, in the name of tolerance, the right not to tolerate the intolerant. We should claim that any movement preaching intolerance places itself outside the law, and we should consider incitement to intolerance and persecution as criminal.

Boiled down: If we tolerate hate, we run the risk of tacitly supporting it.

Reverend Will used Hammer to illustrate his point that, by accepting all types and all sides, whatever our intentions in doing so, we give oxygen to those who would cause irreparable damage to our polity and civil society. “We should be very concerned about a neo-Nazi training camp in our neighborhood,” Reverend Will said from the pulpit on a cool morning. Even if Hammer was exercising his constitutional rights to free speech and privacy, even if he had committed no crime, constructive intervention was still possible. “Rather than hiding behind tolerance, we should do the hard work of helpfully intervening for the sake of our community,” Reverend Will continued. “That requires both spiritual self-examination and social, political engagement. It isn’t spiritual to rise above it. Instead, our spirituality should equip us to get down to it.”

Our congregation nodded enthusiastically as he spoke. “Everything isn’t a shade of gray. Jesus is not pleased with Christians using the word tolerance to give the Devil equal airtime on Sunday morning,” Reverend Will added. “We can be tolerant and have moral clarity. They aren’t mutually exclusive.”

What does this look like in action? What does a community do when a fascist intent on destroying democracy arrives? Springfield and its environs provided a model, if an unwieldy one. As news of Hammer’s arrival spread, a popular movement began to take shape. There wasn’t a one-size-fits-all approach when it came to tactics. Nothing about what happened was cinematic. Still, the movement made itself felt.

Pastor Will Green at New Brackett Church on Peaks Island.

By late summer 2023, it seemed like everyone in and around Springfield was talking about Hammer. There were community meetings about confronting the rising tide of white supremacy. Papers ran articles that shined a light on Hammer and op-eds that condemned him. “I am not pleased at all with this presence in the community. My grandfather and uncle fought the Nazis…. My other grandfather milled steel for the war effort, and my grandmother on that side worked in a munitions factory. We did not fight that war for nothing!” one local man told the Bangor Daily News. “They are unwelcome here and will not find support from anyone who still believes in what America is really supposed to be about.” The paper’s editorial board stated its view succinctly: “The welcome mat has limits.”

According to Zac Chickering, some Springfield residents were more aggressively intolerant than others and went straight to the source of the problem. “We have a bunch of 80-year-old men that went up to that dickhead’s face and threatened to backhoe his body into a grave. And that’s nothin’. That’s just the flake on the potato plate,” Chickering told me. When Hammer started handing out pamphlets promoting his views, residents told him, as Chickering put it, that “nobody gives a thin shit what you think.”

Oglers showed up on Hammer’s land. Like journalists before them, these visitors could see that he’d achieved very little. “Proud of my boys hitting it hard up here,” Hammer had written in a Telegram message, where he also referred to his site as a bootcamp. “We are working until dusk on the camp seeing exciting results as it comes together. This is where we will turn regular wignats into pure distilled Aryan violence.” (Wignats is a term for white nationalists willing to wear Nazi insignia and to commit street violence.) In truth, however, the camp comprised only a few small tents, and “the boys” couldn’t have numbered more than a half-dozen at any given time. One of them used the charming moniker “Nate Higgers”; his real name is Drake Berentz. “[Hammer] spent all his time talking on social media and not building anything,” Crash told me.

Information about Hammer made its way to Augusta, Maine’s capital, where Joe Baldacci, a state senator from Bangor, voiced his concern. “It’s time for the Governor, the Attorney General of Maine, the Penobscot County District Attorney and the U.S. Attorney [to] work on shutting these Nazis down and sending this guy back to Texas,” he posted online in early August 2023. Soon lawmakers were drafting a bill to ban paramilitary camps like the one Hammer was trying to establish, and to make it a criminal offense to offer training in firearms, explosives, or other tactics with the intent of causing a “civil disorder.”

Not long after the proposed legislation was announced, Hammer shared an image of an assault rifle with his online followers. “Baldacci isn’t gonna stop us,” the caption read. A few days later, on September 2, Hammer showed up in Florida with a cluster of followers to stage a demonstration not far from Disney World, which had ginned up far-right hysteria by opposing Governor Ron DeSantis’s ban on discussions of gender identity and sexual orientation in public schools. The event made national headlines. But for all of Hammer’s tough talk and the attention it invited, behind the scenes he was losing his foothold.

From top: Smith’s General Store; debris near the land Christopher Pohlhaus bought to build his compound.

The bill banning paramilitary training was signed into law by Maine’s governor, Janet Mills, in April 2024. “This bill is about us saying we are going to draw the line,” Joe Baldacci said in a speech on the senate floor. “We are not going to allow people to flout the law and intimidate others.” But the new law, it turned out, would have to be used on Hammer’s successors, the next neo-Nazis who decide that Maine is their promised land. By the time Mills approved it, Hammer was long gone.

The previous October, Hammer had sold his Springfield property for $39,000—it was a quiet deal, executed with another quitclaim deed. Online, Hammer explained why he’d given up on Maine. “With the militant leftist[s] doxxing the location, it was basically too dangerous to fulfill its purpose,” he said. He claimed that the whitest state in the country wasn’t safe for neo-Nazis, casting himself as a victim rather than admitting the truth: He’d been driven out by his neighbors.

Collective approaches often emerge from stark realizations. In this case, it was that hate had no home in rural Maine. These days, Springfield residents are tired of talking about Hammer—they don’t want their town to be known as a place where a neo-Nazi tried to make his stand. At Smith’s General Store, a woman named Deirdre stood next to a “No Bare Feet” sign and photos of deer hunts as she described how much locals detested Hammer and his friends. She’d heard that Hammer had moved to Russia. The farther away the better. “Now we have the pleasure of never seeing him again,” she said.

I spent some time on Hammer’s old land in the spring and found that the place had a strange atmosphere, a mix of abandonment and renewal. There was charcoal in a fire pit, some felled trees, and a footpath worn into the earth. A parenthesis of young conifers, hemlock, and beech was growing at one side of the property—a fresh forest, tawny and green. Nearby, perched on a ridgeline in the Rollins Mountains, were enormous wind turbines, 40 in all. Their white wings spun in circles, but if they made a whooshing sound, it didn’t reach the compound. If you never bothered to look up toward the hills, you might not know they were there.

Crash didn’t stop tracking Hammer once he left Maine. In March 2024, he published a special installment of his newsletter titled “No Hugs for Chuds,” in which he called Hammer “a tattoo-ink-slinging-juice shooting-bloody-spear-handling-sovereign.” He shared a video from a Blood Tribe event in Nashville that February, in which Drake Berentz, aka Nate Higgers, appears to choke a passerby. “According to Nashville police, there were no reports of the attack or any arrests connected to the Nazi march through the shopping and tourist district,” Crash wrote.

As far as Crash knew, Hammer hadn’t decamped for Russia—he was in Montana, long a favored destination for white supremacists (see Richard Spencer and April Gaede). More recently, according to Phalen Tomaselli’s reporting, Hammer popped up online after the September 10 presidential debate to boast that he and his followers had helped spread the myth that Haitian immigrants were eating pets in Springfield, Ohio, which Donald Trump echoed from the podium. “BT put Springfield in the public consciousness,” Pohlhaus said on Telegram, referring to Blood Tribe. In the weeks leading up to the debate, the organization had indeed amplified lies about Haitian immigrants; its Ohio chapter also held what it called an “anti-Haitian” march. Berentz, who is originally from Ohio, was removed from a Springfield city council meeting in August after he threatened violence in retaliation for immigrants being allowed to settle in the city. “No one else is more on top of what’s happening in #Springfield from the WN [white nationalist] perspective than we are. Our boots are literally on the ground there weekly,” Pohlhaus wrote online.

Hammer has a new podcast in which he gabs with other racists. Even by chud standards, Crash finds it lame. “There is no real fire,” he told me. In one episode, Hammer told his followers about an electric trimmer he had recently purchased to prune his small yard.

Crash in the field next to his writing studio.

When I visited Crash on his homestead over the summer, he had sheared his scraggly hair close to his head and sported a tidy goatee. He was preparing to go undercover at a Christian nationalist revival near the state capitol, and he wanted to blend in. I had my family with me, and Crash suggested we share a meal of homemade pulled pork. He also invited us to stay the night.

Over dinner, between conversations about farming, I asked Crash why he does what he does. He said that as a young man, he was heavily influenced by Catholic activist movements like liberation theology and by Plowshares cofounders Daniel and Philip Berrigan. “All of them demonstrated the need to take action in defense of the poor, downtrodden, and powerless,” he explained. “As far as I can tell, most journalists, and I guess most people, don’t have that action goal as part of their motivation.” Crash does. As someone who believes that he’s lived a relatively charmed life, he feels that it’s the least he can do.

My son interjected, asking if Crash was his real name. “No, it’s not,” he replied. “It’s Crashtopher.” Crash doesn’t have kids, but he was good with mine, funny and affectionate. He’s the same with his rescue dogs, Clover and Rosie.

With the election around the corner, Crash was thinking a lot about ways the average person can help to curb the antidemocratic forces gaining ground in the United States. He’d recently reminded readers of his newsletter that they weren’t powerless in the face of Hammer and his ilk. “We CAN fight fascists without fisticuffs or violence. Voting, and encouraging other non-chuds to vote, is an important first step,” he wrote. “So is keeping an eye on your local polling place on election day. Maybe even sticking around after the polls close to watch the vote counting—and democracy—in action. Hopefully, though, you’ll want to do more, before votes are cast, to ensure your candidates for the Legislature, school board and other municipal offices aren’t chuds, chud-adjacent or chud-sympathetic.”

Before leaving Crash’s homestead, we helped with the morning chores. We brought feed to the chickens and slop to a trio of pigs named Larry, Curly, and Moe. My kids stood next to Crash in the swine enclosure as he demonstrated how to administer a medicinal tincture—one of the Stooges had contracted a cold while being transported to the homestead from a factory farm. “That’s our job, you see,” Crash explained. “Our job is to give them the best life possible.”

He squeezed the medicine into the pig’s mouth with a giant syringe. At first the pig wouldn’t swallow, but Crash held its jaw shut, encouraging the animal to follow its instincts. Finally, the pig swallowed and gave a snort, then went back to rooting in the weeds.

*Correction: The text originally stated that the name of the group is NSC-113.

City on Fire

City on Fire

The night violent anti-government conspirators sowed chaos in the heart of Manhattan.

By Betsy Golden Kellem

The Atavist Magazine, No. 155

Betsy Golden Kellem is a scholar of the unusual. Her writing has appeared in The Washington Post, Atlas Obscura, The Atlantic, Smithsonian, and Vanity Fair. She is the Emmy-winning host and writer of the Showman’s Shorts video series on P. T. Barnum. A media and intellectual-property attorney, Betsy has taught at Yale University and the University of Connecticut. If you ask nicely, she will juggle knives for you.

Editor: Seyward Darby
Art Director: Ed Johnson
Copy Editor: Sean Cooper
Fact Checker: Kyla Jones
Illustrator: Edward Kinsella

Published in September 2024.

The first fire bell rang out at the St. James Hotel at a quarter to nine in the evening. A guest had noticed smoke curling under the door of the room next to his and rushed to the front desk to report it. Upon entering the room, hotel staff found flames spreading across the bedding, which reeked of turpentine. Matchsticks littered the floor alongside a black satchel holding a small glass bottle of liquid. The fire, which was still small, was quickly put out. The man who was staying in the room, who had given his name as John School, was nowhere to be found.

Ten minutes later, a similar discovery was made nearly two miles away at the St. Nicholas Hotel. A bystander claimed to have seen two mysterious men hurrying out of the lobby. Soon after, a fire was discovered on an upper floor of the nearby Lafarge House hotel.

It was November 25, 1864, a clear, cool Friday just after Thanksgiving, and New York City was thick with crowds of people headed out for the night or just enjoying a downtown stroll. The jovial mood shifted sharply as the sounds of alarms erupted in the streets of Manhattan. Frantic guests and staff found rooms aflame at hotel after hotel, including the Metropolitan, the Belmont, Lovejoy’s, Tammany Hall, and the Fifth Avenue. At most of these establishments the particulars were largely the same: sheets, blankets, and furniture piled atop mattresses in a tinder heap; apothecary vials left behind at the scene; guestbook listings indicating that a young man with a generic name had checked into the room.

Disinclined to lose paying customers to the mounting terror outside its walls, the management at Niblo’s Garden, a theater next to the Metropolitan Hotel, sent a young boy onstage with a sign hastily painted with “NO FIRE” in large letters. Nearby, P. T. Barnum’s American Museum wasn’t so lucky. Around 9 p.m., someone broke open a vial of flammable liquid in the museum’s fifth-floor stairwell, and a fire instantly ignited. Thousands of people had gathered for Barnum’s promise of extra performances on Evacuation Day, the anniversary of British troops’ departure from Manhattan after the American Revolution. Among other offerings, Barnum had lined up “three mammoth fat girls,” a collection of French automata, Native tribespeople, and live capybaras and kangaroos. Staff were able to extinguish the flames in the stairwell before any real damage was done. Still, a cry of “Fire!” sent Barnum’s audience running for the exits.

Over at the Winter Garden theater on Broadway, the house was full for a one-night-only performance of Julius Caesar, a benefit intended to raise money to purchase a statue of William Shakespeare to be placed in Central Park. The play’s cast featured the three thespian sons of the legendary Shakespearean actor Junius Brutus Booth: Junius Jr., Edwin, and John Wilkes, on stage together for the first (and only) time. The Great Booth Benefit was the hot ticket of the season; orchestra seats, normally less than a dollar, went for five.

The crowd of 2,000 roared when the brothers made their entrance in the first act. The audience may not have noticed the distant sound of fire-engine bells at the start of act two, but soon enough the din was overwhelming. Someone saw firefighters outside the theater’s windows, near the Lafarge House next door. A man in the dress circle registered his assumption out loud. “The theater is on fire!” he shouted. He was wrong, but it was enough for alarm to spread through the house. Theatergoers abruptly stood, scanning their surroundings for flames and a path to the nearest exit. Edwin Booth stepped to the front of the stage to calm the audience, assuring them in his trademark low tone, “There is no danger.”

The performance resumed, and the New York Herald’s reviewer later dubbed it an example of the “high standard of our public entertainments”—no other theater scene, the reviewer said, could purport to offer “three tragedians, or even one, comparable to any one of the Booths.” Still, a lot more had transpired outside the theater than the audience at the Winter Garden suspected: While the Booth brothers played out Caesar’s untimely end on stage, Confederate arsonists were attempting to burn New York City to the ground.

The next morning’s New York Times reported that the city had been “startled last evening by the loud and simultaneous clanging of fire-bells in every direction, and the alarming report soon spread from street to street that a preconcerted attempt was being made by rebel emissaries … to burn New-York and other Northern cities, in retaliation for the devastation of rebel territory by Union armies.” Coverage suggested that the as yet unidentified arsonists’ plan had been to set fire to various buildings filled with people, divide the authorities’ attention, and then sow further chaos with additional fires, including at the city’s harbor.

The Booth brothers bickered over the news during breakfast the next morning at Edwin’s home in Manhattan. Junius offered that in San Francisco, vigilante groups would have dragged the arsonists into the street and hanged them by now. Abraham Lincoln had only just been reelected for a second term as president, and Edwin, who had cast his ballot for Lincoln, proudly stated that his vote was surely for the Union and an end to the Civil War, now in its fourth terrible year. At this, John Wilkes could not keep silent. His brothers had no idea that, in the weeks leading up to their benefit performance, he had met with Confederate operatives to devise a plan to kidnap the president and hold him hostage. Now John Wilkes spat angrily that Lincoln would make himself king of America, and that the fires were fair retribution for Union general William Tecumseh Sherman’s recent campaign in the Shenandoah Valley.

Edwin goaded his brother, asking, “Why don’t you join the Confederate army?” John replied bitterly, “I promised mother I would keep out of the quarrel, if possible, and I am sorry that I said so.”

At that, Edwin kicked him out of the house.

As with the attack on the U.S. Capitol on January 6, 2021, the lead-up to the arson campaign on November 25, 1864, was long, ugly, and both actively and tacitly encouraged by powerful men.

It is easy to think of Civil War politics dividing neatly along the Mason-Dixon line, and to assume that New York City, jewel of the North, was a Union stronghold immune even to the suggestion of Confederate agitation. This was not the case. The city was turbulent, the site of sometimes violent clashes over issues of class, race, and national allegiance. Some of these events would echo through time: As with the attack on the U.S. Capitol on January 6, 2021, for instance, the lead-up to the arson campaign on November 25, 1864, was long, ugly, and both actively and tacitly encouraged by powerful men.

By the mid-19th century, the Era of Good Feelings was in America’s rearview mirror, and nowhere was this more apparent than in New York. Financial speculation, unstable commodities pricing, and both British and U.S. monetary policies led to the Panic of 1837 and a period of economic depression during which the city saw mass unemployment levels and riots over the price of flour. The elite were too far ahead in white-glove excess to offer any sort of attainable example of prosperity—nor would they wish to—and explosive growth in immigration made it harder for people in New York’s tenements to compete for available jobs. White working-class New Yorkers increasingly felt not only alienated but also motived to express their dissatisfaction.

City politicians manipulated communities and their loyalties to this end. Chief among these individuals was mayor Fernando Wood, described by his own biographer as “almost dictatorial.” Wood was not above using the largely Irish Dead Rabbits gang for his own muscle, even as his political sympathies lay with the anti-immigrant Know-Nothing Party. His municipal police were so corrupt that the state authorities put the city’s law enforcement under their control. Three years later, speaking in Syracuse at a gathering to select New York’s delegates for the Democratic National Convention, Wood boomed with pride that “not one man in this delegation has ever been tainted with free-soil heresies or abolition proclivities,” and that the best course of action was clear: “Let the South alone.” The same year, Wood purchased the New York Daily News (a now defunct paper, not to be confused with the current publication of the same name) and installed his brother Benjamin as its head, assuring himself a friendly mouthpiece throughout the war.

By January 1861, when South Carolina had formally seceded, Wood’s message grew bolder. He recommended that New York secede as well, so that, “as a free city, [it] may shed the only light and hope of a future reconstruction of our once blessed Confederacy.” In language eerily similar to that used by right-wing policy architects in 2024, Wood warned, “We are in the midst of a revolution bloodless as yet.” That November, Wood spoke before constituents at the Volks Garten, a German beer hall on the Bowery. A huge bonfire raged outside the building, clogging the air with thick smoke. Inside, members of the German Democratic Club made sure that the press table was well stocked with frothy mugs of lager and wine by the bottle, and a band played “I Wish I Was in Dixie.” Wood whipped up the crowd with a speech in which he claimed that the Union government had far exceeded its authority, interfering with daily liberties and subsuming citizens under tyranny.

Wood’s bravado was typical of Northern dissenters against the Union. The movement was not especially uniform: Some advocates called themselves Peace Democrats, others Copperheads. Still others considered themselves Sons of Liberty, in the vein of their Revolutionary forebears. They included Southern transplants, states’ rights enthusiasts, businessmen who depended on the South’s cotton crops, and racist opponents of the “Black Republican” party, as they called it. What this wide-ranging bunch shared was deep dissatisfaction over Union policy. They made Lincoln the common target of their rage, and in New York they were powerful: The city twice snubbed Lincoln at the presidential ballot box, even as the rest of the state gave him the votes needed for electoral victory.

In 1863, after two years of war, the federal government instituted a draft for the Union army. Not only was this unappealing to many New Yorkers who opposed the war or supported the Confederacy, but draftees were allowed to pay $300 to avoid service, and much of the public was furious that wealthy residents would be able to buy their way out of the army. There were riots for the better part of a week—“a saturnalia of pillage and violence,” as one paper put it—during which white mobs killed at least 12 Black residents and terrorized thousands more.

Public opinion about the war was also shaped by covert operations. The Union and the Confederacy each engaged in secretive maneuvers, and every time an incident rose to the level of media attention, readers became livid. In March 1864, Colonel Ulric Dahlgren was shot dead in a failed undercover Union attack on Richmond. At first glance Dahlgren, only 21 at the time, may have seemed too young to be leading a secret raid. The leg he had left behind at Gettysburg spoke to greater steel and experience. Papers purportedly found on Dahlgren’s corpse detailed his mission. “The men must keep together and well in hand,” read Dahlgren’s orders, “and once in the city it must be destroyed and Jeff. Davis and Cabinet killed.” Questions soon arose about the papers’ authenticity. Still, the documents stirred outrage among supporters of the Confederacy. Reports that Dahlgren’s body was displayed at the rail station in Richmond in turn incensed Unionists.

By the fall of 1864, when Sherman had taken Atlanta and General Philip Henry Sheridan was running rampant over the Shenandoah Valley, Confederate sympathizers were angrier than ever. If the Union meant to play dirty, they felt, retribution was all but necessary. The Richmond Whig suggested burning Union cities, and claimed that support for the Confederacy was sufficiently strong north of the Mason-Dixon that one need only walk the streets of New York or Philadelphia and offer to pay recruits to assist in the covert task. And if that seemed too risky, there were plenty of “daring men” in Canada who were willing to help.

Robert Cobb Kennedy was one of those men.

Raised in a reasonably well-off Louisiana family, Kennedy entered West Point as a cadet in 1854. (At the time, the superintendent was none other than Robert E. Lee.) Kennedy was a magnet for demerits and a poor student. When grades were posted heading into the cadets’ third year, Kennedy had flunked a fair share of courses. The last straw for West Point administrators was when Kennedy and his best friend, Stephen DeWitt Clinton Beekman, great-grandson of New York’s first governor, decided that if they were headed for dismissal, they might as well go out in grand style. The pair downed a bottle of whiskey and hurled rocks and verbal abuse at the facade of Cozzens’s hotel, situated near campus. Officers dragged the young men away, and they were asked in no uncertain terms not to return to West Point.

Stung by rejection, Kennedy had something to prove by getting involved in the Confederate cause once the war broke out. As soon as he could manage, he enrolled in the First Louisiana Regular Infantry regiment. The First Louisiana was hit hard at the battle of Shiloh and Kennedy was injured, leaving him with a permanent limp. In 1863, he was captured in a Union ambush and spent his 28th birthday in a prison transport headed north.

It was November by the time Kennedy boarded a steam tugboat in Sandusky, Ohio, for the 20-minute ride to Johnson’s Island, a prison camp for Confederate officers located in Lake Erie. The island was spare and unforgiving; a man incarcerated there once commented that “nature had made it an ideal prison.” Escape plans were inevitable but difficult to carry out. The island was a mile from nearest landfall, and a warship patrolled the surrounding waters. Because the prison sat on solid limestone, attempting to tunnel one’s way to freedom was useless. Some escapes failed when a fellow detainee leaked a man’s intentions in exchange for a prisoner swap with the Union or for better perks behind bars.

Still, Kennedy was determined to get out. In the end, he climbed over a prison fence on a moonless night, relying on a fellow detainee to say his name at roll call. After finding a small boat, he made his way to Canada.

The Province of Canada, then a British colony, was officially neutral on the matter of America’s war. Nonetheless, Confederate soldiers and spymasters believed that the territory had much to offer from a tactical standpoint, most of all a thousand-mile border with the Union and thus the possibility of a second front in the war. Men began to gather in secret in Canada and created a satellite secret service for the Confederacy in Toronto. They strategized about seizing ships on the Great Lakes and undertaking guerrilla missions to free imprisoned Confederate soldiers. They even devised an intricate plan to create what they called a Northwest Confederacy. In October 1864, a group of operatives carried out a raid in St. Albans, Vermont, hoping to sow discord and rob banks for the benefit of the Confederate treasury.

At the head of the Confederacy’s Canada contingent was Jacob Thompson, who at one point had been U.S. Secretary of the Interior but resigned in protest a few months before the attack on Fort Sumter in South Carolina. As inspector general of the Confederate army, he supervised covert operations in Canada at the behest of Jefferson Davis himself. Thompson was eager to activate young men who’d found themselves in Canada and were bubbling over with ego, anger, and enthusiasm for the Southern cause—men like Robert Cobb Kennedy. When he came to Thompson’s attention, Kennedy was given a choice: He could try his best to get home to his family and farm, not knowing what condition he’d find them in, or he could become part of this gadfly secret service. “If it is in the service of my country,” Kennedy said, he would stay.

Kennedy agreed to sign on for the latest of Thompson’s plans, which called for small cells of Confederate operatives to travel to New York City, Chicago, and Boston. Once there they would use Election Day 1864 as an opportunity to commit violence, draw in local groups of Confederate supporters, and ultimately seize control of the cities. This was to be a crucial first step toward the formation of a Northern outpost of the Confederacy.

New York was of special interest to the operatives, since it seemed primed for their flavor of discord. The draft riots in 1863 had proven that the city’s population was volatile and that the police could be easily overwhelmed. There were many known Copperheads who might be receptive to Thompson’s plan, and both the mayor’s office and the Daily News seemed well in hand. Indeed, Confederate leaders said that they had been assured of Mayor Wood’s support for the action, noting in a report: “We were told that about 20,000 men were enlisted in New York under a complete organization; that arms had been provided already for the forces in the city, and we would be expected to take military supervision of the forces at the vital moment.”

In other words, operatives expected that, after they set fires across Manhattan, Copperheads in solidarity with their efforts would seize the chaotic moment to take over the city’s federal infrastructure and free Confederate prisoners from nearby Fort Lafayette. As for Major General John Adams Dix, a sometime rail baron, postmaster, and politician who commanded the Union army’s Department of the East, based in New York, the operatives hoped to toss him into the tiniest, clammiest cell they could find.

Secrecy was of the essence; only a few men in Toronto knew about the plan. In addition to Kennedy, who was fresh out of prison, there was Confederate colonel Robert M. Martin of Kentucky, the designated leader of the group, and lieutenant John Headley; John Ashbrook, James Harrington, and James Chenault of Kentucky; and John Price of Virginia. (An additional conspirator’s name has been lost to time.) The men traveled in pairs to avoid suspicion, arriving in New York about two weeks before the election to get the lay of the land. Headley bore a letter of introduction to their principal contact, James McMaster, a states’ rights enthusiast and editor of the Catholic Freeman’s Journal. McMaster believed that the Lincoln administration wanted to “turn loose upon the country a horde of negroes utterly unfit for liberty.” He went so far in his criticism of the federal government at the outset of the Civil War that he was arrested and briefly imprisoned for producing a seditious paper.

The conspirators arrived from Canada and registered under false names at hotels and boarding houses around New York. Occasionally, they changed locations to avoid anyone becoming too familiar with their faces or routines. Kennedy went to the Belmont Hotel with papers identifying him as a college boy “spending his vacation in the city.” After three days, he moved on to a boarding house on Prince Street owned by a woman named Lydia Oatman.

Martin and Headley met with McMaster for a Sunday dinner to plan the operation in more detail. “It was determined that a number of fires should be started in different parts of the city,” Headley later recalled, “which would bring the population to the streets and prevent any sort of resistance to our movement.” McMaster told the men that he had privately arranged for a supply of so-called “Greek fire” to be made. Though the name originated with a flammable compound used in the Byzantine world, by the 19th century Greek fire was a catch-all term for any volatile incendiary material that burst into flames when exposed to air.

Choosing fire was a signal that the men intended to cause both fear and ruin. Tinderbox construction, unregulated industry, and building density in New York meant that fire, once sparked, tended to spread fast. Residents still shuddered at the memory of the city’s worst conflagrations. In September 1776, while New York was under British occupation, a blaze took down more than a fifth of the city; each side of the Revolutionary War blamed the other for starting it. The great fire of 1835 occurred on a night so cold that the East River froze over. As firefighters tried in vain to draw water, flames burned 50 acres of Manhattan in 24 hours, resulting in the equivalent of half a billion dollars in damage. Ten years later, a fire inside a whale-oil factory spread to other buildings and caused a massive warehouse of saltpeter to explode.

Support for the operation was as important as the method of destruction. McMaster claimed that in addition to gaining the mayor’s support, he had secured a meeting with New York governor Horatio Seymour’s private secretary, whom he was certain would extend “the support of the governor’s official neutrality.” (It was well-known that Seymour loathed Major General Dix, and he was on record criticizing Lincoln’s leadership as “ignoble tyranny which now degrades the American people.”) After the insurrection, McMaster was sure that friendly representatives from neighboring states would meet in New York to formulate a political strategy for cementing the power of the Confederacy in the North.

In the meantime, it was decided that the operatives would use a wholesale piano store as a storage site for their supplies. It was owned by Augustus McDonald, a brother of Confederate explosives expert Lawrence McDonald. The conspirators’ trunks were hauled from the train depot to the store for safekeeping. In the run-up to the Election Day strike, some of the men decided to enjoy themselves. They visited theaters, took in pre-election debates at Tammany Hall, and watched as a massive torchlight procession made its way down Broadway under the review of General George McClellan.

Kennedy didn’t join them. He worried that his limp would make him identifiable, and that former friends and West Point classmates in the city might recognize him. Besides, he had embarked on something of a fling with Lydia Oatman’s chambermaid.

Confederates wreaking havoc on New York in the midst of Thanksgiving festivities could still devastate the city and humiliate the president.

When the conspirators read the papers on November 3, they learned of a potential complication to their plans. The Union government was apparently aware of the threat they posed: A telegram from Secretary of State William Seward had alerted municipal leaders that “there is a conspiracy on foot to set fire to the principal cities in the Northern States on the day of the Presidential election.” The conspirators’ alarm grew the following day when they heard rumors that Union general Benjamin Butler, whose stern command of New Orleans had earned him the nickname the Beast, was on his way north and would temporarily assume Dix’s role in New York.

By November 5, Butler had indeed assumed command at the Union army’s New York headquarters, and he intended to keep the peace with the 3,500 troops he had at his disposal. On November 7, the day before the election, the front page of the New York Times read:

TO-MORROW’S ELECTION

Gen. Butler in Command in the State of New-York

GENERAL ORDERS NO. 1

Troops Detailed to Preserve the Peace and Prevent Rebel Incursions

NO INTERFERENCE WITH THE ELECTIONS

Raiders and Rebels and Ballot-box Stuffers Warned

Butler’s arrival caused shock and anger among Confederate leaders in Toronto, and some paranoia, too. Thompson and others worried that someone on the inside had let their plans slip. If so the operatives might be in danger of arrest or worse. Thompson and his colleagues sent word to McMaster in New York on the eve of the election that they should postpone the action. McMaster followed orders, directing the operatives to stand down.

On Election Day, Lincoln won a second term. Governor Seymour was voted out of office. And in Chicago, the papers reported that several Confederate operatives who had been assigned by their superiors in Canada to carry out that city’s takeover effort had been arrested. (Covert action in Boston never materialized.)

It seemed as if the moment for a coordinated insurrection had passed. Nonetheless, members of the New York crew were champing at the bit. They had come to the city to take action, and they were determined to do so. The men decided that the upcoming Thanksgiving weekend was a good time to carry out a revised plan. The Lincoln administration had made Thanksgiving a national holiday only the year before, with the express intention of celebrating, among other “blessings,” the fact that “the theatre of military conflict … has been greatly contracted by the advancing armies and navies of the Union.” Perhaps they couldn’t seize the city, but Confederates wreaking havoc on New York in the midst of Thanksgiving festivities could still devastate the city and humiliate the president.

The operatives insisted that they could regroup and complete their new mission, and the Confederate leadership in Canada appeared supportive. But the men’s local contacts resisted. McMaster withdrew from having any direct connection with the operation, and the gentleman who was supposed to oversee procurement of the Greek fire, one Captain Longmire, threw up his hands and left town, renting a cottage in the country where he planned to remain until things blew over.

Still, Longmire gave Headley a street address and told him that the Greek fire had already been paid for, should he wish to pick it up. If they chose to, the men could act on their own.

The conspirators agreed to set fires in various hotels, hoping to cripple the city’s business district, which was centered on Broadway. The plot had two phases. In the first, the men would check in to hotels across the city, carrying cheap black satchels with long overcoats rolled up inside. They would give a false name at the front desk, then make their room appear occupied before donning the overcoat and exiting the premises quietly, leaving the empty satchel behind. Each man would do this at three or four hotels. The second phase would begin a few days later, around 8 p.m. on November 25. The men would return to the hotels, this time with Greek fire and turpentine. They would set the room aflame and then leave.

Headley was tasked with procuring the Greek fire. He knocked on the door of a house in Washington Place on Thanksgiving Day, and was met in the basement by an old man with a thick beard. Headley told the man that he was there for Captain Longmire’s valise. The man said nothing in return but handed Headley a leather bag, about two feet long and heavier than it looked. Headley tried not to draw attention to himself as he left the house and boarded a streetcar uptown, but the chemicals in the bag reeked of rotten eggs. Passengers reseated themselves farther down the car and shot him nasty looks. One man said as he got off at his stop, “There must be something dead in that valise.”

Headley met with the other conspirators in a cottage near Central Park to strategize. His valise held 12 dozen glass bottles, weighing four ounces each and sealed with plaster of Paris. Inside the bottles was a clear liquid that looked like water—in fact, it was white phosphorus, a highly flammable substance, dissolved in carbon disulfide. The men considered the clinking glass vials and agreed, as Headley later put it, that they were “now ready to create a sensation in New York.”

Before embarking on the mission, the men looked at one another across the table in the cottage. Kennedy said that from there on out, it was all or nothing. In an era when cutlery was sometimes carved from rams’ horns, a saying had emerged to describe those occasions when an effort was sure to be either a great success or a terrible failure. Kennedy used it now: “We’ll make a spoon or spoil a horn.”

Upon completion of phase one, most of the men reconvened at the cottage early in the evening of November 25. Two conspirators were no-shows. Those who gathered slapped one another on the back for encouragement and filled their pockets with vials of Greek fire wrapped in plain paper. They resolved to meet back at the cottage the next day to debrief. Just after 7 p.m., they walked into the bustling fall night.

Headley arrived at the Astor House hotel about 20 minutes later, asked for the key at the front desk, and went upstairs to his room. Locking the door behind him, he turned around and lit the room’s gas jet. He took a moment to enjoy the view of Broadway from the window and then got to work. After stripping the bed with a yank, Headley piled the sheets against the headboard, then stacked chairs, dresser drawers, and anything else made of wood onto the mattress. He added newspapers to the pile, produced a bottle of turpentine, and shook its contents over the heap.

Headley unlocked the door in case he had to get out in a hurry, then opened the vial of Greek fire and poured it onto the bed. Flames leapt to life, accelerated by the turpentine. Headley stepped into the hall, closed and locked the door, then walked briskly to the front desk, where he left the key before exiting into the street.

Kennedy and the other men did the same at more than a dozen hotels around Manhattan. When Headley finished with his hotels, he turned his attention to the city’s waterfront. Barges bobbed in the harbor barely 20 yards from the street, close enough for a man with a good arm to hurl bottles of Greek fire onto the vessels’ decks one by one. The Merchant, a barge near Franklin Street, was loaded with 2,000 bales of hay and made a particularly seductive target. The hay burned fast and bright, sending reflections rippling across the surface of the Hudson River.

Before long fire bells were ringing across the city. Around 9:15 p.m., Headley “concluded to go and see how my fires were doing.” There was no panic at the Astor House hotel, oddly, but he saw crowds pouring out of Barnum’s American Museum at the intersection of Broadway and Ann Street nearby.

Headley learned what had happened when he came across Kennedy near City Hall a little while later. Kennedy said that he had set fires at his assigned hotels as planned, then figured he’d enjoy himself until all hell broke loose. He had a few drinks and strolled to Barnum’s Museum, where he gazed up at the looming white facade with its paintings and banners, then put down 30 cents and went inside. After roaming the galleries for a few minutes, an inebriated Kennedy noted that the fifth-floor stairway was clear of people and decided it “would be fun to start a scare.” Drawing a leftover bottle of Greek fire from his pocket, he broke it open on the edge of one of the stair treads as if it were an egg. As flames spread, he watched the ensuing terror among museumgoers with amusement.

The Confederate operatives were high on adrenaline and satisfaction, but this was quickly replaced by the wobbly feeling that they’d been had. Sure, the city was in a bit of a panic, but it seemed as if all the fires had been discovered promptly and put out. Barnum later wrote in a letter to the New York Times that his museum hadn’t been damaged in the slightest. “So speedy was the extinguishment of the flames arising from the liquid ignited on the stairs,” the letter read, “that not even a scorch is visible.”

Where was the uncontrollable inferno? Headley theorized that Longmire and the chemist who’d made the Greek fire had conspired to thwart their plans. In fact the failure was simpler: The men didn’t understand that fire required good airflow to reach its destructive potential. Had they opened the windows of the rooms they set ablaze, the hotels and adjoining buildings may have been reduced to ashes. New York had been saved by insufficient ventilation.

The men—exhausted, and in Kennedy’s case still drunk—found lodgings at a hotel around 2 a.m. and retired for the night. The next morning, Kennedy was sitting in the lobby with his colleague Robert Martin, reading the papers, when a familiar figure entered. Kennedy went white when he realized that it was the city’s chief of detectives, John Young. The chief chatted with the front desk attendants, advising them to add extra watchmen while the investigation into the fires was ongoing. He then plopped down in a chair right next to Martin. The thought occurred to Kennedy that he might be detained or, worse, killed right then and there. He was relieved when a patrolman called from outside, prompting Young to get up and leave the lobby.

Kennedy was not keen to leave the hotel, but Martin was hungry enough to meet Headley for a late breakfast at Broadway and 12th Street. The place was crowded and everyone was murmuring with shock about the prior evening’s events. The men ordered food and grabbed a selection of newspapers, which had already reported that “rebels were at the head of the incendiary work.” By that afternoon, editors were beginning to print a list of every false name the men gave at the hotels, where staff had been all too willing to describe the pseudonymous guests to reporters.

The arsonists decided that it was time to get the hell out of New York. That evening they reconvened at the cottage, relieved to discover that none among their ranks had been arrested. They decided to leave town on a train departing the city at 11 p.m. They bought tickets for a sleeper car, which began boarding at nine, and when the hour arrived the men slipped into their car together. Unwilling to let down their guard until the train left the depot, the men looked out the windows for signs of police. Finally, the steam whistle blew and the engine lurched forward.

Kennedy and his cohort arrived in Albany just before dawn and spent the day in their hotel rooms, since connecting trains wouldn’t be departing until later in the evening. That night they rode in a sleeper car to Canada, arriving in Toronto in the next afternoon. Their work had not gone as planned, but crossing into Canadian territory had surely been a relief. The feeling would be short-lived.

Police Superintendent John Alexander Kennedy

Unknown to the arsonists, New York police had been aware of their conspiracy for weeks. An anonymous informant in Canada had provided information about the original Election Day plot, and requested a hefty reward in return. The Union government was not about to pull out its checkbook without clear proof, but it was willing to pay up if a cursory investigation revealed that the story was true. So detectives had tailed Kennedy, Martin, Headley, and their collaborators upon arrival in New York. But as Election Day came and went, and their activities failed to align with the intelligence tip, the police disregarded them as a threat.

After the attacks, the police made a handful of arrests of suspicious individuals, including a woman from Baltimore who had been seen at the Metropolitan and another hotel the night of the fires (a coincidence, she claimed). The suspects had no relevant information to share and were soon released. A note found at the Astor House then pointed police in the right direction; it was written on stationery from McDonald’s piano store and loosely described a Thanksgiving-night meeting. The store was put under surveillance.

On November 29, at a meeting chaired by William “Boss” Tweed, the city’s board of supervisors unanimously voted to authorize a $5,000 reward for the capture of the arsonists, and further resolved that the police could use their discretion in tapping municipal funds “to procure the arrest and conviction of criminals and others endangering the safety of the community.” Major General Dix, who by then had resumed his role as commander of the Union army’s Department of the East, was determined to do his part to root out the suspects. Though in his mid-sixties and too old for combat, Dix would let no one mistake his wavy white hair and grandfatherly bearing for weakness. By November 27, he had issued General Orders assuring the public that “all such persons engaged in secret acts of hostility here can only be regarded as spies, subject to martial law, and to the penalty of death…. If convicted, they will be executed without the delay of a single day.” All residents of the “insurgent States” present in New York City were commanded to report and register themselves with Dix’s department or be treated as a spy. Dix would have attempted a Union invasion of Canada, too, had the War Department in Washington not in a panic persuaded him otherwise.

The police superintendent at the time was John Alexander Kennedy, a Tammany Hall member and the son of Irish immigrants. (He was not a known relative of the Confederate operative with the same last name.) Kennedy was a reform-minded Republican who had been beaten bloody in the 1863 Draft Riots, and he was eager to get to the bottom of the arson plot. Anonymous letters flooded into his office with theories and misinformation—it was hard to tell the two apart—and the local papers engaged in all manner of speculation. When the initial arrests didn’t pan out, and Dix’s registration line for Southern residents proffered no leads, Kennedy concluded that the men responsible must have fled north to Canada. He immediately sent a trio of detectives to Toronto, including Chief Young, who had all but brushed shoulders with the conspirators in the Manhattan hotel lobby. Based on investigation intelligence and the earlier Election Day plot tip, the detectives set out to learn anything they could about the men’s whereabouts and activities.

On a snowy night shortly after the conspirators had returned to Toronto, Colonel Thompson, the Confederate spymaster north of the border, contacted Headley to alert him that several detectives from New York had also arrived in the city. One of them had asked for the conspirators by name at the Queen’s Hotel, where Confederates were known to stay. Thompson advised Headley and his comrades to keep a low profile.

But the detectives were doing more than asking around—they were also actively working to infiltrate the Confederate organization in Toronto. It was not a terribly difficult task: Young and the other detectives only had to spout the right talking points over a drink or two to be welcomed into the fold. Presenting themselves as “bitter Secessionists,” according to the New York Times, the detectives “made it convenient to curse ‘Beast Butler,’ ” who had guarded New York through the election, and “styled the President the great Illinois ape.”

Young gained the confidence of Larry McDonald, whose brother owned the piano store in New York, and got him to spill the whole boastful story of the arson plot. McDonald also mentioned that two of the conspirators, one of whom was Kennedy, were at that very moment planning to leave Canada and return to the South. They considered trying to run marine blockades down the East Coast, but decided it would be safer to obtain train passage to Kentucky, the gateway of the Confederacy.

Arresting the arson suspects in Canada was a dicey prospect, given that the territory’s government would have to agree to extradite them to the U.S. to stand trial. Now McDonald’s information presented the detectives with a grand opportunity: As soon as the conspirators set foot on American soil, they were fair game for law enforcement. So the detectives left Toronto, crossed the border to Michigan, and waited for inbound trains to arrive.

In closing Kennedy warned, “Burn this. Stationery is dangerous.”

After saying farewell to their friends in Toronto, Kennedy and his co-conspirator John Ashbrook boarded a train on the Grand Trunk Railroad line bound for St. Clair, Michigan. Kennedy was dressed in a plain gray suit and dark overcoat with a Confederate $20 bill sewn into the lining. His papers identified him as Richard Cobb of Illinois. On December 29, Ashbrook and Kennedy trudged through bitter cold and thick snow to catch a connecting train in St. Clair, this one bound for Detroit. The train was crowded. Kennedy swung into the first open spot he could find, and Ashbrook continued on to a window seat at the rear of the car.

Accounts differ as to what happened next. Despite not being present at the scene, Headley later claimed that detectives boarded the train and made their way straight to Kennedy. When Ashbrook saw what was happening, and that he’d be unable either to help his friend or to exit safely through the train’s doors, he threw open the window by his seat, allowing a rush of cold air into the car. He threw one leg out the window, pulled his body through, then leapt from the moving train, rolling into a snowbank.

Detective James Bennett told a different story: He said that Kennedy had been arrested, by himself and his colleagues, outside the train depot in Detroit. Bennett reported that he and his partner, Christian McDougal, sidled up to Kennedy in the chilly street and asked him for identification. McDougal examined the papers, looked Kennedy in the eye, and said, “Your name is Stanton”—the alias Kennedy had used in New York. Kennedy reached for a gun, but before he could grab it the detectives had his arms pinned to his body.

Either way the story ends the same way: Ashbrook escaped and eventually made it to Kentucky; Kennedy ended up back in New York City, where he was held for processing and interrogation at police headquarters at 300 Mulberry St. The holding cell’s turnkey, Edward Hays, struck up a conversation with Kennedy and mentioned that a prisoner had once offered him $1,500 in gold for a chance to escape. Kennedy wasn’t sure he could trust Hays, but he knew that he needed to flee—if convicted, he faced a death sentence. So he told Hays that he knew where to rustle up some cash. Could he have a pen and paper?

On January 11, 1865, Kennedy wrote two letters. The first was addressed to Hiram Cranston, the keeper of the New York Hotel and a man with known Southern sympathies. Kennedy did not know Cranston personally, but he was aware of his reputation and means. Introducing himself as “a Capt. in C.S.A.,” Kennedy asked if Cranston might raise $1,500 in gold for his release. Kennedy assured Cranston that if he and his father couldn’t repay the amount in cotton, “the C.S. Agent in Canada, Hon. J. Thompson, I know would cheerfully refund the amount.” His second letter was to Benjamin Wood, Mayor Wood’s brother and owner of the Copperhead-friendly Daily News. Kennedy again asked for funds, pleading, “If I could only see you I am satisfied I could convince you of my ability to make it ‘all right.’ ”

Hays left, letters in hand, and later returned to the damp cells on Mulberry Street to inform Kennedy that neither Wood nor Cranston was willing to give him any money. Kennedy then resorted to more personal—and riskier—tactics. On January 15, he dispatched Hays with a letter he had written to McMaster. Pretending to be a stranger lest he implicate McMaster in the arson plot, Kennedy wrote:

My Turnkey the bearer of this, I have bribed to release me if I can get some responsible man in the City to be my security, or guarantees that the money will be forthcoming— He says if he can get such guarantee for five hundred dollars he will get me out tonight. I have not time to explain matters or make suitable apologies for thus addressing you—an entire stranger— Question him as regards my condition. Do not promise him any money in advance for I believe him to be a scoundrel—any arrangement you may make to effect my release will entitle you to my eternal gratitude. I can refund any sum under $1500 as soon as I reach Canada.

In closing he warned, “Burn this. Stationery is dangerous.”

Two days later, Kennedy was still locked up at Mulberry Street. He had privately admitted to Hays that he set fires in the lower part of the city, but he wouldn’t name the hotels he targeted. Dix, eager to see the case move forward, issued orders appointing a military commission to conduct Kennedy’s trial. Convinced of the increasing gravity of his situation, Kennedy scribbled a second letter to McMaster, begging for his assistance. “I submit this business to you,” Kennedy wrote, “if you can aid me without injuring yourself I ask you to do it but if you have to place yourself in the hands of any son of a bitch why? refuse altogether + leave me to my fate.” He signed the letter with a desperate postscript, daring to put his pseudonym to paper: “You remember Stanton do you not?”

The letter had only just left Mulberry Street when army officials entered Kennedy’s cell, accompanied by Major John Augustus Bolles, the judge advocate assigned to prosecute him. They informed Kennedy that he would be tried as a spy, that he was entitled to counsel, and that he could enter a statement into evidence with the hope of persuading the military commission to offer mercy. Kennedy gave a mundane summary of his time in New York, claiming that he had visited the city to “spend a few weeks, have some fun, & run the blockade to Wilmington.” He added, “I decline to state whether I had any errand in N.Y. other than I have stated.”

Proceedings against Kennedy began on January 31. Kennedy entered a plea of not guilty, but he had been correct when he noted that “stationery is dangerous.” At the trial, Hays appeared as a witness for the prosecution. It turned out that he was a tool of the police department. Offering a seemingly friendly ear, Hays would talk to prisoners, offer to carry their letters, and then show the correspondence to his superiors. Kennedy’s letter to Cranston, on review, had been “deemed advisable not to send.”

As for the other letters, police superintendent Kennedy testified that he and Dix had reviewed them, made copies for themselves, and allowed Hays to take them to their intended recipients. The copies were entered into evidence, and Hays confirmed that in his conversations with Wood and McMaster, the men had been unwilling to jeopardize their standings or fortunes for a foot soldier in a misdirected plot. Hays testified that Wood had opened the letter and huffed that he did not recognize any such business. Turning his head away, he tore the letter in half.

McMaster got to say his piece in person, when he was called as a trial witness. He claimed not to know Kennedy. As for the arson scheme, he said that no military officer he knew would have done such a harebrained thing. “It was rather the work of some half-crazy women or noncombatants,” he argued.

After several days of testimony and the submission of evidence, the commission came to its decision on February 27: Kennedy was found guilty and sentenced to death.

If the New York arson plot seems especially resonant with recent events, it’s in part because swaths of the American people and some of the country’s most powerful institutions have failed to reckon with the nation’s history of right-wing violence. There is a tendency to close the book on past horrors, rather than consider their causes and grapple with their impact. The result is a sanitization of U.S. history, in which we’re taught to forgive or rationalize the sins of violent white men, if we’re taught about them at all.

Most everyone involved with the conspiracy to burn New York moved on with their lives in peace. John Headley was pardoned for his Confederate service shortly after the Civil War by President Andrew Johnson; he became secretary of state in Kentucky, and in 1906 published a full-length memoir, entitled Confederate Operations in Canada and New York, that described the arson conspiracy. Robert Martin was also pardoned, and later worked in the tobacco industry. John Ashbrook became an insurance agent. James McMaster died in 1886, and a lengthy New York Times obituary praised him as a “commanding figure” and theologian, barely mentioning that he had once been jailed for sedition.

No doubt the arsonists hoped that they would be remembered as bold heroes, and for a time, in some circles, they were. They benefited from the Lost Cause myth, according to which the South fought to preserve states’ rights and liberty rather than the institution of slavery, and the Confederacy was a land of heroism and honor. This mythology would hold strong for decades, and not just in the South. Only after the murder of George Floyd in 2020, and months of subsequent protest and dialogue about systemic racism in America, did the federal government arrive at the decision to remove Confederate generals’ names from U.S. military bases—more than 150 years after the end of the Civil War. Today, many right-wing politicians still spout Lost Cause rhetoric and advocate a vision of America rooted in white supremacy and Christian Nationalism.

In the end, Robert Cobb Kennedy was the only man brought to account for the arson plot. He was imprisoned at Fort Lafayette, on a small island in the Narrows between Brooklyn and Staten Island, and scheduled to be hanged on March 25, 1865. Up until that day, according to press accounts, Kennedy was energetic in his bearing. He would go from cursing his foes from the fort’s damp casements to bargaining for reprieve; from getting drunk on whiskey smuggled in by his lawyer to chatting casually with the prison chaplain. He swore that the Union would never dare provoke Southern retaliation by hanging him, and repeatedly attempted to escape the island fortress. (The prison’s commander caught him trying to jimmy a lock with a red-hot poker.) But after an appeal to President Lincoln himself failed, Kennedy finally agreed to sign a confession for his crimes. At the very least he wanted to tell his side of the story.

Lieutenant Colonel Martin Burke visited Kennedy’s cell the night before his execution to secure his testimony. Kennedy acknowledged his role in the plot with alarming lightness, calling it “a huge joke on the fire department.” Of Barnum’s Museum, he said it “was set on fire by merest accident, after I had been drinking, and just for the fun of a scare.” Turning serious for a moment, he said to Burke, “We wanted to let the people of the North understand that there are two sides to this war, and that they can’t be rolling in wealth and comfort while we at the South are bearing all the hardships and privations.” He also claimed that “we desired to destroy property, not the lives of women and children,” before shrugging and admitting, “that would of course have followed.”

On the day of his execution, Kennedy ate a hearty breakfast and packaged up photographs of himself with locks of his hair, to be sent to family and friends as mementos. He then proceeded to the gallows. The appointed executioner was a Union army deserter whose offense was pardoned in exchange for his new line of work. An officer read a summary of the charges, and Kennedy spat in response to each that it was “a damned lie.” Just before Kennedy dropped to his death, making him the last Confederate soldier executed by the Union during the Civil War, he shouted the words of an old ballad:

Trust to luck, trust to luck,

Stare fate in the face,

Sure your heart will be easy

If it’s in the right place.

Love, Interrupted

Love,
Interrupted

Two women promised they would see the Golden Gate Bridge for the first time once they were together. They had no idea how long that would take.

By Kelsey Rexroat

The Atavist Magazine, No. 154

Kelsey Rexroat is a San Francisco–based editor and writer. Her fiction and nonfiction has appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic, LitHub, The Hairpin, and McSweeney’s Internet Tendency.

Editor: Jonah Ogles
Art Director: Ed Johnson
Copy Editor: Sean Cooper
Fact Checker: Alison Van Houten
Illustrator: Musubu Hagi

Published in August 2024.

Ashwini Naidu knew when her car was going over the Golden Gate Bridge, because the rumble of the pavement beneath her changed. She sat in the passenger seat, fully reclined, and clenched her eyes shut. From the driver’s seat, her coworker updated Ashwini on their progress—a quarter of the way across, halfway—until, finally, Ashwini was in the clear.

When they’d started out on their hour-long, southward journey from Sonoma to San Francisco earlier that day, Ashwini was driving. She had intended to follow a circuitous route that would take them over the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge into the East Bay, then west across the Bay Bridge into the city proper. Circumventing the Golden Gate would add 30 minutes to their drive, but Ashwini didn’t care about that. She didn’t realize that her GPS had rerouted them until she noticed the Marin Headlands rising above the highway. She knew what that meant: The bridge loomed ahead. Without hesitating, she pulled her car onto the shoulder of the freeway.

“You have to drive,” she explained to her bewildered coworker. “I can’t see the Golden Gate Bridge.”

Ashwini, who was in her mid-thirties, had never laid eyes on the iconic structure in person. It wasn’t for lack of opportunity—by 2023, she had been living in the Bay Area for three years. The soaring vermilion bridge is one of the first sights that most transplants tick off their must-see list, and Ashwini’s work took her all around San Francisco. Avoiding even a glimpse of it took effort. But Ashwini had made a promise to another woman 7,500 miles away: She would not see the bridge until they were finally hand in hand.

Girl Meets Girl

Before she moved to San Francisco—before she fell in love, before she even knew what being in love felt like—Ashwini lived in the vibrant metropolis of Bengaluru, more commonly known as Bangalore. She was gregarious, with a natural curiosity about everyone she met that helped her make friends easily. She was also ambitious. While attending an all-girls Catholic high school, she cofounded a company that offered arts programs for kids.

It was also in high school that Ashwini realized she was attracted to girls. Her feelings seemed natural to her, and she never questioned them until other girls at school began giggling and teasing one another about their crushes on boys. She worried what they would think if she revealed that she didn’t feel the same way, so she kept her romantic inclinations to herself. “I did not even know what being gay meant,” Ashwini said. “The idea of marrying a woman was unfathomable at that time, at least for me.”

Before British colonization, India had a history of tolerance toward diverse sexual orientations and gender identities. That ended with the 1860 passage of Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, which criminalized “carnal intercourse against the order of nature” as an “unnatural offense,” punishable with a fine and up to life in prison. Although the law didn’t specifically refer to homosexuality, it was interpreted as outlawing same-sex relations. In practice, consenting adults were rarely charged under Section 377, but it was used as a tool for harassment, discrimination, and blackmail against people who fell outside the bounds of heteronormativity.

When a female classmate confided to Ashwini that she had a crush on her, Ashwini was initially alarmed. She told the girl that being together was impossible. In time, however, the shock and bewilderment softened. Ashwini noticed how her heart fluttered when she was around the girl, and she started to crave their moments of connection—even if pursuing them meant hiding their burgeoning relationship. “I don’t know what this is,” Ashwini told her, “but can we promise each other that no matter what happens, we won’t give up on our friendship? Let’s just dive into this and see where it takes us.”

Ashwini’s father often said that if something was done in secret, there must be something wrong with it. He was a stay-at-home dad raising Ashwini and her younger sister, Shalini, while their mother worked. He always listened attentively to Ashwini when she talked about her problems, and he offered encouragement and advice. More often than not she listened. But she pursued her clandestine relationship without her dad’s knowledge. In fact, Ashwini told no one about her girlfriend.

The two girls kept their friend circles separate and were careful not to draw attention to themselves in public. In private their inhibitions fell away as they sought refuge in each other. They sat together in their bedrooms and spun dreams of a shared future: living together in a cozy home until their hair silvered and their faces became etched with wrinkles. They even chose names for their imagined children. “It was a very intense, emotional relationship,” Ashwini said.

Those conversations made Ashwini’s heart pound with both exhilaration and trepidation, because even as she allowed herself to dream, a sense of hopelessness would settle over her, a dark cloud that obscured the future. The life the two girls imagined didn’t seem possible in India. Perhaps, her girlfriend suggested, Ashwini could pursue an engineering degree in the United States. Maybe on another continent, far from the confines of home, their love could blossom freely.

Then one day their shared vision was shattered. “I think I’m straight, and I think you’re straight, too. This whole thing was a big mistake,” Ashwini’s girlfriend told her. The words landed like a blow and seemed to confirm Ashwini’s worst fear: that to feel the way she felt, something must be wrong with her. Perhaps her dad was right about what people did in secret. Perhaps, at her core, she was shameful.

Ashwini began to question her worth. She thought about how disappointed her friends and family would be if they knew the real her. Some days she wondered if she would be better off dead.

Ashwini stayed in India for college, earning her degree in industrial engineering, then began her career. She dated men and had one relationship that lasted several years. Her boyfriend declined to introduce her as his partner to his friends, and Ashwini’s friends and her sister insisted that she deserved better. Such red flags didn’t bother her, however. The relationship was just a way to ignore how she truly felt.

In high school, Ashwini had joined the drama club, and she later acted in a few plays and did voiceover work. She knew how to assume the role of a character, to adopt mannerisms and deliver lines convincingly. By dating a man, she told me, “I had the perfect script. But I didn’t feel that anything was natural. It was not coming from the bottom of my heart.”

Meanwhile, a national debate over gay rights in India was simmering. In 2009, when Ashwini was 21, LGBTQ+ activists achieved a significant victory when the Delhi High Court held that Section 377 violated the country’s constitution by depriving citizens of the rights to equal treatment under the law, to privacy, and to freedom of expression. The decision was a response to a lawsuit filed eight years earlier by an HIV/AIDS advocacy organization called the Naz Foundation, and it effectively decriminalized consensual intercourse between same-sex adults.

She sometimes pictured herself in the ocean, swimming as far away from her true self as she could, yet never finding safe harbor.

The ruling was a significant but short-lived step toward equal rights in India. Public attitudes toward LGBTQ+ lifestyles were still predominantly negative. Following the court decision, a poll conducted by the Hindustan Times and the CNN-IBN television network found that 73 percent of Indians thought homosexuality should be illegal. A coalition of conservative religious and political groups appealed the High Court ruling to the country’s Supreme Court on the grounds that “homosexuality was an offense against public morality and Indian cultural values.” In December 2013, the Supreme Court reinstated Section 377. A panel of judges criticized the High Court for “its anxiety to protect the so-called rights of LGBT persons,” whom it claimed made up only “a minuscule fraction” of Indians. Thousands of advocates gathered across the country to protest the decision, many wearing black arm bands and waving rainbow flags.

Ashwini prided herself on keeping up with the news, but when it came to the headlines about Section 377, she read as little as possible. That doesn’t apply to me, she told herself.

What she believed did apply to her was marriage. She wanted a life partner and all the things that came with it—the stability, the mutual support, the shared history. “I come from a household of a very good marriage,” she said. Growing up she had observed her parents’ devotion to each other in a million small ways. Her father had fixed her mother coffee each morning, and the pair would drink from steaming mugs while discussing the day ahead. Her dad bought her mom saris and helped her drape and adjust the complex garments as she got ready to go out. When Ashwini’s mom left for work, her dad stood on the balcony and waved at her until she was out of sight. At the end of the day, he’d await the first glimpse of her returning home.

Ashwini thought that the only hope of achieving something similar to what her parents had was marrying a man, so she didn’t balk when they suggested an arranged marriage. Their union had been arranged, after all, and they were progressive enough culturally that Ashwini knew she’d be able to veto anyone they presented who didn’t suit her.

Marriage would be the ultimate acting role for Ashwini, but she hoped that it would also be her salvation. She sometimes pictured herself in the ocean, swimming as far away from her true self as she could, yet never finding safe harbor. Marriage to a man could be a lifeline, connecting her to the kind of life she wanted—or thought she did. “I was feeling hopeless,” Ashwini said. “That’s when I just gave up and I said, ‘Let’s do this.’ ”

She and her parents were ready to begin the search for a husband, but first Ashwini wanted to go on a trip—a final adventure before she became a man’s wife. She wanted to go to the mountains of India, but not in order to mimic the trope she’d seen in movies: Woman retreats into nature and discovers herself. Rather, the trip would be one last chance to escape the weight of having to hide her identity. “I just wanted to get away,” Ashwini said. “I wanted to get out of my life.”

Ashwini’s sister, Shalini, had some time off before starting a new job and decided to join her. At the last minute, Ashwini’s friend Shinara decided to come along as well, but she suggested they go to Nepal instead. Ashwini’s solo trip at home was now a group expedition abroad. Still, she was eager to make the most of it.

It was morning when the trio arrived at a backpackers’ hostel in Thamel, Kathmandu’s tourist district. The streets outside were choked with honking cars, swerving mopeds, and pedestrians fanning out in every direction. Ashwini, hungover and sleep-deprived from a pre-departure get-together with friends, browsed the notices on a bulletin board while her sister and friend checked in. When the female manager asked for Ashwini’s passport, she walked over and tossed it on the counter without looking up. “Oh, hello,” the woman’s voice rang out. “It’s OK to not be rude.”

The words yanked Ashwini from her fuzzy headspace. She knew that under normal circumstances she would have greeted the manager warmly and riddled her with questions, and she quickly apologized. “Whatever,” the woman muttered. She had long, dark hair and a confident gaze. She studied Ashwini’s passport for what struck Ashwini as longer than necessary.

Their rooms wouldn’t be ready for several hours, so Ashwini, Shalini, and Shinara settled into the hostel’s adjoining restaurant. As they drank Nepal Ice beer, Shalini began sending her sister over to the front counter on various pretexts: Ask the manager to charge our phones. Ask where the good sightseeing is. Shalini had long suspected that Ashwini liked girls, even if her sister never admitted it outright. “At the time, I was just messing with Ashwini,” Shalini said.

Soon Ashwini caught the manager glancing her way from time to time. Shalini noticed, too. Then Ashwini’s cell phone, plugged in at the front desk, began blaring, “Wake up … Wake up ….” Ashwini leapt from her seat to silence it.

“Why is your alarm set to wake up at two in the afternoon?” the manager asked.

Ashwini explained that she was an account manager for an internet security company in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and she had to be at her office during the American workday. She sensed disapproval in the woman. In South Asia, people who work for American companies can have a reputation for being spoiled and entitled.

Another guest walked by and asked the manager how she was feeling. She reassured the guest that she was fine. “Is something wrong?” Ashwini asked.

“Do you need to know everyone’s stories?” the woman replied.

Ashwini figured she couldn’t make things worse at that point, so she plowed ahead. “Well, I’m on vacation. My room isn’t ready. I have nothing else to do. So if you want to offload it with me, you could just tell me what happened.”

The woman paused for a moment and then said that a confrontation with a coworker had upset her.

“What would make it better?” Ashwini asked.

“A drink,” the woman answered.

Ashwini pointed out that they served drinks at the adjoining restaurant. “I can’t drink while I’m working,” the woman said.

“What time do you get off work?” Ashwini asked. She was going to be at the hostel anyway. Maybe they could get a drink together.

The woman agreed.

Srijana Khatri, who goes by Shree, was Ashwini’s opposite in some ways. She was introverted and reflective, more comfortable in her own company than in large groups, though she was fiercely loyal to her family and her close-knit circle of friends. Her patience and nurturing demeanor, coupled with a gift for listening, made people who’d just met her feel at ease.

Growing up, Shree split her time between Kathmandu and the rural mountain district of Okhaldhunga. Her parents worked for the military, and she was raised primarily by her grandparents, from whom she absorbed an old-soul influence. When she realized that she was gay, she kept it to herself. She wasn’t sure how her family would react. Compared with surrounding countries, Nepal was relatively progressive on LGBTQ+ issues. In 2007, the year Shree turned 13, a Supreme Court ruling made Nepal the first country in South Asia to recognize the rights of the LGBTQ+ community. A few years later, in 2011, Nepal became the first country in the world to include a third gender category on its census. A new constitution, adopted in 2015, prohibited discrimination on the grounds of sexual orientation or gender identity. But national law stopped short of recognizing gay marriages, and to many people same-sex relationships remained taboo. Shree knew of gay people who were thrown out of their homes when they came out to their families.

One day when Shree was 16, her grandfather told her he knew that she was different from other girls. If there was something she wanted to tell him, he said, he was ready to listen. Shree had already envisioned the possible outcomes of confiding in him, and not all of them were positive. “I was overwhelmed, because I didn’t expect him to understand,” she said. Still, Shree decided to be honest with him. To her surprise, he quickly accepted her and even offered advice on navigating the road ahead. The news about her sexuality soon spread through her family, and though her parents asked for some time to adjust, everyone supported her.

As a teenager, Shree had two relationships with women. One never evolved past the casual-dating phase. The other, with a woman seven years her senior, ended when the woman’s family arranged for her to marry to a man. This is just how it is, Shree told herself, meeting the disappointment with characteristic equanimity. She knew that the pressure of family expectations could be intense.

After high school, Shree enrolled in college to pursue a degree in business and finance. Then, on the eve of exams in her final year, she began having seizures. She was diagnosed with epilepsy and spent the next year in and out of the hospital, before doctors found the right medication to stabilize her condition. The ordeal left her feeling daunted about returning to school. She took a job at the hostel instead, managing the property and sometimes covering the front desk.

Shree wasn’t sure why she agreed to have a drink with Ashwini. She’d been in a bad mood all day. Perhaps it was Ashwini’s warm eyes and refusal to be cowed by Shree’s terseness that won her over. She figured, why not? The two women made plans for the following evening.

Then a problem arose. The afternoon of the day Shree and Ashwini were supposed to meet up, Shinara announced that she’d booked a side trip to visit Pokhara, a popular lakeside city six hours from Kathmandu. She, Shalini, and Ashwini would be leaving together that evening on an overnight bus. Ashwini protested. She was the type to always show up when she said she would, even if it was to have a drink with a woman whose name she didn’t yet know. Shinara eyed Ashwini skeptically. She knew that her friend liked women, but she wasn’t about to forgo the Pokhara trip for someone Ashwini had just met. Besides, Shinara said, the woman had helped her book the bus tickets—she knew that Ashwini would be leaving that night.

Ashwini relented. On her way out, she went to the front desk to apologize to the manager, but no one was there. A taxi arrived to take Ashwini, Shalini, and Shinara to the bus station, and while loading their bags they asked about return service when they got back to Kathmandu. The driver said that would be no problem and instructed them to call the hostel manager when they arrived so that she could send for him. He gave them the woman’s number.

Ashwini was so relieved that she now had the chance to apologize for her sudden departure that she forgot to ask the driver for the manager’s name. She saved the number under “Oh, Hello.”

The three women boarded the bus, and the streets of Kathmandu soon gave way to a dark, hilly landscape. The screen of Ashwini’s phone glowed as she pulled up the number she’d saved.

Hey, this is Ashwini, she typed into a new chat.

A moment later her phone chimed.

Ashwini who? Should I know who you are?

Ashwini blushed with embarrassment. Then Shree let on that she was joking.

I’m sorry I didn’t stay back today, Ashwini wrote.

It’s OK, Shree replied. They agreed to try meeting up again in a few days, when Ashwini would be back in Kathmandu for 24 hours before her flight home. Then Shree tested the romantic waters. She wasn’t sure Ashwini was gay, but again she figured, why not?

I have a bad habit when I drink, Shree texted. I like to flirt.

OK. Let’s flirt with the whole town. Let’s paint the town red, Ashwini texted back.

Shree sighed. Subtlety was not going to work apparently. She tried again.

Especially with girls, she wrote.

Sunk down low in her bus seat, Ashwini felt her chest tighten with excitement. Only a few days earlier, she had told her parents to begin the process of an arranged marriage. Years of running away from her sexual orientation had left her exhausted. Shree’s words sent a jolt of energy through her.

Ashwini recalled something that had happened earlier that day. She’d visited the Pashupatinath Temple on the banks of the Bagmati River, where devotees and pilgrims gather to offer prayers and seek blessings from Pashupati, a manifestation of Shiva. The space was adorned with intricate wood carvings and golden spires. The heady fragrance of incense hung in the air. A priest had instructed her in sankalpa, which he translated as making a wish.

Ashwini had hesitated to complete the ritual. She believed in God, but she could never bring herself to pray for anything. Who was she to make requests when God knew what was best for her? But when she put her forehead to the ground in the temple, she felt a desire welling up inside. God, she prayed, once in my lifetime, I want to experience love the way it should feel.

Now, staring at her phone on the bus, she thought that this was her chance, maybe the only one she would get before returning home and getting married. She typed back: When did I say I have a problem with that?

Something was happening with Shree, something she hadn’t experienced before, and she wouldn’t walk away from it when it had barely begun.

When Ashwini returned to Kathmandu, she and Shree shared a scooter to a café. Ashwini drove while Shree sat on the back and held Ashwini’s waist. Shree was struck by the scent of Ashwini’s perfume—it was fresh and clean. I could smell this forever, she thought.

Ashwini inundated Shree with questions during the ride. When Ashwini learned that Shree was only 23, she balked a little inside. Ashwini was 29. Surely the six-year age gap meant that Shree was too young for them to have much in common. But when they sat down to a lunch of steamed momos, Shree talked about her grandparents and how much she loved spending time with them. She seemed mature beyond her years.

As the two women got to know each other, an unfamiliar giddiness spread through Ashwini’s body like a fizzy drink. It all felt so natural. She wasn’t reeling off a scripted version of what she thought she should be saying. She was just being herself.

Evening descended, and the women made their way to a bar near the hostel. As they sipped their drinks, two local men came over to say hello to Shree. Soon after, Ashwini’s sister and friend walked in. The sight of Ashwini at a table with Shree and two unfamiliar men made them uneasy. Ashwini was relatively well-off, visiting a poor country. What if these locals were planning to take advantage of her somehow? Shalini and Shinara called Ashwini over and voiced their concern: What did Shree want, exactly?

“Relax,” Ashwini told them. “I spent the day with her. She’s different.”

Only a few tables away, Shree could hear the women arguing, and she walked over to them. “Hey, guys,” she interrupted, “I think I’m going to call it a night.” She politely excused herself and walked out.

Ashwini rushed into the street and found Shree a few blocks away. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I want to apologize for my friends’ behavior.”

“Stop,” Shree said. She told Ashwini that she hadn’t left the bar because she was angry. She was glad that Ashwini had people who cared about her enough to look out for her. But she didn’t like drama, and she had to work in the morning. So she said goodnight. Ashwini returned to the bar. It was now midnight, and her plane home was departing at 5:30 that morning. Ashwini decided that she wouldn’t be on it.

“Listen,” she said to Shalini and Shinara. “I’m not going back to India.”

The other women erupted. “What nonsense!” said Shalini. “You don’t just fall in love with somebody in a foreign country. You think I will leave you here and go back home?”

Ashwini was adamant. She’d spent years overthinking every decision in her life, but in that moment her brain was quiet. She knew that she wanted to stay. Something was happening with Shree, something she hadn’t experienced before, and she wouldn’t walk away from it when it had barely begun. Even just a few more days might be enough to bring the picture into focus, for better or worse.

The following day, Ashwini greeted Shree at the front desk and explained that she hadn’t boarded her flight. “If I stay here for five days, will you hang out with me?” she asked.

A mixture of excitement and disbelief washed over Shree. This woman was rearranging her life to get to know her. She was touched, and she wanted to say yes, but she couldn’t take time off with so little notice. Instead, she agreed to see Ashwini before and after work.

For the next five days, they spent all of Shree’s free time together. Shree brought breakfast to Ashwini’s room each morning, and Ashwini explored the city during the day. When Shree clocked out, they’d meet at a restaurant and spend hours roaming the labyrinthine alleys of Thamel. They talked about past relationships, family, and their religious beliefs, connecting over their shared Hindu culture.

Ashwini was struck that Shree didn’t seem to hide any facet of herself. It made Ashwini feel her own inhibitions more keenly than ever. When Shree reached for her hand at a restaurant, Ashwini reflexively pulled away. She was unsure of the local laws, she explained, and wasn’t comfortable with public displays of affection.

At the end of the five days, Ashwini left Nepal with her thoughts in turmoil. A safe but passionless future awaited her in India; Shree represented the opposite. But she’d told Shree, “You deserve someone who can hold your hand in public and not be shy about it.” Ashwini didn’t know if she could be that person, no matter how much she wanted to.

Now 1,100 miles apart, the two women texted and called each other incessantly. Shree wanted more. She knew that Ashwini was on the cusp of an arranged marriage, which had already cost Shree one relationship. “I like you,” she told Ashwini after a few weeks. “But if it’s a no, that’s fine. We should stop talking right now.”

Ashwini wasn’t sure what to do. She knew the risks she faced: Walking away from an arranged marriage would almost certainly require coming out to her parents, and once her orientation was no longer a secret, who knew what kind of condemnation or rejection she might face—personal, professional, or otherwise? Plus, she would have to learn to accept herself for who she was. The alternative, however, was a life without Shree.

A few days after Ashwini’s 30th birthday, she video-called Shree. Looking at Shree’s face, she knew that she was ready to make the leap. Ashwini asked Shree to be her girlfriend.

A Threat and a Promise

In August 2018, Shree visited Ashwini in India. Ashwini worried how they would mesh in her home environment, particularly when easygoing Shree saw how driven she was in her career. But having Shree in her apartment felt natural. The women discovered that they both loved to cook, and they spent many evenings delving into new recipes. When they dined out, they dissected the ingredients of dishes and strategized how they might re-create them at home. Shree listened to Ashwini talk about her work and offered advice and encouragement. The two women discussed moving in together, but Ashwini couldn’t find a good job in Nepal, and Shree’s family had discouraged her from moving to India while same-sex relationships remained illegal there.

Then, the month after Shree’s visit, responding to petitions requesting a review of its earlier ruling, the Indian Supreme Court unanimously struck down Section 377. Intercourse between adults of the same sex was no longer illegal. “Criminalizing carnal intercourse is irrational, arbitrary, and manifestly unconstitutional,” said justice Dipak Misra as he delivered the decision. Outside the courthouse, LGBTQ+ advocates hugged and cheered. Two months later, Shree quit her job at the hostel, left Nepal, and moved into Ashwini’s apartment. She found work at a nearby motorcycle shop.

Despite the court’s decision, Ashwini was nervous about living with Shree. India remained a conservative country, and Ashwini worried about being rejected or ostracized if she came out. She introduced Shree to her parents as her roommate and avoided having coworkers and acquaintances visit her at home. When the housecleaner came, Ashwini told Shree, “Don’t be in the same room as me. Don’t be too close with me. Behave like we are friends.”

Shree found herself tiptoeing around her own home. “I was so scared in the beginning,” she said. She had come to India for Ashwini but felt like she was being asked to hide who she was. “All the time we were together in Bangalore, we never held hands in public,” Shree said. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”

Still, Shree was patient and forgiving by nature. She remembered stories of people who’d been disowned for coming out to their families. She knew how much Ashwini’s family and career meant to her. “Each of us has our own coming-out journey,” she told Ashwini. “Just because we are together, it doesn’t have to accelerate yours. Whatever your journey is, all I’m asking is to go with you.”

Ashwini wanted to lead an open life someday, but in the meantime there was a more pressing matter: Her parents still wanted to find her a husband. When she’d returned from her trip to Nepal, she’d informed them that she’d changed her mind about arranged marriage. She wasn’t ready to tell them about Shree, so instead she took aim at the institution itself. “Marriage is bullshit,” she told her parents. “Half of them end in divorce. I make a good income and don’t want to risk getting stuck paying alimony to some man.” As Ashwini tried to bury the topic, she considered her parents’ ages. They were in their late sixties. Perhaps they’d be gone before the real reason for her resistance became apparent. The thought brought a guilt-tinged sense of relief.

Ashwini’s parents were bewildered by her sudden hostility toward marriage. They broached the topic whenever she visited, so over time she saw them less and less. One day her mom asked her to meet for coffee. It was an unusual request—Ashwini didn’t drink coffee—but she agreed. The two women barely spoke as they sipped their beverages. It was only when Ashwini was driving them home that her mom opened up. She spoke about an older woman in their family who had never found a partner and now lived in lonely solitude. “I worry about that for you,” she said. Ashwini’s mom turned her gaze out the car window. “I’m not asking you to get married because I’m worried about what our friends say or what society says,” she continued. “I’m asking because I don’t want you to grow old without companionship. I want you to have what I’ve found with your father.”

Ashwini had always been on the move, always striving, always running away from herself. Shree was teaching her how to embrace stillness and be comfortable in her own skin.

I have that already, Ashwini thought.

“You’ve got to give me a reason,” her mom said. “You can’t just say you don’t want to get married.”

Silence hung in the air. They had already reached the house, but Ashwini continued driving around a nearby lake. They could go in circles forever, Ashwini thought, or she could jump off the ledge she was standing on. “It’s because I don’t like boys,” she said at last. Another long pause followed before her mom asked, “Are you trying to tell me you like girls?”

“Yes,” Ashwini said.

And then she told her mom about Shree. Once the words began, they tumbled out. Ashwini talked about how hard the years of secrecy and shame had been, how she’d even considered taking her own life, and how everything had changed when she heard Shree’s voice at the hostel in Kathmandu. Ashwini had always been on the move, always striving, always running away from herself. Shree was teaching her how to embrace stillness and be comfortable in her own skin. “I feel like I can breathe now,” Ashwini said.

Ashwini’s mom asked her to drive to a nearby store. She went in, bought three pairs of shoes, and got back in the car. Ashwini, still reeling from her confession, waited for a reaction, but none came. “Mom, I just shared the most intimate part of my life,” Ashwini said. “Do you have anything to tell me?”

“I’m not saying anything because my blood pressure is very high right now, and I can feel that I need my medicine,” her mother replied. “Can you drive me home?” She didn’t say another word until they’d walked inside. Then her mother turned to Ashwini and said, “Don’t tell Dad anything. Let me break it to him.”

Ashwini didn’t sleep that night. The next day her dad called. “Your mom told me something very big,” he said. He invited her over for lunch. When she arrived, he began to talk about one of his favorite Bollywood actors, who had come out in support of the transgender community. He mentioned how, in Mumbai, trans people have a prominent place in some cultural traditions. He also talked about how hard their lives could be.

Ashwini struggled to follow where the conversation was heading. “Dad, get to the point,” she interrupted. He looked at her directly. “Did we miss something biologically when you were born?” he asked.

Ashwini realized that he was confused, that he thought she might not identify as a woman. “Dad, I’m just a girl like any other girl, but I like girls. This is just who I am,” she said. She explained that before she met Shree, she felt like she would have been happy with only a fraction of the devotion he and her mother shared. But with Shree, she had found all of it. Now she couldn’t settle for anything less.

Her father’s eyes seemed to soften, and Ashwini sensed that she had connected with him. “You’ve been the perfect daughter,” he said. She had excelled in her education and career. Other parents in the neighborhood told him that they wanted a daughter like Ashwini.

Then her father dashed her hopes. “All the right you’ve done has been made wrong with this one thing,” he said. “I’m never going to be OK with it.”

Ashwini left the house in tears. She had always been close to her dad. “He was my hero all my life. He was my go-to guy. And I didn’t have him this time,” she said. “That really, really hurt me.”

Despite how they’d reacted, Ashwini stayed in contact with her parents. When she tried to discuss anything related to the LGBTQ+ community, they looked at her like she was speaking a foreign language. But grappling with a gap in understanding was better than not seeing her family at all—Ashwini loved her parents and didn’t want to lose them.

Shree and Ashwini continued living together while hiding their relationship from most people. Then one evening, while Ashwini was home alone getting ready to go to a friend’s party, there was a knock at the door. She opened it to find two men in plain clothes, one holding a notebook. They introduced themselves as police officers and pelted her with questions: What company do you work for? Where is your office? What is your phone number?

“Why do you need this information?” Ashwini asked. They gave a vague answer about crime in the neighborhood. Cold dread spread through her body. Why were they really there? Were they even police officers? Two of her male friends had come out to her a few years earlier, and they’d told her stories about harassment: how people showed up at gay Indians’ homes pretending to be police or media, gathered information, then threatened to expose them to their employers and families, sometimes extorting them for money. Ashwini’s tech job and the upscale neighborhood she lived in made her a target.

She knew she could ask for the men’s IDs to verify that they were law enforcement. She also knew that in India male officers must have a female officer present to approach a woman after 6 p.m.—she could ask the men to leave and return with a female colleague. But Ashwini was rooted to the floor in fear, and any words of reproach were stuck in her throat. She tried to appear casual as she answered the men’s questions.

When they asked, “What about the girl who lives with you?” her heart sank. Ashwini hadn’t told her landlord about Shree. How did these men know? Ashwini gave the strangers a few basic details, and finally they turned to go. “Be safe,” one of them said. The words hung in the air as Ashwini closed the door.

Ashwini went to her friend’s party, but her mind was miles away. She tried to smile and make small talk, but her unease grew as scenarios played out in her mind. Eventually, the roar of anxiety in her head drowned out the music and conversation. Without saying goodbye, she walked out the door and drove home to Shree.

Ashwini woke Shree up when she arrived. The two women spoke in hushed voices as they discussed the encounter and what it meant for them. They had attracted the wrong kind of attention; the apartment no longer felt safe. The front door was bolted, but the presence of the men seemed to lurk just beyond it. How long would it be before they returned?

Shree felt especially vulnerable—she had come to India alone, with Ashwini as her sole support system. “I don’t feel free here,” she said. The words unsettled Ashwini, and she felt a strong sense of guilt. The women sat next to each other in heavy silence. Then Shree asked, “Do you think our lives would be different in a country that accepts us?”

As if the universe had heard Shree’s question, the next day Ashwini learned that her company was hiring for a position similar to hers in California. Suddenly, moving to another country—one where same-sex relationships were legal—felt like a real possibility. Ashwini interviewed for the job and got it.

Ashwini and Shree came up with a plan: After Ashwini left for the United States, Shree would pack up their apartment in India and return to Nepal to begin the process of obtaining a U.S. visa. At the same time, Ashwini would find an apartment for them in San Francisco. They hoped to reunite in about a month.

Before her departure, Ashwini and Shree celebrated Ashwini’s birthday with friends who knew about their relationship. One of them persuaded Shree to wear a dress to the party despite her preference for more casual clothes. After everyone gave gifts to Ashwini, the guests told Shree it was her turn—not to give a present, but to receive one. They pulled her to the center of the room and had her close her eyes. When she opened them, Ashwini was kneeling in front of her holding a watch engraved with the words “Marry me.”

“Srijana Khatri,” Ashwini said, “you had me at ‘Oh, hello.’ ”

Shree hesitated for only a moment. Being the center of attention made her want to run, but she didn’t have any doubts about her love for Ashwini. Shree said yes. They would start their new life together, engaged, in San Francisco.

The couple knew little about the city. Shree had heard from guests at the hostel in Kathmandu that it was an open-minded place. And Ashwini was aware that the Bay Area was a hub for technology and innovation. The only concrete thing they could picture was the Golden Gate Bridge, and once they’d decided to move, it seemed to be everywhere. Magnets depicting the bridge already adorned their fridge, souvenirs from Ashwini’s colleagues who’d visited the U.S. On their coffee table sat a book of photography—a gift from a friend—with the bridge on its cover.

The structure came to symbolize the life they would soon be building together. Shree urged Ashwini to visit the Golden Gate once she’d arrived in San Francisco, but that didn’t feel right to Ashwini. She wanted to see it for the first time when they were side by side. She vowed to wait until they were together again.

The Separation

Ashwini moved in January 2020. She stayed in downtown San Francisco while hunting for an apartment. On weekends she took in the local sights—the Ferry Building, Lombard Street, the city’s Museum of Modern Art—but never the Golden Gate Bridge. Meanwhile, in Nepal, Shree discovered that she needed a letter from the motorcycle shop where she’d worked in India confirming her employment. She returned to India in mid-March to get the letter, only packing enough clothes for the two nights she planned to crash on a friend’s couch. She hoped that the short setback wouldn’t delay her reunion with Ashwini.

By then news of COVID-19 was sweeping the globe, as the virus wormed its way through China, Europe, and the U.S. Before long it was everywhere. In San Francisco, shelter-in-place orders were announced on March 16, closing all but essential businesses. In India, Shree had already checked in for her return flight to Nepal when the Indian government sealed the borders and restricted movement inside the country. She was trapped.

Shree felt angry. She had left her job, her family, her country for Ashwini. Now she was stuck in India while her fiancée was thousands of miles away. She felt like she had nowhere to turn. Where would she stay until flights resumed? Even friends were cautious about letting anyone but immediate family into their homes.

As she sheltered in San Francisco, Ashwini felt helpless. All she could do was make a list of every hotel and hostel in her old neighborhood and call them one by one to see if they had space for Shree. The hotels weren’t accepting new guests; the hostels were asking current ones to leave.

She’d hit dead end after dead end when Ashwini received a call from her parents. Their relationship remained strained; her decision to move to California hadn’t helped. But her parents knew that Shree was stranded in their city, and they asked Ashwini if she had a place to stay. Ashwini replied that she was figuring it out, but they weren’t satisfied with her answer. “That girl trusted you and came to Bangalore. You’re responsible for her safety, and you’re not here,” her mother said. “So, by virtue of being your family, we are responsible for her safety. Ask her to move in with us.”

Ashwini was stunned. She knew how meaningful it was for her parents to invite Shree into their home. She ran the idea past Shree, who was dubious. “This is the craziest thing we’ve done yet,” Shree said. But there were no other options.

When Shree showed up at the house with nothing but her backpack, Ashwini’s parents welcomed her with cool politeness. They were fond of the kind, considerate young woman they’d known as their daughter’s roommate. Now that Shree was engaged to Ashwini, they weren’t sure how to act around her—a living reminder of their daughter’s sexual orientation was sitting on their couch, using their bath, sharing a room with Shalini. “At least for two weeks, all of us were very awkward,” Shree told me.

Shree made a strong effort to connect with her hosts. Ashwini’s parents were older and particularly vulnerable to COVID, so Shree helped with the shopping and other errands. She cooked for the family, making momos and other Nepalese dishes part of the household’s meal rotation. She practiced yoga with Shalini to stay active. She ate lunch with Ashwini’s father and shared tea with her mother as the evening shadows lengthened.

Shree also began accompanying Ashwini’s mother to the local Hindu temple, which remained open for worship. It was a 20-minute walk away. “She would talk and I would listen,” Shree said. “She really liked that.” Shree also spoke at length with Shalini, who had been wary of her ever since Ashwini had chosen to stay behind on the girls’ trip to Nepal. Sharing her room with Shree, Shalini’s perception shifted. “We started to see each other in our own light,” Shalini said. “I got to find out more about her, her past, what she likes, her principles, her beliefs, and she got to see those things in me.”

Most important, Shalini recognized Shree’s devotion to her sister. She saw how they balanced each other and carved out spaces in their lives for their relationship every single day. She saw in their sacrifices expressions of love. Soon she was joking with Shree, “Come on, you can do better than my sister.”

India’s ban on air travel was extended week after week. When the government began allowing some flights, tickets were hard to come by and prices were exorbitant. Shree’s brief stay of a few weeks turned into ten months. It wasn’t until January 2021 that she was able to return to Nepal and resume her visa application process.

Saying goodbye to Ashwini’s family was bittersweet, because they’d come to accept Shree as part of their lives. “She’s very compassionate,” her mother told Ashwini one day. “She’s very smart.” Shalini had grown to care about Shree like a second sister. “I’ve always said that while Ashwini fell in love with Shree, I chose to make Shree my family,” Shalini said.

Ashwini found that avoiding the Golden Gate Bridge was no easy task. San Francisco is compact and hilly. The bridge rises 746 feet above the bay; on a clear day you can glimpse its distinctive towers peeking above the skyline from almost anywhere. Ashwini navigated the city with determined precision, keeping vigilant track of where the bridge stood in relation to her and avoiding vantages that might be intruded upon by its iconic silhouette.

Ashwini moved from one short-term apartment to another before she found a permanent place in Pleasanton, about an hour outside the city. She was in no danger of seeing the bridge from there, but sometimes she had to drive into San Francisco for client appointments. When she crossed the Bay Bridge between Oakland and San Francisco, about ten miles east of the Golden Gate, she focused on the car in front of her so she wouldn’t see the bridge out the passenger-side window. When she started a hiking group with friends, she avoided outings in places where the bridge might be visible.

Ashwini and Shree never expected their separation to last as long as it did. In Nepal, Shree’s visa appointment was postponed again and again. She worked at the hostel to make ends meet. Ashwini visited her twice, staying a month each time. They rented a furnished apartment together, shopped for groceries, cooked paneer and curries, and watched cricket on the couch, with Shree explaining the intricacies of the sport to Ashwini. They playacted at normal life. Then Ashwini had to go.

During her second visit, Ashwini’s parents also traveled to Nepal to meet Shree’s family. Everyone gathered at Shree’s aunt’s house for an enormous lunch and then sat in the living room to talk. Although they spoke different languages, the two families managed to communicate through gestures and expressions. Afterward, everyone retired to various rooms for a nap. “Shree and I were in a cousin’s room,” said Ashwini. “We were just lying on the bed, looking at the mountains, thinking, ‘Can you believe that our families are having an afternoon siesta together under the same roof?’ We were in disbelief.”

Everyone went to temple that evening. Before they parted ways, Shree’s mother asked her to translate a question for Ashwini’s parents: “Ask them if they like my daughter.” Ashwini’s father answered simply: “She is also our daughter.” They were words neither Shree nor Ashwini ever imagined they’d hear.

Days later, Shree quit her job at the hostel when her employer asked her to work instead of taking her scheduled vacation time while Ashwini was still visiting. It was a principled stand, but a foolhardy one: Her long-awaited visa appointment was coming up in a few months, and being unemployed could be seen as evidence of financial instability, diminishing her chances of getting government approval to spend time in the U.S. It didn’t matter that Ashwini could support her, because they weren’t yet legally related.

“I thank God every day that you have given all of your love to me. You have moved mountains for our love.”

Ashwini called the lawyer working with her and Shree. “What if she were my wife?” Ashwini asked. The lawyer confirmed that this would help at the appointment. It would be best if they married in an English-speaking country, so that the paperwork wouldn’t need to be translated.

Ashwini went back to the U.S. and put together a spreadsheet. She found 30-some countries that had legalized same-sex marriage. Only a handful allowed foreigners to marry there, and of those, there were three English-speaking countries that seemed like a good fit: the UK, Australia, and Canada. Ashwini was hopeful that Canada would work, but she discovered that the wait for a visitor visa could be as long as six months. Her shoulders slumped with defeat, and she returned to the drawing board.

Then a friend she hadn’t heard from in a while called. As it happened, the friend was in Los Angeles waiting to board a flight to Australia, where several of her Indian family members would be joining her. She said it had been easy to get them all visas. It only took a week, and it didn’t require going to a consulate or embassy—everything could be done online. Ashwini rushed to her computer.

In less than a month, both Shree and Ashwini had visitor visas for Australia. They arrived down under in March 2023 and were married on a beach south of Sydney, with only their photographer, a videographer, an officiant, and a local friend in attendance. Rain had darkened the skies throughout the preceding week, but the sun emerged on their wedding day, casting a warm glow over the turquoise waves. Both of them wore tailored pantsuits: Shree’s was powder pink, Ashwini’s dark teal.

Standing hand in hand in the sand, they said their vows. “The road to today has been a long and arduous one,” Ashwini told Shree. “I’m forever grateful for your love, patience, and trust. On this beautiful sunny day, with the mighty Pacific Ocean as my witness, I promise you that I will not rest until we get you home where you belong with me.”

In return, Shree said, “Today I want to start by telling how much I love you. And I thank God every day that you have given all of your love to me. You have moved mountains for our love.” As the officiant pronounced them wife and wife, they kissed and then raised their arms and cheered.

A month later, Shree arrived at the U.S. embassy in Kathmandu and sat down for her visa appointment. She was applying as a dependent rather than a visitor. Nervous about saying anything that might hurt her chances of getting approved, she’d reviewed a long list of questions that might come up. But the official only asked three things: What does your spouse do? When did you get married? Do you have some photographs? After looking at the photos, he said, “OK, you’re approved.”

Shree thought she must have misunderstood. She and Ashwini had withstood bigotry, three years of COVID lockdowns, countless long-distance calls, and a seemingly endless wait broken up by only the briefest of reunions. Surely the end of that saga would involve more than three simple questions.

“Did you say approved?” Shree asked.

“Yes,” the official said, already shuffling aside Shree’s paperwork for his next appointment. “You can collect your document from the bank in about a week.”

The Bridge

Shree landed at San Francisco International Airport in June 2023. Ashwini picked her up and they drove north on highway 101, straight to the Golden Gate Bridge.

They wore matching gray tees that read “Love Wins” in rainbow-colored cursive. As they approached the bridge, they pulled off at Crissy Field and spread out a picnic blanket. Ashwini had packed a San Francisco–themed lunch of avocado toast on sourdough bread. They clinked plastic cups of sparkling water together and looked up at the expanse of steel stretched before them.

A bank of fog hung low over the Marin Headlands in the distance, and they zipped up their jackets against the late-spring chill. Ashwini thought about the massive feat of engineering that had brought the bridge into being. Perhaps, with modern tools and technology, it wouldn’t be so hard to build it today. But in the 1930s, the endeavor had taken steadfast vision to overcome years of obstacles and setbacks. Ashwini’s journey to be with Shree felt similar—they’d navigated delays and discouragement to reach a goal that at times felt like little more than fantasy.

Later that summer, the Supreme Court of Nepal allowed provisional registration of same-sex marriages while it considered a case on the matter. (The court has yet to issue its ruling.) Meanwhile, the Indian Supreme Court was weighing a similar decision. The oral arguments in that case had occurred in April and May, and Ashwini had followed the proceedings online. She heard the petitioners argue about why marriage equality mattered and realized that they were expressing ideas she’d never been able to articulate. She remembered the night when the two men who might have been police came to her apartment. “I had this dirty feeling in my stomach. I could not describe what that feeling was,” she told me. “When I was listening to the arguments, I finally found the words. What I felt that night was that I was stripped of my dignity. It was so unacceptable for me.”(In October 2023, the Supreme Court rejected the petitioners’ case; as of this writing, same-sex marriage remains illegal in India.)

The desire to reject indignity was what prompted Ashwini to embark on “this adventure,” as she sometimes refers to what followed, with the woman she now calls her wife. Sitting in Crissy Field, Ashwini smiled at Shree.

“What do you think of the Golden Gate Bridge?” she asked.

“It’s very pretty,” Shree replied.

Neither of them were looking at the bridge.

القدوم الى أمريكا

بعد ان بُترت أرجلها في غارة جوية إسرائيلية على غزة، اضطرت ليان الباز أن تسافر أكثر من 6000 ميل بعيداً عن كل ما تعرفه لكي تتعلم كيف تمشي مجدداً.

القدوم الى أمريكا

قصة رنا ناطور
تصوير ايمان محمد

مجلة ذا اتافيست (The Atavist)، العدد 153

رنا ناطور هي صحفية ومنتجة فيديوهات حائزة على جوائز. نُشرت القصص التي انتجتها على برنامج ساعة الاخبار على بي بي سي (PBS Newshour)، وعلى الجزيرة بالإنجليزية، مور بيرفيكت يونيون (More Perfect Union)، واخبار سكريبز (Scripps News). كما نشرت كتاباتها في صحف كالغارديان (The Guardian) وفايس نيوز (Vice News). كما حصلت على ترشيح لجائزة ايمي مشترك لمساهمتها في حلقة خاصة لبرنامج نايتلاين (Nightline) بعنوان “الازمة في سوريا.” حازت مقالتها بعنوان “زوجة مُطلق النار” على جائزة من جمعية الصحفيين العرب والشرق اوسطيين.

ايمان محمد هي مصورة صحفية فلسطينية من غزة، تملك شغفا في التصوير ينبع من تراثها. بدأت مسيرتها من خلال توثيق الحياة تحت الاحتلال الإسرائيلي، وعرضت صورها في صحف الغارديان (The Guardian) ولو موند (Le Monde) وواشنطن بوست (The Washington Post) وغيرها من المنشورات، كما تم اقتناء اعمالها في المتحف البريطاني في لندن ومتحف هارن للفنون التابع لجامعة فلوريدا. وحصلت على زمالة تيد العليا عام 2019. كما نشرت سيرتها الذاتية المصورة بعنوان شقوق عدستي (The Cracks In My Lens) في عام 2022.

المحررة: سيوارد داربي
المخرج الفني: إد جونسون
محرر النسخ: شون كوبر
مُدققة الحقائق: ليلى حسان
المُترجم: عمار عوينة

Published in July 2024.

كانت دينا عساف تجلس في سيارتها المركونة خارج مطار اوهاير الدولي تترقب بينما يفتح باب صالة المطار ثم يغلق مرةً تلو الأخرى. وكانت قد سعت جاهداً مع زوجها بهاء للتحضير لهذه اللحظة لحد الإرهاق. وفي الكرس الخلفي للسيارة كانت بناتهم الثلاثة المفعمات بالحيوية يترقبن. البنات الثلاث سارة وسلمى وسرين كنّ قد وضعن علامة على هذا اليوم المنشود – السابع عشر من آذار /مارس 2024 – على الرزنامة قبل أسابيع عدة وكن سعيدات بقدوم هذا اليوم اخيراً. وكن يتدافعن كي يروا الأبواب بشكل أفضل وكل واحدة منهن كانت تأمل ان تكون اول من يلمح الشخص المُنتظر. هذا الشخص هو فتاة صغيرة مثلهم بلغت الرابعة عشرة من عمرها قبل ثلاثة أيام من وصولها. وحسبما قيل للأخوات إنها شخص غاية في الأهمية.

الفتاة اسمها ليان الباز ذات الانف الدائري الصغير والصوت الخافت. معظم ما تعرفه عائلة عساف عن حياتها جاء من فيديوهات منشورة على الانترنت. في احدى المقاطع وصفت ليان فقدانها اثنتين من أخواتها وابنة اختها وابن اختها في غارة جوية إسرائيلية على غزة. كانت الفتاة تستخدم كرسي متحرك بسبب الإصابات التي تعرضت لها في القصف، والتي أجبرت الأطباء على بتر ساقيها. في فيديو اخر، صورته وكالة فرانس برس (Agence France-Press) بعد فترة قليلة من الغارة الجوية، ظهرت ليان ووجهها مُرقش بالحروق، تقول راجفةً وهي تتشبث بقناع الاكسجين بإحدى يديها “اُريدهم ان يعطوني أرجل حقيقية. لا اريد أطرافاً مزيفة.”

Read this story in English

ولكن، إذا تمكنت ليان من المشي مرةً أخرى فلن يكون هذا ممكناً الا باستخدام الأطراف الصناعية، وللحصول عليهم أتت للولايات المتحدة. عرضت مستشفى شراينرز للأطفال في شيكاغو، وهي مستشفى مختصة بطب العظام للأطفال عليها العلاج مجاناً. وبالرغم من كونهم غرباء تماماً عنها، إلا أن عائلة عساف فتحوا منزلهم لاستضافة ليان خلال فترة تلقيها العلاج.

سارة، أكبر بنات عائلة عساف، تبلغ من العمر 12 عاماً، مما يعني ان دينا وبهاء لديهم خبرة مباشرة في التعامل مع فتاة مراهقة تمر بدوامة من التغيرات. ولكن بالإضافة لهذه التغيرات كانت ليان تصارع اصابتها بعجز دائم وفقدانها لأحبائها على مدار أشهر من الحصار الإسرائيلي الوحشي على غزة، كما شهدت فظائع لا يراها إلا الجنود على جبهات القتال. لم تتوهم دينا ان استضافة ليان ستكون سهلة ولكنها اخبرتني: “لكني توقعت أكثر حزناً نوعاً ما.”

وعندما خرجت ليان من أبواب مطار اوهاير اخيراً، خزن بهاء الكرسي المتحرك في الصندوق ووضع ليان في الكرسي الخلفي بجانب بناته. دينا، والتي كانت تجلس في كرسي السائق، صُعقت عندما تحدثت ليان لأول مرة.

“ما صوت الطنين هذا؟” سألت ليان باللغة العربية، حيث أتت الى الولايات المتحدة دون ان تعرف أي كلمة باللغة الإنجليزية. وكان صوتها يعبر عن الانزعاج.

ثم أجاب بهاء: “يجب على دينا ارتداء حزام الأمان.”

“حسناً، ماذا تنتظرين بحق الجحيم؟” صاحت ليان، وهي تحدق في دينا “ارتدي الحزام اللعين. لقد تسببت لي بالصداع.”

تحولت ابتسامات سارة وسلمى وسرين المُترقبة الى عبوس مليء بالقلق، ودينا بدأت تتسأل بذاتها ما الذي ورطت نفسي فيه؟ وبدأت عائلة عساف تكتشف ان ضيفتهم غاضبة لدرجة لا تسمح لها حتى بأن تشعر بالحزن.

ليان الباز تنظر الى انعكاسها في المرأة خلال الرحلة لموعد العلاج الطبيعي في مستشفى شراينرز للأطفال في شيكاغو. الندوب على وجهها ناتجة عن الغارة الجوية الإسرائيلية التي أجبرت الأطباء على بتر رجليها.

في اللغة العربية، يُمكن ان يحمل جذر كلمة مبتور معنى أخر وهو “ناقص،” وهذه تبدو كإشارة انه من الممكن فصل شيئاً محوري للفرد لدرجة انه لا يمكن اعتباره كاملاً بعد ذلك. الشخص الذي يتعرض لبتر تعرض لتغيير عن النموذج المفترض للجسد، كالرواية التي يتم تمزيق فصول منها وتفقد جزءً حاسماً منها.

عند الحديث عن غزة، كل ما نملكه هو قصص مبتورة او فُتات من الحقيقة الكاملة. حتى أكثر نقطة بيانات مفصلية في أي حرب، وهي حصيلة القتلى، ناقصة. في وقت الكتابة، احصت السلطات الصحية في غزة اكثر من 39000 حالة وفاة، ولكن بسبب التدمير الحاصل للبنية التحتية في القطاع، وبسبب وجود العديد من الوفيات المدفونة عميقاً تحت الأنقاض والتي لا يمكن احصائها، فأن السلطات تُشدد في كل تقرير تصدره ان هذه الاحصائيات منقوصة. في شهر حزيران/يونيو، نشرت مجلة ذا لانسيت (The Lancet) مقالاً يُقدر بأن الحصار الإسرائيلي قد ينتج عنه 186000 وفاة، أي 7.9 بالمئة من سكان غزة. ولكن اكتشاف الحصيلة الحقيقة قد يتطلب عدة سنوات، هذا إذا اكتشفناها اصلاً.

فيما يتعلق بالأطفال، بعض ما نعرفه انه بحلول شهر أيار قُتل حوالي 15000 طفل وأصيب 12000 بينما يُعتبر 21000 طفلاً في عداد المفقودين. فيما يتعلق بالمصابين، قال بعض الأطباء انهم عالجوا أطفال “مُزقت أجسادهم” بسبب القنابل، او سحقوا بسبب المباني المنهارة، او يعانوا من إصابات من طلقات نارية في الرأس. العديد من المرضى الأطفال بُترت واحدة او أكثر من سيقانهم او أذرعهم. لحد الان لا نملك سوى إحصائية وحيدة متعلقة بالصغار مبتوري الأطراف، وهي تقرير لمنظمة الأمم المتحدة للطفولة (يونيسف) يُبين انه بين السابع من تشرين الأول/اكتوبر والتاسع والعشرين من تشرين الثاني/نوفمبر عام 2023، فقد أكثر من 1000 طفل واحد او أكثر من اطرافهم. وقال متحدث باسم المنظمة في شهر حزيران/يونيو ان المنظمة لا تستطيع جمع احصائيات أكثر حداثة “بسبب التحديات الناتجة عن الظروف في الميدان.”

هذا متوقع، حيث يعتبر توفر الاحصائيات الرسمية على نطاق البلد لأعداد الأطفال مبتوري الأطراف عادةً نادراً في معظم الصراعات. ولكن ما هو واضح اننا نشهد أسرع واشد عملية تعجيز جماعية للأطفال في حياتنا. عندما ينقشع الغبار، قد تمتلك غزة أكبر عدد من الأطفال مبتوري الأطراف مقارنة بأي حرب في التاريخ الحديث.

د.غسان أبو ستة، اخصائي جراحة تجميلية وترميمية يختص في الإصابات التي يتعرض لها الأطفال في الصراعات والذي قضى اكثر من شهر في غزة يعمل مع منظمة أطباء بلا حدود في بداية الحرب، متيقن ان هذه ستكون الحقيقة على ارض الواقع. وحسبما قال لصحيفة النيويوركير (The New Yorker)، فأن تجربته في غزة زادت من إصراره على تقييم الحجم الكامل للازمة التي شهدها. أخبرني ابوستة وهو يضع يداه على جانب رأسه خلال محادثة عبر الفيديو من منزله في لندن: “خلال الـ 43 يوم التي قضيتها هناك، قمت بعمليات بتر أكثر ما قمت به خلال 20 عام من عملي كجراح في الحروب. اردت ان افهم الصورة الكاملة لما يحدث.”

بدأ ابوستة بالتواصل مع جراحين اخرين -بعضاً منهم عاد مؤخراً بعد فترة في غزة وبعضهم لا يزال هناك- وواحداً تلو الأخر قدموا تفاصيل تتماشى مع تجربته هناك. ابوستة أدرك ان ما يشاهده هو والأطباء الاخرين قد يؤدي الى رقم قياسي في عدد الحالات، وهذه كانت حقيقة مرة من اسوء أنواعها. وهو يقدر حالياً اعداد الأطفال مبتوري الأطراف في غزة بحوالي 4000 الى 4500 حتى الان.

ولوضع الأمور في سياقها فأنه حسب تقرير لاسوشيتد برس (Associated Press) فأنه خلال عامان ونصف من الصراع في أوكرانيا، فقد حوالي 20000 شخص واحد او اكثر من اطرافهم. وبحسب شهادات الطواقم الطبية والباحثين في مركز أبحاث الأطفال المصابين في انفجارات، وهو مشروع مشترك بين كلية لندن الإمبراطورية ومؤسسة انقاذ الطفل، فأن عدد الأطفال مبتوري الأطراف في أوكرانيا يبلغ حوالي 1200 حالة.

عند النظر لتقدير ابوستة لعدد الحالات من وجهة نظر أخرى وإذا نظرنا لمعدل عدد الطلاب في المدارس الحكومية في الولايات المتحدة وهو 550 طالب، فيمكننا التخيل أن هذا يعادل فقدان كافة الطلاب في 8 او 9 مدارس في منطقة تقريباً بحجم مدينة فيلادلفيا على الأقل واحد من اطرافهم. ونتخيل ايضاً ان عمليات البتر هذه جاءت بالتزامن من وابل من المَآسِي الأخرى كفقدان افراد من عائلاتهم واصدقائهم وجيرانهم ومدارسهم ومنازلهم.

بالإضافة لهذا لنتخيل ايضاً ان الأمل الوحيد لاستعادة أي شكل من الاستقرار الجسدي يتطلب من هؤلاء الأطفال مغادرة بيتهم حيث تم تدمير المصنع الوحيد للأطراف الصناعية في غزة ومركز إعادة التأهيل المرتبط به في غارة جوية إسرائيلية قبل عدة أشهر. ونتيجة لهذا، فأن العديد من العائلات التي بُترت أطراف أطفالهم يسعوا لإجلائهم للحصول على الرعاية الطبية في الخارج. العديد من الالتماسات المستميتة تملأ مواقع التواصل الاجتماعي والقليل منهم يحصل على ما يمكن وصفه بالتذكرة الرابحة للمنحوسين بشدة. الدول التي تستقبل الأطفال مبتوري الأطراف من غزة تستقبل اعداد قليلة جداً نسبياً منهم.

اما الأطفال الذين يجدوا طريقاً للخروج، فعليهم ان يركبوا الطائرة لمناطق بعيدة. وفي حالة ليان، فهذه المنطقة تبعد أكثر من 6000 ميل عن كل ما تعرفه وكل من تعرفه.

تجلس ليان في الكرس المتحرك خلال جلسة علاج طبيعي، بينما تمسك الام المستضيفة دينا عساف بأحد الأطراف الصناعية التجريبية التي ستستعملها ليان لحين تجهيز الأطراف الدائمة.

ترعرعت ليان في منطقة القرارة في ضواحي مدينة خان يونس، وهي الطفلة العاشرة في عائلة مكونة من 11 فرد. معظم اخوتها واخواتها أكبر بكثير منها ولديهم أطفال تسميهم ليان “الشياطين الصغار،” والذين قاموا في احدى المرات بإشعال النار في الستائر للتسلية بينما كانت أمها ترعاهم. وكان والدها يعمل في مجال البناء في إسرائيل، وهذه تعتبر وظيفة ذات اجر جيد بالنسبة لفلسطينيي غزة إذا تمكنوا من اصدار تصريح. وكان والدها يبقى في إسرائيل خلال أيام الأسبوع ويعود في العطلة الأسبوعية للمنزل، بينما كانت ليان وأخيها الأصغر وسيم يتصارعوا من اجل الحصول على انتباهه من خلال إبلاغه بتجاوزات الاخر خلال غيابه.

ليان بدأت بارتداء الحجاب عندما كانت في الصف الخامس بسبب إصرار اعمامها المتشددين، والذين وصفتهم بأنهم “يتصورا أنفسهم انهم شيوخ.” لم تحب ليان ان يحدد أحداً ما يجب ان تعمله وهو أحد أسباب انسجامها مع صديقتها المفضلة سما. الفتاتان كانتا جريئتان وعابثتان. سما لم ترتدي الحجاب وفضلت ارتداء القمصان قصيرة الكم والبناطيل الضيقة ولم تتردد في رد الازدراء الذي قد يعبر عنه بعض الناس عند مرورها عنهم في الشارع بالمثل.

في بعض الأحيان، كانت ليان وسما يذهبن الى مطاعم في مدينة غزة حيث لا يتعرف عليهم أحد لكي يدعّوا انهن شابات صغيرات كي يروا من سيصدق هذه الخدعة. وكنّ يتحدوا بعضهن البعض في الشِعر ليروا من منهن تكتب مقطوعة شعرية أفضل. في احدى المرات، سرقن كتاب العمل الخاص بأحد المعلمين ووزعوا أسئلة الاختبار على زملائهم في الصف. ولكي يجعلوا صداقتهم المميزة رسمية أعطت سما لليان قلادة مُعلق عليها شمس بينما ارتدت سما قلادة متوافقة مُعلق عليها قمر.

في صباح يوم السابع من تشرين الأول/اكتوبر 2023، كانت ليان في طريقها للمدرسة عندما اخترق وابل من الصواريخ السماء فوق رأسها، مما جعلها تمسك طرف زيها وتركض نحو المنزل. وعند وصولها للمنزل اتصلت بسما.

“هل ستذهبين للمدرسة؟” سألت ليان.

واجابتها سما: “لا، انا خائفة جداً. “

كان منزل ليان قريباً من الحدود مع إسرائيل، وكانت قد اعتادت على البقاء في منزل اختها التي تسكن في عمق مدينة غزة كلما اندلع القتال بين حماس وإسرائيل. وهذا ما فعلته يوم السابع من تشرين الأول/اكتوبر، ولكن هذه المرة ذهبت ولم تعد. بعد مرور بضعة أيام من اعمال العنف، وصل والدا ليان خبراً مفاده ان منزلهم تم تدميره. وسرعان ما أصبحوا كالآلاف من الفلسطينيين غيرهم محشورين في ملجأ للحي ممتلئ عن بكرة ابيه.

وكانت سما تزور ليان في الملجأ. وفي أحد الأيام في منتصف شهر تشرين الأول/اكتوبر تشاجرت سما مع فتاة علقت ساخرة على ما كانت ترتديه. وحينها توسلت ليان لصديقتها لكي تتغاضى عما حصل، ولكن سما رفضت ذلك. وقالت ليان: “سما كانت منزعجة وفي نفس الوقت كانت مكتئبة. وكانت تريد ان تنفس عن غضبها.” قامت سما بمسك الفتاة من كتفها ودفعها نحو الحائط، ثم تدخلت والدة الفتاة وصفعت سما على وجهها. ثم تدخل افراد من عائلة ليان لردع سما ومنعها من الانتقام، بينما تجمع الناس حولهم للمشاهدة.

ابتسمت ليان بينما كانت تسترجع الحادثة. سما كما عرفتها لم تتراجع ابداً.

بعد مرور أربعة أيام على الحادثة، قُتلت سما مع معظم افراد عائلتها بعدما دمرت قنبلة إسرائيلية منزلهم. عندما اخبرتها إحدى اخواتها بوجود شهداء في مستشفى قريب يحملوا اسم عائلة سما، قامت ليان بالاتصال بهاتف صديقتها المحمول مراراً وتكراراً ولكن دون جدوى. وهرعت الى المستشفى ثم رأت والدة سما، لا تزال حية، في الرواق، “وقلت لنفسي حينها، لقد فقدنا سما،” استذكرت ليان.

سمعت ليان الأطباء يخبروا والدة سما انها يمكنها ان ترى ابنتها لأخر مرة، ولكن حذروها من ذلك، لأن جسد سما كان ممزق وسيكون مشهد شنيع. ثم هزت والدتها رأسها رافضة ان تراها.

ولكن ليان ارادت ان ترى صديقتها، ولم “أكن اكترث” بتحذيرات الأطباء حسبما قالت. “سما كانت حياتي كلها.”

ولكن ما رأته ليان لم يكن جسداً، كان عبارة عن “جذع وايدي،” كما روت. ولكنها وجدت الطمأنينة بتسلسل الاحداث هذا لأن سما لم تكن حية لترى ما سيحصل بعد تسعة أيام، حينما فقدت ليان سيقانها. وتقول ليان: “لو رأتني سما هكذا، كانت ستموت من الحزن.”

الغارة الجوية حدثت عند الرابعة صباحا يوم 27 تشرين الأول/اكتوبر. وكانت ليان تسكن مع عدة أعضاء من عائلتها في منزل اختها إخلاص، والتي انجبت طفلاً حديثاً أسمته “عودة،” بمعنى “الرجعة.” وفي ذلك الوقت كانت ليان مستيقظة وكانت تستعد لمساعدة اختها الأخرى ختام في إعطاء الدواء لابنتها جنى البالغة من العمر خمسة أعوام. وقالت ليان: “كنت اتحرك باتجاهها عندما اصطدم الصاروخ وسقطتُ على الأرض.” ثم انهارت كتلة ضخمة من الاسمنت في الغرفة وكانت كبيرة لدرجة انها تهيأ لها انها ملأت المكان. “ختام وجنى قُتلتا فوراً تحت ناظري،” قالت ليان ” لهذا اليوم الصورة لا تفارق ذهني. حدثت امامي مباشرةً.”

بعد هذا اصطدم صاروخ اخر بالمبنى وشعرت ليان بجسدها يطير في الهواء. عند استرجاع الحادثة، تتذكر ليان بانها كانت تسقط، وتسقط، وتسقط، حيث هوى جسدها من ستة طوابق قبل ان يرتطم بالأرض. على الأرجح أن شدة الاصطدام هي ما هشمت ساقيها لحد غير قابل للترميم. وفي كل مكانٍ حولها، انهمرت الشظايا والحطام كالمطر.

وبعد مرور وقت، نقلت سيارة إسعاف ليان لمستشفى ناصر، وهو نفس المكان الذي شهد ولادة عودة قبل 48 ساعة. تذكرت ليان ان أحد الأطباء كان يقول “الى الثلاجة” كناية عن المشرحة عندما هرعوا لإدخالها، ولكن رد عليه أحد المسعفين قائلاً “لا، لا يزال لديها نبض، ولكنه ضعيف.”

أُخذت ليان لغرفة العمليات، حيث تم بتر ساقيها دون تخدير، لم تعي ما كان يحدث حولها ولم تشعر سوى بالألم الحارق. وكانت تصرخ “اليس لديكم أي رحمة،” ولكن صرخاتها لم تلق مجيباً.

ولكنها لم تستوعب ما حصل إلا في وقت لاحق، عندما كانت مستلقية على الحمالة في المصعد وتحسست مكان القطع في رجلها اليمنى، ثم صاحت “لقد قطعوا أرجلي!”

ما تذكرته بعد هذا هو استيقاظها في غرفة المستشفى، حيث تواجد والداها وعائلتها واصدقائها. “اول شيء سألتُ عنه هو القلادة،” قالت “هي الشيء الوحيد المتبقي لي من سما.” ثم ركضت صديقتها خلود نحو سريرها متبسمة لتطمأنها ثم قالت: “انها معي، يا ليان. سأعطيك إياها عندما تتحسن صحتك.” ولكن ليان علمت بعد هذا ان هذه لم تكُن الحقيقة، لعل خلود كانت تحاول طمأنتها من خلال الكذب عليها. القلادة فُقدت في غياهب الحطام في غزة صحبة هاتف ليان المحمول والذي يحتوي على كل ما تُقدسه من صور وفيديوهات لسما وعائلتها وحياتها قبل الحرب.

سألت ليان والدها عما حدث لمن كانوا في المنزل عندما اصطدم به الصاروخ، لأنها لم تثق بذاكرتها، وأجاب والدها: ” الله يرحمهم.” ختام وجنى لم يكونوا الضحايا الوحيدين للقصف، بل رافقهم إخلاص والرضيع عودة كذلك.

في تلك الليلة حاولت والدة ليان غسل شعرها المتلبد بسبب بقايا الدماء والتراب والحطام، ولكنها سرعان ما يئست من المحاولة. “بناتها قتلوا، واحفادها قتلوا، كيف يمكن ان يتوقع أحد منها ان تجلس لتنظف شعري،” قالت ليان. بدلاً من ذلك قامت والدتها بإحضار مقص وقص شعرها بالكامل.

ليان تضحك وهي تمسك فاتورة في متجر. منذ إجلائها، قدر برنامج الأغذية العالمي يواجه 96 بالمئة من سكان غزة انعدامًا حادًا في الأمن الغذائي، وإن المنطقة تواجه خطر مجاعة قائم.

في الأشهر القليلة التالية، خضعت ليان لخمس عمليات جراحية، ولم تكن تحت التخدير إلا في واحدة منها. وحاربت الحمى والالتهابات والاضطرابات الكلوية، ولكن حالتها النفسية المتدهورة كانت أكبر مُسبب للقلق لعائلتها. عندما خرجت من مستشفى ناصر بسبب الحاجة لاستخدام سريرها بعد قدوم موجة جديدة من الضحايا، أعادها والديها الى الملجأ الذي يسكنوا فيه، ولكن كان من الواضح ان ليان لم تكن بحالة تسمح بوجودها حول الغرباء المتلصصين. لذا، اخذوها لمنزل جدها وجدتها، وهو عبارة عن بناية متعددة الطوابق تعج بالأقرباء والأصدقاء والجيران المُهجرين.

ولكن الأمور ازدادت سوءاً، ومجرد النظر الى الناس وهم يمشوا أصبح يُغضب ليان، ورؤية الأطفال يركضوا ويلعبوا كان أكبر من قدرتها على الاحتمال. عمها احمد حاول السيطرة على الوضع وأمر الفتيات الاخريات في المبنى أن “يتركوها لوحدها. ممنوع ان يتكلم أحد مع ليان.” كلما ارادات ان تبحث عن متنفس على سطح المبنى، كان يقوم عمها بإخلاء الممر والمصعد لكي تصل للسطح دون أي عقبات.

عندما يفقد طفلاً أحد اطرافه فالوقت غاية في الأهمية، حيث ان سرعة الحصول على الرعاية وإعادة التأهيل المتخصصان تزيد من فرصهم في التأقلم جسدياً على المدى البعيد. أخت ليان اريج والتي تعيش في أوروبا بعثت رسائل لعدة اشخاص على أمل ان يقدموا المساعدة. ثم قام أحد الصحفيين يدعى محمد الشاعر بنشر منشور عن ليان على حسابه على انستغرام، حيث يملك اكثر من 100 الف متابع.

وبعد فترة وجيزة، لفتت قصة ليان انتباه رجل امريكي في العقد الرابع من عمره يُدعى ستيف سوسيبي.سوسيبي صاحب العيون شديدة الزراق والبنية المتينة يشبه لاعب كرة قدم سابق أكثر من كونه عامل إغاثة لفترة طويلة، ينحدر من اوهايو وعمل في تسعينات القرن الماضي كصحفي مستقل في غزة، مما الهمه ليؤسس جمعية إغاثة أطفال فلسطين (PCRF) الخيرية لنقل الأطفال المرضى والمصابين الى الولايات المتحدة الامريكية لتلقي الرعاية الطبية مجاناً. سوسيبي شهد صراعات في غزة في الماضي ولكن يرى ان ما يحدث حالياً مُختلف تماماً، حيث قالً: “انها عملية إبادة جماعية. خلال عملي لأكثر من ثلاثين عام هناك لم أرى أي شيء يشبه ما يحدث حالياً.”

بسبب وجود توثيق مرئي على الانترنت على مدار الساعة للفظائع المرتكبة، قال العديد من المحاميين الحقوقيين أن العالم يشهد إبادة جماعية على البث المباشر. وهذا ما يتفق عليه عدد متزايد من الخبراء القانونيين. في شهر كانون الثاني /يناير، أمرت محكمة العدل الدولية إسرائيل بأن تتخذ “كل التدابير الممكنة في قدرتها لمنع” أعمال الإبادة الجماعية “ومنع ومعاقبة التحريض المباشر والعلني لارتكاب الإبادة الجماعية.” كما أصدرت المحكمة قراراً اخراً في شهر تموز/يوليو ينص ان السياسات الاستيطانية الإسرائيلية في الأراضي الفلسطينية غير قانونية. بالإضافة لذلك فقد قدمت المحكمة الجنائية الدولية طلبات لإصدار أوامر قبض ضد رئيس الوزراء الإسرائيلي بنيامين نتنياهو ووزير الدفاع يوآف غالانت بسبب جرائم الحرب والجرائم ضد الإنسانية، بما يشمل ” تجويع المدنيين كأسلوب من أساليب الحرب،” و ” تعمد توجيه هجمات ضد السكان المدنيين،” و “الاضطهاد،” و “الإبادة.” كما قدمت المحكمة الجنائية الدولية طلبات لأوامر قبض ضد ثلاثة من قادة حماس.

في بداية عام 2024، مع ازدياد القصف على غزة، أطلق سوسيبي منظمة غير حكومية جديد تدعى هييل (HEAL) فلسطين أي منظمة الصحة والتعليم والإغاثة والقيادة لفلسطين. بالشراكة بينهم، تقوم جمعية إغاثة أطفال فلسطين وهييل بإجلاء الأطفال المصابين في الصراع لدول اجنبية، بما في ذلك الولايات المتحدة. وهذا العمل يتطلب كمية هائلة من الجهد والأموال والبنية التحتية التنظيمية. وقامت هييل بإجلاء تسعة أطفال مبتوري الأطراف منذ الخريف الماضي. اما ليان، فقد حصلت على الموافقة لتلقي العلاج في مستشفى شراينرز للأطفال في بداية عام 2024 ثم سافرت الى مصر مع احدى قريباتها للحصول على تأشيرة للولايات المتحدة. منذ ذلك الحين، قامت إسرائيل ببسط سيطرتها على معبر رفح الحدودي مع مصر، مما يعرقل الإجلاء الطبي. وبحسب تقرير من شبكة سي بي اس الإخبارية (CBS News) في تموز/يوليو ، فأن “عُمال الإغاثة يقولوا أن هذا جعل إنقاذ الأطفال شبه مستحيل.” وبالرغم من هذا، فأن هييل تعمل حالياً من اجل نقل 12 طفلاً مبتوري الأطراف لخارج غزة.

معظم المنتفعين من خدمات هييل يسافروا مع مُرافق – اما أحد والديهم او اخد الاخوة الأكبر سناً، على سبيل المثال – ويسكنوا إما في إسكان المستشفى او مع عائلات متطوعة تسكن بالقرب من مكان تلقيهم العلاج. ولكن منظمة هييل ارتأت انه من الأسهل الحصول على مكان إقامة لليان إذا أتت للولايات المتحدة لوحدها. اخت ليان القاطنة في أوروبا، والتي أصبحت نقطة التواص الرئيسية مع هييل بسبب الانقطاعات في الاتصالات في غزة أيدت المنظمة بأن ليان يجب ان تسافر لوحدها إذا عنى ذلك تلقيها الرعاية دون الحاجة للانتظار أكثر. ليان اشتاطت غضباً بسبب سفرها لوحدها قائلة: “الكل أتى مع مرافق. الكل باستثنائي.”

وصلت ليان الى شيكاغو وهي مُصرة على اثبات نفسها للغرباء الذين ستعيش معهم.

تنزل ليان على السلالم بمساعدة اخصائية العلاج الطبيعي. جراح تقويم العظام المسؤول عن حالتها حذّر انها إذا عادت لغزة سوف تتلف أطرافها الصناعية بسرعة بسبب الركام.

عائلة عساف تنحدر من الأردن، حيث أتت دينا الى الولايات المتحدة بعمر الخامسة وبهاء بسن الثامنة عشر، وتعرفوا على بعضهم في دورة للغة الإنجليزية في الكلية المجتمعية. بهاء البالغ من العمر 40 عاماً يعمل حالياً كرئيس القسم المالي في معرض سيارات، اما دينا البالغة من العمر 38 عاماً فهي ربة منزل. العائلة تتابع الاخبار القادمة من غزة عن كثب وتعارض الحرب، كما شارك بهاء في مظاهرات محلية مطالبة بوقف إطلاق نار. وعلم بهاء عن حالة ليان من خلال صديق لديه ارتباط مع منظمة هييل. وبعد التصويت، اتفق دينا وبهاء وبناتهم بالإجماع على استقبال ليان في منزلهم.

دينا وبهاء كانا عاقدا العزم على جعل ليان تشعر كأنها جزء من عائلتهم وأنها لا تختلف عن بناتهم. وقرروا وضعها في غرفة في الطابق العلوي حيث ينام الجميع بالرغم من توفر غرفة في الطابق الأرضي حيث الوصول أسهل، لأنهم لم يريدوها ان تشعر بالعزلة. كما تأكدوا من وجود نفس إطار التخت والزينة ودمى الحيوانات المحشوة الموجودة في غرف بناتهم في نهاية الرواق.

خلال الرحلة من مطار اوهاير، أعلنت ليان بأنها لا تريد أي علاقة بعائلة عساف وتريد ان تبقى في غرفتها طوال الوقت. وعندما رأت مكان إقامة عائلة عساف، وهو منزل طوب كبير، امتعضت قائلة انه لا بد أن دينا وبهاء يعملوا كتجار مخدرات والا لن يستطيعوا تحمل تكلفة شراء منزل كهذا. ولكن دينا اجابت “كل ما في الأمر اننا نعمل بجد،” ثم قهقهت ليان بصوتٍ عالٍ لدرجة انه أفزع دينا.

رفضت ليان ان تسمح لبهاء بحملها على الدرج للوصول لغرفتها، وبدلاً من ذلك قامت بدفع نفسها للنزول على الكرسي المتحرك وتسلقت على الدرج لوحدها مستخدمة يديها لتأرجح افخاذها من درجة لدرجة ببراعة تضاهي براعة لاعبي الجمباز على عارضة التوازن. وعندما رأت ليان الغرفة التي حضرها لها دينا وبهاء، برقت عيناها وقالت “انها كبيرة،” ولم يسعها الى ان تبتسم ابتسامة طفيفة رغماً عن ذاتها.

بعد هذا أدركت عائلة عساف ان ليان كانت تخشى من العلاج الطبي الذي سافرت كل هذه المسافة لتلقيه، حيث انها قضت عدة أسابيع في المستشفى مسبقاً ولم تريد تكرار هذه التجربة. إلا ان مستشفى شراينرز للأطفال معتاد على التعامل مع الأطفال الذين يحتاجوا للبقاء للمستشفى لفترات طويلة، ومرافقه مهيئة ليشعر الأطفال بأنهم مرحب بهم. ان مجمع المستشفى مُزين بجداريات زاهية ويحتوي على طاولة للعب تنس الطاولة، كما يستضيف “يوم الابطال الخارقين،” حيث يقوم متطوعين بارتداء أزياء خاصة وتوزيع رداءات على للمرضى.

خلال أولى زياراتها للمستشفى، التقت ليان بالمختصين المسؤولين عن علاجها وهم د.جيفري اكمان، جراح العظام للأطفال، وشون مالك، اخصائي الأطراف الصناعية وتقويم العظام المرخص، وانجيلا غورينو، اخصائية العلاج الطبيعي ذات الشعر الأشقر المائل للاحمرار والطابع البشوش. ويعمل الفريق عن كثب لمساعدة ليان في إعادة التأهيل ومراقبة كل جزء من جسدها، أي العضلات، والعظام، والأعصاب، والجلد، للتأكد من تأقلمها مع استخدام الأطراف الصناعية في حياتها.

هناك اعتقاد دارج لدى أطباء عظام الأطفال بأنه خلال العمل مع مبتوري الأطراف، إذا طال جلوسهم في الكرسي يبدؤا بالتحول ليشبهوا هذا الكرسي أكثر فأكثر. يريد الأطباء ان يبدأ الأطفال مبتوري الأطراف باستخدام الأطراف الصناعية بأسرع وقت ممكن، وليان قد فقدت وقتاً ثميناً اصلاً. خلال الستة أشهر التي انقضت منذ عملية البتر، لم تتلقى أي علاج طبيعي، كما اختل توازن اوراكها بسبب اعتيادها على الميل على اتجاه واحد عند الجلوس في الكرسي المتحرك. من دون التدخل، يمكن ان يصيبها تقلص في الورك بمعنى حصول تضييق في أنسجة المفصل بطريقة تُثبت جسدها بموضع غير طبيعي للأبد. خلال عملية إعادة التأهيل، تحتاج ليان لارتداء مقوّم للظهر والورك لتصحيح توازن جسدها بالإضافة لارتداء جوارب ضغط للتقليل من الالتهاب في ما تبقى من رجليها. كما تحتاج الى القيام بتمارين الإطالة بشكل متكرر من اجل استقامة الجذع السفلي.

في ذات الوقت، كل واحدة من أرجل ليان شكلت تحدي قائم بذاته يعيق تعافيها، حيث ان رجلها اليسرى بُترت من فوق الركبة أي أن الطرف الاصطناعي على هذه الجهة يحتاج إضافة مفصل ركبة ميكانيكي يجب ان تتعلم كيفية استعماله. اما رجلها اليُمنى فأن الركبة لا تزال موجودة، ولكن الجلد الذي يحيط بها ممتلئ بالندوب ومحتمل أيضا وجود شظايا متداخلة به، مما يُصعب تركيب طرف اصطناعي لها. بالمجمل، فأن تعلم ليان المشي مجدداً يضاهي اتقان آلتين موسيقيتين وعزفهم في ذات الحين.

ليان لم تكن صبورة، وفي اول جلساتها العلاجية، ركب لها الطاقم أطراف تجريبية – وهي عبارة عن أرجل ألية المظهر تستخدم لغايات التدريب – وثم حاولت الإسراع لتصل الى جهاز الركض في الزاوية. “كان هذا حرفياً في اول يوم،” تقول غورينو “لم أكن اعرفها سوى لخمس دقائق حينها.”

ولكن ليان ايضاً سريعة التعلم. في البداية أراد الطاقم ان تبقى في مستشفى شراينرز للأطفال لمدة أسبوعين لتلقي العلاج المكثف، وبعد هذه الفترة تعود لمنزل عائلة عساف لبضعة أشهر تزور خلالها المستشفى في مواعيد دورية. ولكنها قامت بأداء جيد جداً في اول أسبوع وكانت منزعجة بسبب اضطرارها النوم في المستشفى مما دفع الطاقم ليقرر ان تعود لمنزل عائلة عساف مبكراً بشرطٍ واحد، وهو ان تقوم دينا بوعدهم ان تخبئ الارجل الصناعية عن ليان، لأنها قدد تتعرض لإصابة بالغة إذا حاولت استخدامهم دون رقابة.

عندما عادت ليان لمنزل عائلة عساف بعد قضائها أسبوع في مستشفى شراينرز للأطفال، سارة وسلمى وسيرين كنّ يختبئن خلف باب المنزل الرئيسي ثم انقضوا وأطلقوا حفن من الأوراق الملونة عند دخول ليان على الكرسي الذي تجره دينا. في تلك الليلة، دينا اخذت الأطراف الصناعية معها للسرير وخلدت للنوم بوجود الأطراف بينها وبين بهاء.

بهاء عساف، وليان، وسارة عساف (من اليسار الى اليمين) يضحكوا بينما يلعبوا لعبة سكيب-بو خلال ليلة الألعاب العائلية.

ومع مرور الأسابيع، تبدد غضب ليان الموجه نحو العائلة المستضيفة لها، حيث كانت دينا تجيب على نوبات الانفعال دون إظهار مشاعرها، وأصبحت ليان تحترم الحدود التي يتم وضعها لها، حتى لو أصبحت الكلمة الوحيدة التي اتقنتها باللغة الإنجليزية هي “لا.” ليان وسلمى وسارة، وطدوا علاقتهم بسبب حبهم المشترك للتجميل والرعاية بالبشرة. اما سيرين وهي أصغر فتيات عائلة عساف وتبلغ من العمر خمسة أعوام، كانت مبهورة بضيف عائلتها المميز وخبأت الأغراض الصغيرة التي اعطتها إياها ليان في شنتة ظهر مُزينة برسمات فراولة، بما في ذاك حوت لعبة ووعاء من السلايم زهري اللون.

لكن لم تغب غزة عن ذهن ليان، وفي احدى المرات شاركت فيديو مع دينا كانت تشاهده كل ما تشعر بالاشتياق لأخواتها. ويُظهر الفيديو والد ليان يقف بجانب جثثهن بعد سحبها من الركام ولفهن بأكفان على عجل. بدون هاتفها النقال وخزينة صور العائلة المحفوظة عليه، هذه كانت الطريقة الوحيدة التي يمكن لليان ان ترى بها أخواتها ختام وإخلاص.

في عصر يوم ثلاثاء في شهر نيسان/أبريل، تلقت ليان مكالمة هاتفية اعادتها لفظائع الحرب. بينما كانت دينا تقوم بتنظيف المنزل استعداداً لاستضافة إفطار رمضاني بعد نهاية يوم من الصيام، أتت سيرين لها وقالت والصدمة تعلو وجهها “امي، اعتقد ان ليان تعاني من خطبٍ ما.” ثم سمعت دينا الصراخ في الأعلى.

هرعت دينا لغرفة ليان ووجدتها في كرسيها المتحرك. “لماذا يحدث هذا؟” قالت ليان باكية “لقد فقدت الكثير من الناس.”

كانت ليان قد تلقت اتصال من قريبها ليخبرها ان والدها واخاها الأكبر كرم قد قتلوا في إطلاق نار من طائرة إسرائيلية على موقع الخيمة التي كانوا يسكنوا فيها. دينا قالت لليان ان تهدأ وتتنفس، ولكن ليان صاحت: “من سيعتني بعائلتي. من سيطعمهم؟” كان والدها وكرم مُعيلي العائلة وكانوا يعتنوا بأطفال اقربائهم الذين قتلوا في غارات جوية سابقة. ليان صرخت تستجدي لله متمنية ان تعرف لماذا يحصل هذا.

ركضت دينا لتبلغ بهاء في مكان عمله واخبرته انه يجب ان يُبلغ جميع المدعوين للعشاء ان العشاء تم الغاءه. وعندما عادت دينا للغرفة وجدت ليان تلطم.

وقالت ليان: “انظري الي. يا ليتني مت بدلاً منهم.”

“لا تقولي هذا،” قالت دينا “لماذا تتحدثي هكذا.”

“انظري الي” انفعلت ليان قائلة بصوت مليء بالازدراء “ليس لدي أرجل.” ثم سألت: “هل يمكنك رؤية وجهي؟” مُشيرة الى ندبة متعرجة تمتد من طرف شعرها لقصبة انفها.

وفي موجة من الحزن وكره الذات استمرت ليان بالقول: “لن أكون طبيعية ابداً. من قد يرغب بزواج فتاة مثلي؟” هل سأطلب من زوجي ان يساعدني بإزالة رجلي الصناعية عند الذهاب للسرير في الليل للنوم؟ من سيفعل هذا؟ من يتقبل هذا؟ إذا كان هناك أحد يجب ان يموت فهو انا.”

دينا تمكنت من اقناع ليان بأن تخبرها مع من تحدثت على الهاتف، وعندما أدركت دينا انها لم تتحدث مع قريب من الدرجة الأولى، تواصلت مع وكيل لمنظمة هييل وطلبت منه ان يجد احداً في الميدان في غزة يمكنه تعقب عائلة ليان لاكتشاف ما حصل.

بعد فترة وجيزة، علمت دينا ان كرم لا يزال على قيد الحياة بالرغم من اصابته برصاصة في كتفه، وأن والد ليان مصاب وحالته حرجة. ولكن، أحد اخوة ليان الأخرين وهو ناجي البالغ من العمر 17 عاماً هو من قُتل.

دينا نقلت الخبر لليان. ثم تبين ان ناجي كان قد اتصل ثلاث مرات في اليوم السابق لكنها لم تُجيب. “كان يجب ان اجيب على الهاتف، لماذا لم اُجيب؟” قالت ليان باكية.

وفي الأسبوع التالي لوفاة ناجي، خافت ليان من النوم بعد غياب الشمس، وقالت لدينا “انا أكره الليل. أتمنى لو لم يأتي الليل.” عندما يتأخر الوقت ويعم الصمت لا تفلح ليان في إيقاف افكارها المتسارعة.

طلبت ليان من بهاء ودينا ان يسهروا معها حتى الفجر، وحاولوا قصارى جهدهم حيث لعبوا عدد لا يحصى من جولات لعبة سكيب-بو وشاهدوا حلقة تلو الأخرى من المسلسلات التركية حتى وقت متأخر من الليل. في النهاية، يضطر بهاء للذهاب للنوم لأنه لديه عمل في الصباح بينما تُكمل دينا الوردية لوحدها. في بعض الأحيان يغلب دينا النوم، وتبدأ ليان بالبكاء لدرجة تيقظها من النوم.

لا تخلد ليان للنوم إلا عندما يستيقظ جميع افراد المنزل وتشرق الشمس.

تساعد ليان سلمى عساف على وضع المكياج. ليان، والتي سافرت للولايات المتحدة لوحدها، انسجمت مع بنات عائلة عساف بعد فترة وجيزة.

عندما تواصلت مع عائلة عساف لأول مرة حول اجراء مقابلة مع ليان، وصفها بهاء بأنها فتاة لطيفة قائلاً “لا يبدو عليها انها مرت بما مرت به.” ثم تحدثت مع ليان على الهاتف وكانت مُنفتحة لمقابلتي وايمان محمد، وهي مصورة من أصول غزاوية تعمل في الولايات المتحدة. وقبل أيام قليلة من السفر الى شيكاغو لمقابلتها، بدأت التحذيرات بالظهور. مُنسقة المرضى في منظمة هييل في ذلك الوقت دنيا سعد، اخبرتني ان ليان “قد تكون مُتقلبة المزاج،” ولديها عادة في تغيير رأيها على هواها. كما وضحت لي دينا انني “لا يجب ان أخذ أي شيء تقوله على محمل شخصي.”

في وسط نيسان، عندما وصلت الى باب منزل عائلة عساف، استقبلتنا دينا وهي ترتدي قميص حرير وردي مكوي، وكان في شعرها خصل شقراء بين شعرها المنساب. وتتحدث باللغة الإنجليزية بلهجة طفيفة.

ثم ظهرت سارة بابتسامتها العريضة وهي تدفع ليان على كرسيها المتحرك للأمام، ولكن ليان لم تكن تبتسم. كانت تحدق الينا بهدوء وقالت وهي تقلب اعينها “حسناً، دعنا ننتهي من هذا الامر.” ثم استدارت في كرسيها وذهبت لغرفة المعيشة.

ثم جلسنا مع دينا على اريكة زاوية بينما حددت ليان كيف سيمضي اليوم، وقالت “لا أريدكم ان تظهروا إصابتي في الصور. ” كنا قد تحدثنا مسبقاً على الهاتف حول الصور وكانت ليان قد وافقت على ان تدع ايمان تصورها، ولكني أدركت ان ليان الان تختلف عما كانت عليه قبل عدة أسابيع. كان علينا ان نحترم – ونرضى بـ – الشخص الموجود امامنا.

ليان لا تحب أن ينظر الغرباء الى أرجلها المبتورة ولا تريد شفقتهم، وهي بالتأكيد ليست مهتمة بإلقاء نظرة على حياتهم السعيدة والغير متأثرة بالحرب او الفقدان.

كان من الواضح ان ليان تهتم بمظهرها. في سن الرابع عشر، وعيها الذاتي حول مظهرها يكون شديد في كل الأحوال ولكن بسبب البتر التي تعرضت له فهذا الوعي كان مفرط بشدة. كانت ترتدي بذلة رياضية من نوع كالفن كلاين وكانت عيناها مُحددة بلون ابيض، وذكرني وجهها الدائري الجميل بسيلينا غوميز. وفي احدى المرات اخبرتها مُترجمة في المستشفى بانها تشبه المغنية اللبنانية الشهيرة ماريتا، ويبدو ان هذا اسعد ليان.

ليان اخبرتنا انها لا تريد ان تكون محط للشفقة، وصاحت ثم رمت قارورة المياه على الأرض قائلة “المستقبل امامي. لن اتحمل إذا بحثت عن اسمي على جوجل عندما اكبر وكان وكل ما اراه هو صور لي وانا مصابة.” كانت تطالب بأن تحافظ على جزء من السيطرة على ظروفها، كما فعلت عندما قابلت عائلة عساف لأول مرة. كما رفضت بإصرار ان تصبح اعاقتها هي كل ما يعرف عنها.

وافقنا على ان ننفذ رغبة ليان فيما يتعلق بالصور ثم تحدثنا معها عن حياتها، والسابع من تشرين الأول/اكتوبر، والغارة الجوية التي بعثرت عائلتها. في مرحلة ما، اخذ الحديث منحنى فلسفي وتناقشنا حول طبيعة البشر وإذا كانوا طيبين بالفطرة. ليان عارضت هذه الفكرة بشدة، واستشهدت بدليل انه تم بتر رجليها دون تخدير، مُفترضة ان ذلك كان خيار الأطباء. “كنت اصرخ بشدة وفقدت وعيّ بسبب عُلو صراخي،” قالت لنا ثم أصدرت صوتاً بلسانها تعبيراً عن استيائها “بعد كل هذا، تريد ان تخبريني ان هناك خير في العالم؟”

وعندما أشرنا ان حجم الدمار في غزة أدى لافتقار العديد من المستشفيات للمقومات الأساسية، أصدرت ذات الصوت بلسانها وسألت: “انا اصبت في بداية الحرب، كيف نفذت المواد بهذه السرعة؟ لأنهم يعطوا هذه المواد فقط للأفراد أصحاب النفوذ.”

بدت كلماتها كأنها محاولة لتفسير ما لا معنى له ولتصارع الحقيقة المؤلمة وهي ان البالغين في حياتها عجزوا عن حمايتها من الكارثة التي حلت بها. من خلال اعتقادها ان الأطباء اختاروا إيذائها، فهي على الأقل تخلق منفذاً لتنفيس غضبها.

تقوم اخصائية العلاج الطبيعي بتعديل الأطراف الصناعية التجريبية لليان تحضيراً لتدريبها على المشي.

وضعنا خطة لنرافق ليان لجلسة العلاج الطبيعي في اليوم التالي، ولكن عندما وصلنا لمنزل عائلة عساف في الصباح، كان هناك ازمة تظهر للعيان. في محاولة للتخطيط للمستقبل، طلب ستيف سوسيبي ان يُرافق أحد متطوعي منظمة هييل ليان للموعد الطبي المحدد بعد بضعة أيام بدلا من دينا، ولكن هذا اغضب ليان ورفضت ان تنزل للطابق السفلي. “انا لست سلعة يتم تأجيرها لهؤلاء الأشخاص،” صاحت ليان بينما كانت دينا تقف هادئة في المطبخ وتملئ كوب وردي من نوع ستانلي بالماء، ثم اضافت ليان “هذه جلسة علاجي. لا اريد أي غرباء هناك.”

أبرز هذا الخلاف الحقيقة المزعجة المرتبطة في بعض الأحيان بتلقي الاعمال الخيرية. تعتمد المنظمات الغير حكومية كهييل على شبكة من المتطوعين والمانحين، وهم اشخاص متلهفين لمساعدة طفل خرج من غزة لدرجة انهم قد يستقبلوهم في المطار في بعض الأحيان محضرين صوراً وبالونات، ويدعوهم لتناول العشاء وللأنشطة العائلية وحدائق الملاهي. وهذا من ناحية أخرى يتطلب ان يمثل الطفل دوراً معينة وهو ان يبتسم ويقف لالتقاط الصور ويعبر عن امتنانه.

ليان لا تحب أن ينظر الغرباء الى أرجلها المبتورة ولا تريد شفقتهم، وهي بالتأكيد ليست مهتمة بإلقاء نظرة على حياتهم السعيدة والغير متأثرة بالحرب او الفقدان.

تنفست دينا الصعداء عندما علمت ان برنامج متطوع منظمة هييل لا يسمح لهم بحضور الموعد مع ليان. ولكن الان أصبحت الساعة تقريباً 11:30 وتأخرنا على مغادرة المنزل حيث تتطلب الطريق للمستشفى رحلة بالسيارة لمدة ساعة. نادت دينا وهي تنظر لأعلى السلالم قائلة “هيا يا ليان. انه ليس يوم عرسك، أسرعي.”

عندما خرجت ليان اخيراً، كانت ترتدي سترة لونها ازرق مُخضر وبنطال قصير متناسق مع السترة. وضعت دينا حبتان كبيرات من المثبطات العصبية في يدها للمساعدة في تخفيف ألم وهم الاطراف، حيث شعرت ليان في بعض الأحيان بصدمة كهربائية تسير في مكان بتر رجليها وكأن جسدها ينادي على الأجزاء المفقودة منه التي لم تعد في مكانها.

عند الوصول للمستشفى، بدت ليان سعيدة برؤية أخصائية العلاج الطبيعي حيث حضنتها ونادت على اسمها مع مد مقاطعه دلالة على الود: “أننننجيييييييييلللااههه.” وبعد ذلك من خلال ترجمة دينا من اللغة العربية، علقت ليان ان غورينو كانت تضع مسكارا في ذلك اليوم. وكانت ليان دائماً تنتبه عندما تغير غورينو أي شي بمظهرها.

ثم أوضحت غورينو: “اليوم عيد ميلاد زوجي.”

وردت ليان قائلة “او لا لا!” وهي تغمز.

الهدف الرئيسي من العلاج هو جعل ليان تمشي باستخدام الأطراف الصناعية مع مساعدة تقل تدريجياً مع الوقت. وكانت غورينو قد ساعدتها على التقدم من استخدام أداة مساعدة المشي للانتقال لاستخدام عكازان تحت الكتف الى استخدام عكاز واحد فقط. ثم كانت حينها ليان مربوطة بحبل معلق على سكة في السقف مما يخولها بالمشي لوحدها. غورينو كانت تمسك الطرف الاخر من الحبل وتسحبه عندما تتعثر ليان، لتمسكها قبل ان تسقط على الأرض.

اما شون مالك، اخصائي الأطراف الصناعية، كان يشاهد حركة ليان عن كثب، وكان في بعض الأحيان يجري تعديلات على الأطراف الصناعية التجريبية، حيث كان يراقب مواصفات جسدها لكي يصمم الارجل المخصصة لها. وستكون هذه جاهزة خلال عدة أسابيع.

خلال الجلسة، جر مالك مرآة كامل ووضعها أمام ليان. وكان قد أخبرني “انها تحب النظر في المرآة.” كانت ليان تتمختر عند رؤية انعكاسها في المرآة، وكانت تتمايل بكل خطوة وتتمتم اغنية بالعربية بينها وبين نفسها لم أتمكن من سماعها.

سمحت ليان لإيمان بالتقاط بعض الصور لها وهي ترتدي الأطراف الصناعية ولكنها أبعدت الكاميرا عنها عندما كانت غورينو تقوم بتمارين الإطالة لجسدها دون الأطراف الصناعية. عندها، تذكرت الفيديو المؤلم الذي قالت فيه انها تريد أرجل حقيقة وليس صناعية، ولكن يبدو الان ان ما تريده ليان هو ان يراها العالم واقفة على قدميها، حتى لو كانوا مزيفات. ارادت ان تقف منتصبة القامة ببسالة وتكو جاهزة لاي شيء قد تواجهه.

تقف ليان في الحديقة الخلفية لمنزل عائلة عساف.

تتمكن منظمة هييل وغيرها من المنظمات التي تقوم بأعمال مشابهة من الحصول على تأشيرات للولايات المتحدة للأطفال كليان بناءً على شروط معينة. ومن هذه الشروط أن الذين تم اجلائهم لأسباب طبية لا يمكنهم تقديم طلب للحصول على لجوء سياسي ويجب ان يغادروا الدولة فور استكمال علاجهم. من منظور الحكومة الامريكية فأن مثل هذه القيود تهدف الى تفادي تحول برامج كـ هييل الى أساليب للتحايل على قوانين الهجرة.

لعدة سنوات كان سوبيسي راضٍ لحد عن هذا التفاهم. وفي معظم الأحيان كان الأطفال الذين تلقوا علاج مختص في الولايات المتحدة قادرين على الحصول على المتابعة التي يحتاجوها في الوطن، حيث كان النظام الصحي في غزة قوي كفاية للتعامل مع هذا. ولكن حصار إسرائيل قد غير هذه المعادلة. بحسب البيانات في شهر أيار/مايو، جرى اكثر من 450 هجوم على المرافق الطبية وتم تدمير او الحاق الضرر بـ 31 من اصل 36 مستشفى في غزة. والمستشفيات التي لا تزال عاملة عليها التركيز على الرعاية الطارئة وإنقاذ الحياة، عندما تتوفر الموارد. في تصريح في شهر حزيران/يونيو، قالت المنسقة الطبية لأطباء بلا حدود في فلسطين، غييميت توما: “إمداداتنا الطبية قليلة للغاية بسبب محدودية تدفق المساعدات التي تسمح السلطات الإسرائيلية بدخولها إلى غزة. وإذا لم نتمكن من جلب الإمدادات الطبية إلى غزة في القريب العاجل، فقد نضطر إلى وقف أنشطتنا الطبية.” وأضافت “لدينا مرضى يعانون من حروق شديدة وكسور مفتوحة، وليس لدينا حتى المسكنات الكافية لتخفيف معاناتهم.”

بسبب الوضع الحالي في غزة، فهناك سؤال فظيع يتبادر للذهن وهو: ماذا لو سافرت ليان هذه المسافة الكبيرة للولايات المتحدة لكي تتعلم المشي مجدداً ثم عادت لوطنها دون ان تجد الرعاية طويلة الأمد المطلوبة متوفرة لها؟ تقول إميلي مايهيو، وهي مؤرخة طبية عسكرية تعمل مع مركز أبحاث الأطفال المصابين في انفجارات، ان ” استمرار الحياة بعد النجاة كشخص مبتور الأطراف معقد للغاية.” واوضحت مايهيو أن أحد زملائها، وهو شخص يعاني من بتر في طرفين مثل ليان، يقوم بفحص درجة الحرارة يومياً وإذا كانت أكثر من 77 (فاهرنهايت – 25 درجة مئوية) يقرر البقاء غي المنزل اليوم التالي لأن الحرارة المرتفعة تجعل استعمال الأطراف الصناعية على مدار يومان متتاليان غير مريح. كما ذكرت مايهيو ان أحد الرياضيين في الاولمبياد الموازية عانى من نمو شعر تحت الجلد في مكان البتر، مما أدى الى التهاب شديد منعه من التدريب لمدة عام كامل.

هؤلاء الأمثلة هم بالغين، اما مبتوري الأطراف الأصغر سناً يعانوا من صعوبات فريدة، ففي العادة يحتاجوا لإجراءات طبية إضافية وأطراف صناعية جديدة تلائم نمو وتغيير أجسادهم. تلبية احتياجات الآلاف من الأطفال مبتوري الأطراف في غزة ستكون مهمة يصعب مواكبتها. وبحسب د.ابوستة، الجراح المقيم في لندن، يجب على اخصائية الأطراف الصناعية حول العالم ان يبدؤا بالتدريب الان لرعاية هؤلاء الأطفال بدلاً من ان ينتظروا حتى انتهاء الحرب. يجب ان يتناوب المختصين بشكل دوري لكي يزوروا غزة لتقديم العلاج، لأنه سيكون شبه مستحيل إجلاء كل الأطفال ليصلوا الاخصائيين. وقال: “يحتاج هؤلاء الأطفال ان يتلقوا العلاج في النظام الصحي الفلسطيني كيفما كان شكله.”

وبالإضافة لهذا، أوضح ابوستة ان غزة ذاتها يجب ان يتم إعادة تصورها لمؤامة جيل كامل من مبتوري الأطراف الصغار بالسن. “يجب ان تصبح مكاناً مختلفاً بما يتعلق بالوصول والاعاقات. المدارس التي يجب إعادة بنائها يجب ان تبدو مختلفة تماماً، وكل ما يتم فعله يجب ان يُبنى على هذا الأساس.” حسبما قال “وهذا يشمل كل التفاصيل الصغيرة.”

ولكن الان، القنابل لا تزال تتساقط وتوقفها يبدو بعيد المنال. فكرة إعادة بناء غزة في أي وقت قريب بحد ذاتها تعتبر حلم غير ملموس، ناهيك عن القيام بذلك مع أخذ احتياجات الناس كليان بعين الاعتبار. دينا تعلم هذا، وخلال موعد مع طبيب ليان المختص بالتقويم، د.اكمان، عبرت عن قلقها حول كيفية استعمال ليان أطرافها الصناعية في مكان تم تدمير 70 بالمئة من بنيته التحتية المدنية.

قال اكمان: “يمكنها استخدامهم على الاسطح المستوية.”

“ولكن ماذا لو لم يعد هناك أي طرق؟ وماذا بشأن الركام؟” سألت دينا.

“سوف تتلف بسرعة أكبر بكثير،” حسب اكمان، الذي أضاف انه عند حدوث ذلك “عملياً، ستتوقف عن العمل.”

في بعض الأحيان، حين كانت تفكر ليان بالعودة لغزة، كان ذهنها يمتلئ بأكثر الأفكار سوداوية. تقول دينا “لقد سمعتها تبكي وتقول أمور تشبه ‘إذا لم يقتلوني اول مرة، سوف يقتلوني في المرة الثانية.’”

عندما زرت شيكاغو مع ايمان للمرة الثانية في شهر حزيران/يونيو ، رحبت بنا ليان بابتسامة خافتة بينما كانت تنزل على السلالم في منزل عائلة عساف باستخدام أطرافها الصناعية الجديدة. كانت هذه هي الأطراف التي صممها مالك وستستعملها ليان في لمدة عام او عامان، حتى يتطلب جسمها النامي اطرافاً جديدة. صُممت الأطراف خصيصاً لتتماشى مع لون بشرتها باستخدام مواد تهدف الى محاكاة ملمس جسد الانسان.

لم تكن ليان متحمسة حين أعطاها فريقها الطبي هذه الأطراف قبل اسبوعين من زيارتنا. اخبرتنا مع هز كتفيها “مظهرهم كان مقبولاً،” ولكنها لا تحب استخدامهم للمشي. ويتطلب استخدامهم تعديل وجهد وبعكس الأطراف الصناعية التجريبية، كان عليها استخدامهم طيلة الوقت، وهو أمر مُرهق. وعندما عادت من المستشفى، وضعت الأطراف الصناعية في غرفتها لعدة أيام ولم تستخدمهم. ولكي تشجعها على استخدامهم، خبأت دينا كرسي ليان المتحرك، وإذا ارادت ان تتحرك حول المنزل كان على ليان استخدام أرجلها الجديدة.

خلال جلساتها مع غورينو كانت ليان تنتقل من جهة لأخرى في الغرفة، وأوضحت “الرجل اليُسرى هي ما يزعجني.” هذه الرجل هي التي تحتوي على مفصل ركبة ميكانيكي، ولتفعيل حركة هذا المفصل، كان عليها الضغط على أصابع اقدام الطرف الصناعي. المشكلة بالنسبة لليان كانت التكرار، أي القيام بهذه الحركة في كل خطوة، خاصة ان الطرف الصناعي الاخر لم يتطلب ذلك.

للوقت الحالي اكتفت بجر رجلها اليسرى دون ثني ركبتها. كما حصلت على موافقة الطاقم الطبي بأن ترتدي احذية غير الأحذية التقويمية، وكانت تنتظر وصول زوج احذية مسطحة لونها فضي عبر البريد والذي سيصل في الوقت المناسب قبل الاحتفال بالعيد.

الموعد الطبي الأخير لليان في شيكاغو كان يوم 3 تموز/يوليو، ومع اقتراب الموعد، ازداد القلق بين سكان منزل عائلة عساف. في بعض الأحيان، حين كانت تفكر ليان بالعودة لغزة، كان ذهنها يمتلئ بأكثر الأفكار سوداوية. تقول دينا “لقد سمعتها تبكي وتقول أمور تشبه ‘إذا لم يقتلوني اول مرة، سوف يقتلوني في المرة الثانية.’”

خلال حديثي مع سوسيبي، أصر أكثر من مرة أن منظمة هييل لن تُعيد الذين تم اجلائهم الى غزة في ظل الاعمال العدائية المستمرة، ولكن عائلة عساف وليان غير مقتنعين بذلك. ماذا لو لم تترك الحكومة الامريكية أي خيار امام سوسيبي ؟

هناك بعض السيناريوهات المحتملة حول مستقبل ليان ينتهي بها المطاف في دولة ثالثة – قد تكون مصر، حيث تعيش قريبتها التي سافرت معها للحصول على تأشيرة وبقيت هناك، او أوروبا حيث تسكن اختها اريج. ليان قالت انها تشتاق لغزة، وعائلتها واصدقائها، وأنها تريد العودة لها إلا إذا عنى ذلك المخاطرة بحياتها. انها لا تريد ان تشعر بانها عالقة مجدداً.

تقوم بنات عائلة عساف، وليان، وبهاء بشوي حلوى السمورز في الباحة الخلفية لمنزل العائلة.

منذ اللقاء الأول المتزعزع في مطار اوهاير، أصبحت ليان جزءً لا يتجزأ من حياة عائلة عساف، حيث تحضر التجمعات العائلية وتعرفت على أخوات بهاء الكثيرات وأزواجهن وأطفالهن كما تعرف على أسمائهم جميعاً. كما ذهبت الى إجازة مع عائلة عساف لميامي. لا تزال ليان مُتحدية ولكن تعليقاتها اللاذعة تحولت لتعليقات سريعة البديهة. وأصبحت تثق بمستضيفيها لدرجة تمكنها من ان تكشف ضعفها امامهم مما أثلج صدر دينا. وقالت دينا “لديها إيمان مُطلق بنا، انها تثق بنا.”

واصرت دينا انها ستفعل كل ما بوسعها لمنع عودة ليان لمكان ما هو الا خيال للموطن الذي عرفته سابقاً. “هذا ليس خياراً متاحاً،” قالت دينا “سنوكل محاميين وندفع كل ما يلزم من الأموال.”

في اخر ليلة لنا في شيكاغو، أشعل بهاء ودينا موقد النار الخارجي في الباحة الخلفية، وصنع الفتيات حلوى السمورز قبل ان يتضاءل تركيزهن. وكانت سيرين تتنقل على لوح تزلج الكتروني ذات عجلات مضيئة بسرعة بينما حاولت سارة اقناع أخواتها وليان بأن يتدربوا على رقصة تيك توك معاً. وفي لحظة تركت ليان العكازات التي تستخدمها لتثبيت نفسها وهي تستخدم الأطراف الصناعية وذهبت باتجاه موقد النار، ثم قامت بوضع أطرافها الصناعية على لوح سيرين ونظرت لدينا وبهاء متبسمة.

ثم صاحت دينا عبر الباحة “ابتعدي عن اللوح فوراً يا ليان!”

ثم ضحكت ليان واندفعت عائدة باتجاه الفتيات الاخريات وانضمت لهم ليبدؤوا بالدوران واللهو امام شاشة الهاتف. وفي هذا اللحظة كانت ليان مجرد طفلة ترقص.

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Coming to America

Layan Albaz lost her legs in an Israeli air strike in Gaza.
To learn how to walk again, she had to travel more than 6,000 miles from everything she knew.

Coming to America

Story by Rhana Natour
Photographs by Eman Mohammed

The Atavist Magazine, No. 153

Rhana Natour is an award-winning journalist and video producer. Her stories have aired on PBS NewsHour, Al Jazeera English, More Perfect Union, and Scripps News. Her writing has appeared in such publications as The Guardian and Vice News. She shared an Emmy nomination for her work on the Nightline special “Crisis in Syria,” and her article “The Shooter’s Wife” received an award from the Arab and Middle Eastern Journalists Association.

Eman Mohammed is a Palestinian photojournalist from Gaza, and her passion for photography is grounded in her heritage. She began her career documenting life under Israeli occupation. Her photographs have been featured in The Guardian, Le Monde, The Washington Post, and other publications. Her work has been acquired by the British Museum in London and the Harn Museum of Art at the University of Florida. She was named a senior TED Fellow in 2019, and her photographic memoir, The Cracks in My Lens, was published in 2022.

Editor: Seyward Darby
Art Director: Ed Johnson
Copy Editor: Sean Cooper
Fact Checker: Lila Hassan
Translator: Ammar Owaineh

Published in July 2024.

Winner of the 2025 National Magazine Award for Profile Writing

Dina Assaf sat in her car outside Chicago’s O’Hare International airport watching the terminal’s sliding doors open and close, open and close. She and her husband, Baha, had been scrambling to prepare for this moment and were exhausted, but in the back seat their three daughters were restless with excitement. Sara, Salma, and Sereen had circled this day—March 17, 2024—on their calendars weeks ago and were giddy that it had finally come. They jostled one another for the best view of the doors, hoping to be the first to spot the person they were there to pick up. She was a young girl like them—she had turned 14 just three days before—and from what the sisters had been told, she was very important.

أقرأ هذه القصة باللغة العربية.

The girl’s name was Layan Albaz, and she had a button nose and a soft voice. What the Assafs knew of her life came mostly from videos on the internet. In one clip, Layan described how she had lost two sisters, a niece, and a nephew in an Israeli air strike in Gaza. She used a wheelchair because injuries she sustained during the attack had forced doctors to amputate her legs. In another video, filmed by Agence France-Presse not long after the air strike, Layan’s face was mottled with burns. “I want them to give me real legs,” she whimpered, clutching an oxygen mask in one hand. “I don’t want fake legs.”

But if Layan was ever to walk again, prosthetics were exactly what she would need, and to get them she was coming to the United States. Shriners Children’s Chicago, a hospital specializing in pediatric orthopedics, had offered to provide her with free medical treatment. And despite being perfect strangers, the Assafs were opening their home to Layan for the duration of her stay.

Sara, the eldest Assaf daughter, was 12, which meant that Dina and Baha had firsthand experience with an adolescent girl navigating a swirl of transitions. But Layan was also grappling with a new and permanent disability. Over the months of Israel’s brutal siege on Gaza, she had lost people she loved and seen horrors one would expect only a frontline soldier to witness. Dina was under no illusion that hosting Layan would be easy. “But I expected more of, like, sadness,” she told me.

When Layan was finally rolled through the doors at O’Hare, Baha stowed her wheelchair in the trunk and placed Layan in the back seat of the car with his daughters. Dina, who was sitting in the driver’s seat, was shocked when Layan first spoke.

“What’s that beeping noise?” Layan asked in Arabic—she had come to America without a word of English. Her voice was laced with annoyance.

“Dina just needs to put her seat belt on,” Baha replied.

“Well, what the hell are you doing?” Layan yelled, locking her eyes on Dina. “Put the damn thing on. You’re giving me a headache.”

Sara, Salma, and Sereen’s eager smiles curved into frowns of concern. Dina thought, What did I get myself into? The Assafs were already learning that their guest was too angry to be sad.

Layan checks her reflection on her way to physical therapy at Shriners Children’s Hospital in Chicago. The scarring on her face is the result of the air strike that forced doctors to amputate her legs.

In Arabic, the root of the word for “amputated,” mabtur, can mean “incomplete.” This feels like a nod to the idea that it’s possible to sever something so essential to a person that they can no longer be considered whole. Someone who has lost a limb has experienced a deviation from the blueprint of the body; like a novel with chapters ripped out, something crucial is missing.

In Gaza, all we have to go by are amputated stories, fragments of the whole truth. Even that most fundamental data point of any war—the death toll—is incomplete. As of this writing, Gaza’s health authority has tallied more than 39,000 fatalities, but with the devastation inflicted on the region’s health care infrastructure, and with many bodies buried too deep in the rubble to be counted, officials emphasize how deficient their figures are every time they issue a report. In early July, an article in The Lancet estimated that Israel’s siege could result in 186,000 deaths, or 7.9 percent of Gaza’s population. But it may be years before we know the true toll—if we ever know it at all.

As for the children, here is some of what we know: As of May, approximately 15,000 were dead, 12,000 were injured, and 21,000 were missing. Among the wounded, doctors have described treating children “shredded” by bombs, crushed by collapsing buildings, and suffering from gunshot wounds to the head. Many pediatric patients have lost arms or legs. For now we have only a single statistic when it comes to these young amputees: Between October 7 and November 29, 2023, Unicef reported that more than 1,000 children had lost one or more limbs. A spokesperson told me in June that the agency had been unable to gather more recent figures, “given the challenging circumstances on the ground.”

This isn’t unusual—authoritative, countrywide figures on the number of pediatric amputees in most conflicts are generally rare. What seems clear is that we are witnessing one of the fastest and most intense mass-disabling events of children in our lifetimes. When the dust settles, relative to population size, Gaza may be left with the largest cohort of children who’ve lost limbs in any war in modern history.

Dr. Ghassan Abu-Sittah is certain that this will be the case. A plastic and reconstructive surgeon who specializes in pediatric trauma sustained in conflict, Abu-Sittah spent more than a month in Gaza, working with Doctors Without Borders, in the early days of the war. The experience, which he also described to The New Yorker, left him determined to assess the full scale of the crisis he witnessed. “During those 43 days that I was there, I did more amputations than I’d ever done in my 20 years as a war surgeon,” Abu-Sittah told me, holding his hands to his temples during a video call from his home in London. “I just needed to understand what the bigger picture was.”

He began reaching out to other surgeons—some who had recently returned from stints in Gaza, and some who were still there. Person after person replied with details that mirrored his own experience. Abu-Sittah realized that what he and other doctors were seeing could be record setting. It was the worst kind of reality check. He now estimates the number of pediatric amputees in Gaza at somewhere between 4,000 and 4,500—so far.

To put this in perspective, the Associated Press has reported that, over two and a half years of conflict in Ukraine, some 20,000 people have lost limbs. Based on testimony from medical personnel, researchers at the Center for Pediatric Blast Injury Studies, a joint venture launched in 2023 by Imperial College London and Save the Children, believe that the number of pediatric amputees in Ukraine is around 1,200.

Here is another way of looking at Abu-Sittah’s Gaza estimate: The average U.S. public school has about 550 students. Imagine eight or nine schools in an area roughly the size of Philadelphia where every kid is missing at least one limb. Imagine also that their amputations happened alongside a torrent of other tragedies: the loss of family members, friends, neighbors, schools, houses.

Now imagine that the only hope to reclaim some semblance of physical normalcy required those children to leave home. Gaza’s sole manufacturer of prosthetics and its affiliated rehabilitation center were destroyed in an air strike months ago; as a result, many families of children who have lost limbs are trying to evacuate them so they can receive medical care abroad. Social media is brimming with their desperate pleas, and only a few get what amounts to a lucky ticket for the mortally unlucky: Countries willing to take pediatric amputees from Gaza are doing so in relatively small numbers.

The kids who do find a way out board planes for distant places. In Layan’s case, that place was more than 6,000 miles away from everything and everyone she knew.

Layan sits in her wheelchair at a physical therapy session. Her host mother, Dina Assaf, holds one of the test prosthetics Layan will use until her permanent ones are ready.

Layan grew up in Al-Qarara, a suburb of the city of Khan Younis. She was the tenth of eleven children. Most of her siblings were much older and had kids of their own; the “little devils,” as she called her nieces and nephews, once set fire to the curtains for fun while her mom was babysitting them. Her father worked construction in Israel, a relatively well-paying job for a Palestinian in Gaza if they can obtain a permit. He stayed in Israel during the week and came home on weekends. Layan and her little brother, Waseem, battled for his attention by telling him about each other’s transgressions while he was away.

Layan began to wear a headscarf in the fifth grade at the insistence of her strict uncles—men who, in her words, “fancied themselves sheikhs.” She didn’t like being told what to do, which is one reason she clicked with her best friend, Samaa. Both girls were daring and mischievous. Samaa didn’t wear a headscarf. She liked to dress in T-shirts and tight pants, and she wasn’t afraid to return the sneers of people she passed on the street who expressed disapproval.

Sometimes Layan and Samaa went to restaurants in Gaza City where no one knew them and pretended to be young adults, just to see who would believe the ruse. They had poetry duels to determine who could write a better stanza. They once stole a teacher’s workbook and distributed test answers to classmates. To formalize their status as best friends, Samaa gave Layan a necklace with a sun pendant; Samaa wore one with a corresponding moon.

On the morning of October 7, 2023, Layan was on her way to school when a barrage of rockets pierced the sky overhead. She grabbed the hem of her dress and ran for home. When she arrived, she called Samaa.

“Are you going to school?” Layan asked.

“No, I’m too scared,” Samaa replied.

Layan’s house was close to the border with Israel, and she was used to staying with her sister, who lived deeper inside Gaza, whenever hostilities erupted between Hamas and Israel. That’s what she did on October 7, but this time there would be no going back. After several days of violence, Layan’s parents got word that their house had been destroyed. Soon, along with thousands of other Palestinians, they crammed into an overflowing neighborhood shelter.

Samaa visited Layan at the shelter. One day in mid-October, Samaa got into an altercation with a girl who’d made a snide remark about what she was wearing. Layan begged her friend to let it go, but Samaa refused. “Samaa was annoyed, and at the same time she was depressed,” Layan said. “She wanted to take all that heat out on someone.” Samaa grabbed the girl by the shoulder and pushed her into a wall, then the girl’s mother intervened and slapped Samaa across the face. Members of Layan’s family had to hold Samaa back from retaliating. Other people crowded around to watch.

Recalling the incident, Layan smiled. The Samaa she knew refused to back down.

Four days after the fight, Samaa was killed, along with most of her family, when a bomb leveled their house. After one of Layan’s sisters told her that there were martyrs at a nearby hospital with Samaa’s last name, Layan called her friend’s cell phone again and again but got no answer. She made her way to the hospital, where she saw Samaa’s mother, still alive, in the hallway. “I said to myself, Samaa is gone,” Layan recalled.

Layan heard the doctors tell Samaa’s mother that she could see her daughter one last time, but they warned her against it. Samaa’s body was in pieces, and it would be a gruesome sight. Her mother shook her head.

But Layan wanted to see her friend. “I didn’t care,” Layan said of the doctors’ warnings. “Samaa was my whole life.”

What Layan saw wasn’t a body. “It was a torso, hands,” she said. But she took some comfort from the fact that Samaa wasn’t alive nine days later—that’s when Layan lost her legs. “If she saw me like this, Samaa would have died of grief,” Layan said.

The air strike came at 4 a.m. on October 27. Layan was with several family members at the home of her sister Ikhlas, who had just given birth to a boy she named Odeh, which means “to return” in Arabic. Layan was awake at the time because she was about to help Khitam, another of her sisters, administer medicine to her five-year-old niece, Jenna. “I was getting up to go toward her, and the missile hit and I fell on the floor,” Layan said. Then a huge cement block dropped into the room—it was so big it seemed to fill the whole space. “Khitam and Jenna died right in front of me, instantly,” Layan said. “To this day it’s in my mind. Just right in front of me.”

Then another missile crashed into the building, and Layan felt herself fly through the air. She would later remember falling, falling, falling; her body dropped six floors before it hit the ground. The force of that impact is likely what mangled her legs beyond repair. All around her, shrapnel and debris fell like rain.

Eventually, an ambulance transported Layan to Nasser Hospital, where just 48 hours earlier she had witnessed Odeh’s birth. “To the refrigerators,” Layan remembered a doctor saying as she was rushed in, referring to the morgue. “No, no, she still has a pulse,” a paramedic replied. “But it’s weak.”

Layan was taken to an operating room, where her legs were amputated without anesthesia. She didn’t know what was happening; she only felt searing pain. “Do you have no mercy?” she screamed. Her cries were met with silence.

It was sometime later, while she was lying on a stretcher in an elevator, that Layan saw the stump of her right leg and understood. “My legs are cut off!” she yelled.

The next thing she remembered was waking up in a hospital room—her parents were there, along with other family and friends. “The first question I asked was about the necklace,” she said. “It was the only thing I had from Samaa.” Her friend Khoolood ran up to her bed. “I have it, Layan,” she said with a reassuring smile. “I will give it to you as soon as you get better.” Layan later learned that this wasn’t true; perhaps Khoolood was trying to comfort her with a lie. The necklace was lost amid Gaza’s rubble, along with Layan’s cell phone, which contained cherished photos and videos of Samaa, of her family, of her life before the war.

Layan asked her father what had happened to everyone in the house when the missiles hit. She didn’t trust her own memory. “May they rest in peace,” her father said. Khitam and Jenna weren’t the only ones who had died—Ikhlas was gone, and baby Odeh, too.

That night, Layan’s mother tried to wash Layan’s hair, which was matted with blood, dirt, and debris. She soon gave up. “Her daughters were killed, her grandchildren were dead. Who could expect her to sit there and clean my hair?” Layan said. Instead, her mother grabbed a pair of scissors and cut it all off.

Layan laughs while holding a long receipt at a grocery store. Since her evacuation, the World Food Program has found that 96 percent of people in Gaza face acute food insecurity, and that the region is at high risk of famine.

Over the next few months, Layan endured a total of five surgeries, only one of them with anesthesia. She battled fevers, infections, and kidney issues. But her family were most concerned about her deteriorating mental health. When she left Nasser because her bed was needed amid a new wave of casualties, her parents took her back to the shelter where they’d been staying. But it was clear that Layan was in no state to be around gawking strangers. She was taken to her grandparents’ home, a multistory building full of displaced relatives, friends, and neighbors.

Things got worse. Just the sight of people walking could send Layan into a rage. Watching children run while playing was too much for her to bear. Her uncle Ahmed tried to take command of the situation. “No one talks to Layan,” he ordered the other young girls in the building. “Leave her alone.” Whenever Layan wanted to get some air on the roof, he’d clear the hallway and the elevator so she could get there unobstructed.

When a child loses a limb, time is of the essence. The sooner they get specialized care and rehabilitation, the better their chances of physically adjusting in the long term. Layan’s sister Areej, who lives in Europe, messaged people who she hoped might be able to help. A distant relative of Layan’s, a journalist in Gaza named Mohammad Alshaer, posted about her on Instagram, where he has more than 100,000 followers.

Soon Layan came to the attention of Steve Sosebee, an American in his forties with striking blue eyes. Sturdily built, Sosebee looks more like a former football player than a longtime aid worker. Originally from Ohio, he worked as a freelance journalist in Gaza in the 1990s, which inspired him to create a charity called Palestine Children’s Relief Fund (PCRF), to transport sick and injured children to the U.S. for free medical care. Sosebee has witnessed conflict in Gaza before, but he sees what’s occurring now as altogether different. “It’s a genocide,” he said. “In my thirty-plus years working there, I haven’t seen anything close to what’s happening today.”

Given the visual record of atrocities available online 24/7, many humanitarian advocates have said that the world is witnessing a live-streamed genocide. A growing number of legal experts agree. In January, the International Court of Justice ordered Israel to “take all measures within its power to prevent” genocidal acts, and “to prevent and punish the direct and public incitement to commit genocide.” The court issued another ruling in July, finding that Israeli settlement policies in Palestinian territory are illegal. The International Criminal Court has applied for arrest warrants for Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu and defense minister Yoav Gallant for war crimes and crimes against humanity, including “starvation of civilians as a method of warfare,” “intentionally directing attacks against a civilian population,” “persecution,” and “extermination.” The ICC has also applied for arrest warrants for three Hamas leaders.

In early 2024, as the bombardment in Gaza worsened, Sosebee launched a new NGO called HEAL Palestine. (HEAL stands for Health, Education, Aid, and Leadership.) Together, PCRF and HEAL are evacuating kids injured in the conflict to foreign countries, including the U.S. This work takes an enormous amount of effort, money, and organizational infrastructure. HEAL has evacuated nine child amputees since last fall. Layan was approved for treatment at Shriners Children’s in early 2024 and traveled to Egypt with an aunt to obtain a U.S. visa. Since then, Israel has seized control of the Rafah crossing into Egypt, stymieing medical evacuations. As CBS News reported in July, “Aid workers say that’s made rescuing children almost impossible.” Still, HEAL is currently working to transport a dozen new pediatric amputees out of Gaza.

Most of HEAL’s beneficiaries travel with a chaperone—a parent or older sibling, for example—and they stay either in hospital housing or with volunteer families who live close to where they’ll be treated. But HEAL said it would be easier to arrange accommodations for Layan if she came to the U.S. alone. Her sister in Europe, who was HEAL’s main point of contact, given communication outages in Gaza, agreed that Layan should make the trip by herself if it meant she didn’t have to wait any longer for the care she needed. Layan was livid about traveling alone. “Everyone came with someone,” she said. “Everyone except me.”

Layan arrived in Chicago determined to show the strangers she would be living with exactly what she was made of.

Layan descends a set of stairs with the assistance of a physical therapist. Her orthopedic surgeon has warned that if she returns to Gaza, her prosthetics will break down easily in the rubble.

The Assafs are Jordanian. Dina came to the United States when she was five, Baha at 18, and they met in a community college English class. Baha, who is now 40, works as the head of finance at a car dealership, while Dina, 38, is a homemaker. They have followed the news out of Gaza closely and oppose the war. Baha has attended local protests calling for a ceasefire. He learned of Layan’s situation through a friend with a connection to HEAL. In a family vote, Dina, Baha, and the girls agreed unanimously to welcome Layan into their home.

Dina and Baha were determined to make Layan feel like she was part of their family, no different from their own daughters. They had a spare bedroom on the ground floor of their house, which would have been easier for her to access, but they opted to put her in a room upstairs, where everyone else slept, because they didn’t want her to feel isolated. They also made sure that Layan’s room had the same bed frame, vanity, and wide-eyed stuffed animals as their daughters’ rooms across the hall.

On the drive from O’Hare, Layan announced that she wanted nothing to do with the Assafs and that she planned to stay in her room all day. When she saw where the family lived, a large brick house in a Chicago suburb, she scoffed that Dina and Baha must be drug dealers to be able to afford it. “We just work hard,” Dina responded. Layan cackled so loudly that it startled Dina.

Layan refused to let Baha carry her up the stairs to her room. Instead, she pushed herself out of her wheelchair and climbed up on her own, using her arms to swing her hips from one step to the next with the dexterity of a gymnast on a balance beam. When Layan saw the room Dina and Baha had prepared for her, her eyes widened. “It’s big,” she said. In spite of herself, a faint smile appeared on her face.

The Assafs soon understood that Layan was dreading the medical treatment she had traveled so far to receive. She had already spent weeks inside a hospital and didn’t want to repeat the experience. But Shriners Children’s is used to treating kids who require lengthy hospitalizations, and it makes its facilities as welcoming as possible. The complex is decorated with bright murals and has a Ping-Pong table. It hosts a “superhero day,” when volunteers dress up and hand out capes to patients.

On her first visit to the hospital, Layan met the specialists who’d be treating her, including Dr. Jeffery Ackman, a pediatric orthopedic surgeon; certified prosthetist and orthotist Shawn Malik; and Angela Guerino, a physical therapist with strawberry blond hair and a cheery disposition. The team would work together closely to help Layan rehabilitate, monitoring every part of her body—muscles, bones, nerves, skin—to ensure that she adapted to life on artificial legs.

There is a common conviction among pediatric orthopedists who work with amputees: Sit in a chair and you’ll start to look like a chair. Doctors want kids who’ve lost limbs to begin using prosthetics as quickly as possible, and Layan had already lost valuable time. In the six months since her amputations, she’d had no physical therapy, and her hips were becoming misaligned because of her tendency to lean to one side in her wheelchair. Without intervention, she could develop a hip contracture, a tightening of joint tissue that would essentially lock her body in an unnatural position for good. During rehab, Layan would need to wear a hip and back brace to correct her alignment, along with compression socks to reduce inflammation in what remained of her legs. Frequent stretching would be necessary to straighten out her lower torso.

Meanwhile, each of Layan’s legs presented unique challenges for her recovery. Her left leg had been amputated above the knee, so the prosthetic on that side would be equipped with a mechanical knee joint she’d need to learn to use. She still had her right knee, but the surrounding skin, replete with scars and possibly with embedded shrapnel, would make fitting a prosthetic to it difficult. Ultimately, for Layan, learning to walk again would be like mastering two musical instruments and playing them at the same time.

Layan was impatient. In her first therapy session, the team put her in check-socket prosthetics—robotic-looking legs used for training purposes—and she tried to bolt over to a treadmill in the corner. “Literally day one,” Guerino said. “I’d known her for five minutes.”

But Layan was also a quick learner. Initially, her team wanted her to stay at Shriners Children’s for two weeks of intensive treatment, after which she would go back to the Assafs’ for a few months and come in to the hospital for regular appointments. But she did so well the first week, and was so upset about having to sleep at the hospital, that her team decided she could return to the Assafs’ early—on one condition. They made Dina promise to hide the test legs from Layan, because she risked serious injury if she tried to use them without supervision.

When Layan arrived at the Assafs’ after her week at Shriners Children’s, Sara, Salma, and Sereen were hiding behind the front door. They jumped out and threw fistfuls of confetti as Dina rolled Layan in. That night, Dina took the prosthetics to bed with her and slept with them between her and Baha.

Baha Assaf, Layan, and Sara Assaf (from left) laugh as they play Skip-Bo on family game night.

As the weeks went by, the anger that Layan directed at her host family softened. Dina responded to her outbursts matter-of-factly, and Layan came to respect the boundaries set for her—even as the only English word she’d seemed to master was “no.” Layan, Salma, and Sara bonded over a love of makeup and skin care. Sereen, who at five was the youngest Assaf, was fascinated by her family’s special houseguest and had a strawberry-patterned backpack where she kept small items Layan gave her, including a whale toy and a jar of pink slime.

Gaza was never far from Layan’s mind. She once shared with Dina a video clip she watched when she missed her sisters. It showed Layan’s father standing over their bodies, which had just been pulled from rubble and hastily wrapped in white burial shrouds. Without her cell phone and its trove of family photos, this was the only way Layan could see Khitam and Ikhlas.

On a Tuesday afternoon in early April, Layan got a phone call that plunged her back into the horrors of war. Dina was cleaning in preparation for hosting a Ramadan iftar, a dinner marking the end of the day’s fasting, when Sereen appeared before her. The little girl was wide-eyed. “Mom, I think something is wrong with Layan,” she said. Dina could hear screaming upstairs.

Dina rushed to Layan’s room and found her in her wheelchair. “Why is this happening?” Layan cried. “I’ve already lost too many people.”

Layan’s cousin had called to tell her that her father and elder brother Karam had been killed when an Israeli aircraft descended over the location where they were living in a tent and opened fire. Dina told Layan to calm down, to breathe. But Layan screamed: “Who’s going to take care of my family? Who’s going to feed them?” Her father and Karam were the breadwinners, and they had been looking after the children of relatives killed in previous air strikes. Layan cried out to God, begging to know why this had happened.

Dina ran to call Baha at work. She told him he needed to let everyone invited to dinner know that it was canceled. When Dina returned to the bedroom, Layan was hitting herself.

“Look at me,” Layan said. “I wish I would have died, not them.”

“Don’t say that,” Dina said. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Look at me,” Layan snapped, her voice dripping with contempt. “I don’t have legs.” She also had a serpentine scar running from her hairline to the bridge of her nose. “Do you see my face?” she asked.

Caught in a whirlwind of grief and self-loathing, Layan kept going. “I will never be normal again,” she told Dina. “Who’s going to want to marry somebody like me? At night when I go to sleep, I’m going to have my husband help me take off my legs when I get into bed? Who’s going to do that? Who’s going to accept that? If anyone should have died, it should have been me.”

Dina managed to get Layan to tell her who it was she’d spoken to on the phone. When Dina realized that it wasn’t an immediate family member, she called a representative of HEAL. She asked them to find someone on the ground in Gaza who could track down Layan’s family and find out what had happened.

Soon Dina learned that Karam was alive, although he’d been hit with a bullet in his shoulder. Layan’s father was in critical condition. It was another of Layan’s brothers, 17-year-old Najee, who had been killed.

Dina delivered the news to Layan. Najee had called Layan three times the day before, but she hadn’t picked up. “I should have answered. Why didn’t I answer?” Layan cried.

For a week after learning about Najee’s death, Layan was afraid to sleep after the sun set. “I hate the nighttime,” she told Dina. “I wish nighttime never came.” When it was late and quiet, Layan couldn’t stop her mind from racing.

She asked Dina and Baha to stay up with her until dawn. They did their best, playing endless hands of Skip-Bo and watching episodes of a Turkish soap opera late into the night. Baha eventually went to bed because he had work in the morning, so Dina finished out the shifts alone. Sometimes she would nod off and Layan would start to cry, jolting Dina awake again.

Only when the sun rose and the rest of the household came to life did Layan finally sleep.

Layan helps Salma Assaf apply makeup. Layan, who traveled to the U.S. alone for medical treatment, soon bonded with the Assaf sisters.

When I first contacted the Assafs about interviewing Layan, Baha described her as a sweet girl. “You couldn’t tell she’s been through what she’s been through,” he told me. Layan and I spoke on the phone, and she was open to meeting with me and Eman Mohammed, a U.S.-based photographer who is originally from Gaza. It was only a few days before we flew to Chicago that the warnings began. Dunia Saad, then the patient coordinator for HEAL, told me that Layan “could be moody” and was prone to changing her mind on a whim. Dina explained that I should “not take anything she says too personally.”

In mid-April, when Eman and I arrived at the Assafs’ door, Dina greeted us wearing a pressed pink silk shirt. Her hair had blond highlights and was ironed straight. She spoke English with a hint of an accent.

Sara appeared, smiling widely as she pushed Layan forward in her wheelchair. Layan wasn’t smiling. She looked at us with a level gaze. “OK, let’s just get this over with,” she said, rolling her eyes. She whipped herself around in her chair and wheeled into the living room.

There we sat with Dina on a gray sectional while Layan dictated how the day would proceed. “I don’t want you to take photos of me that include my injury,” she declared. We had spoken about photographs on the phone, and Layan had agreed to let Eman take them, but I realized that the Layan of a few weeks ago wasn’t the Layan of right now. We had to respect—and contend with—the person in front of us.

Layan didn’t like strangers looking at her amputated legs. She didn’t want their pity. And she certainly wasn’t interested in having to glimpse their happy lives, untouched by war and loss.

It was clear Layan cared about her appearance. At 14, her self-consciousness about it would likely have been intense no matter what; because of her amputations, it was in overdrive. She was wearing a Calvin Klein tracksuit, and her eyes had been carefully rimmed with white eyeliner. Her round, pretty face reminded me of Selena Gomez. A translator at the hospital once told her that she resembled the Lebanese pop star Maritta, which seemed to make Layan happy.

Layan told us that she didn’t want to be seen as a charity case. “I have a future,” she yelled, slamming her water bottle to the ground. “I will not tolerate that when I grow up, I will google my name and all that comes up on every page is pictures of me injured.” She was demanding that she retain at least some control of her circumstances, as she had when she first met the Assafs. She was also insisting that she not be defined by her disability.

We agreed to follow Layan’s lead when it came to photos, then spoke to her about her life, October 7, and the air strike that shattered her family. At one point the conversation turned philosophical, and we discussed whether human beings are inherently good. Layan was firmly against this. As evidence, she mentioned how her legs had been amputated without anesthesia—she presumed that this had been the doctors’ choice. “I screamed so loud, I fainted from the sound of my own screams,” she told us, clicking her tongue at the memory. “And you want to say there’s good in the world?”

When we noted that the devastation in Gaza had left many hospitals without basic supplies, she clicked her tongue again. “I got injured at the start of the war. How were they out that fast?” she asked. “No, they only gave it to people with connections.”

Her words felt like an effort to make sense of the senseless, to grapple with the cruel fact that the adults in her life had been powerless to protect her from catastrophe. If she believed that the doctors chose to hurt her, at least she had somewhere to channel her rage.

A physical therapist adjusts Layan’s test prosthetics in preparation for her to practice walking.

We made a plan for the next day to accompany Layan to physical therapy. But when we arrived at the Assafs’ house in the morning, a crisis was unfolding. In an effort to plan ahead, Steve Sosebee had asked if a HEAL volunteer rather than Dina could take Layan to a medical appointment scheduled for a few days later. Layan was furious, and she refused to come downstairs. “Am I a product to be rented out to these people?” Layan screamed as Dina, remaining calm, stood in the kitchen filling a pink Stanley cup with water. “It’s my therapy. I don’t want strangers there.”

The conflict highlighted an uncomfortable reality that often comes with being a charity recipient. NGOs like HEAL rely on networks of volunteers and donors, people so eager to help a child who got out of Gaza that they’ll sometimes greet them at the airport with posters and balloons; they invite them to dinner, family events, theme parks. This in turn requires the kids to play a role: to smile, pose for photos, show gratitude.

Layan didn’t like strangers looking at her amputated legs. She didn’t want their pity. And she certainly wasn’t interested in having to glimpse their happy lives, untouched by war and loss.

When Dina learned that the HEAL volunteer’s own schedule would prevent them from taking Layan to the appointment, she breathed a sigh of relief. By now, though, it was nearly 11:30, and we were late leaving the house for the hourlong drive to the hospital. “Come on, Layan,” Dina called out, looking up the stairs. “This isn’t your wedding day. Hurry up.”

When Layan finally emerged, she was wearing a teal jacket and matching capri pants. Dina put two large pills in her palm, nerve suppressants to help ease phantom-limb pain; sometimes Layan felt electric shocks coursing through the stumps of her legs, as if her body were calling out to its parts that were no longer there.

At the hospital, Layan seemed pleased to see her physical therapist. She gave her a big hug and said her name, stretching it out affectionately: “Annnngeeeelllaahhh.” Then, with Dina translating from Arabic, Layan pointed out that Guerino was wearing mascara that day. She always noticed when Guerino made changes to her appearance.

“It’s my husband’s birthday,” Guerino explained.

“Ooh la la!” Layan replied with a wink.

The main goal of her therapy was to get Layan walking in prosthetics with less and less support over time. Guerino had helped her progress from a walker to two forearm crutches to just one. Now Layan was tethered by a rope to a ceiling track, allowing her to walk by herself. Guerino held the other end of the rope and pulled on it when Layan stumbled, catching her before she hit the ground.

Shawn Malik, the prosthetist, watched Layan carefully as she moved. Sometimes he adjusted her test prosthetics; he kept track of her body’s specifications so he could design custom legs for her. These would be ready for her in a few weeks.

At one point, Malik wheeled a full-length mirror into Layan’s path. “She loves looking in the mirror,” he told me. Layan perked up at the sight of her reflection. She swayed her hips with each step and mumbled a song to herself in Arabic that I couldn’t quite hear.

Layan allowed Eman to take photos of her when she was strapped to her prosthetics, but she shooed the camera away when Guerino was stretching her body without them. I remembered the wrenching video in which she said she wanted real legs, not prosthetics. It now seemed that what Layan wanted was for the world to see her standing on two legs, even if they were fake. She wanted to appear upright, undaunted, ready for whatever came next.

Layan stands in the backyard of the Assafs’ home.

HEAL and organizations that do similar work are able to get U.S. visas for kids like Layan on certain conditions. Medical evacuees can’t apply for asylum, and they must leave the country once their treatment is concluded. From the U.S. government’s perspective, such stipulations prevent programs like HEAL from becoming immigration work-arounds.

For years, Sosebee was satisfied enough with this arrangement. Kids who received specialized treatment in the U.S. were for the most part able to get the follow-up care they needed back home—Gaza’s medical system had been robust enough for that. But Israel’s siege has changed that calculus. According to data from May, there have been around 450 attacks on health facilities, and 31 of Gaza’s 36 hospitals are now damaged or destroyed. Those that are still functioning must focus on immediate and lifesaving care, when they have the resources to do so. “Our medical supplies are critically low due to the limited flow of aid that is being allowed into Gaza by Israeli authorities. If we don’t manage to get medical supplies into Gaza very soon, we may have to stop our medical activities,” Guillemette Thomas, the medical coordinator for Doctors Without Borders in Palestine, said in a statement in June. “We have patients with severe burns and open fractures, and we don’t even have enough painkillers to alleviate their suffering.”

The situation in Gaza presented a horrible question: What if Layan came all the way to the U.S. and learned to walk again, only to return home and find that the long-term care she needed was unavailable? Emily Mayhew, a military medical historian who works with the Center for Pediatric Blast Injury Studies, told me that “life beyond survival as an amputee is immensely complicated.” She described a colleague, a double amputee like Layan, who checked the weather forecast every morning; if the temperature would be above 77 degrees, he knew to stay home the following day, because the heat would make it too uncomfortable to use his prosthetics two days in a row. Mayhew also told me about a Paralympic athlete who developed an ingrown hair on the bottom of his amputation that became so badly infected, he couldn’t train for a year.

Those people were adults. Younger amputees face unique difficulties; they often require additional medical procedures and new prosthetics as their bodies grow and change. Meeting the needs of thousands of pediatric amputees in Gaza will be an overwhelming task. Dr. Abu-Sittah, the surgeon in London, said that prosthetists around the globe need to be training now, rather than waiting until the war is over, to care for these children. A steady rotation of specialists from abroad will need to visit Gaza to provide treatment, because it will be all but impossible to bring the kids to them. “These children will need to be treated by the Palestinian health system, whatever it looks like,” he said.

Additionally, Abu-Sittah noted that Gaza itself will have to be reimagined to accommodate a generation of young amputees. “It needs to be a different place in terms of access, in terms of disability. The schools that need to be rebuilt need to be completely different looking. Everything needs to be informed by this,” he said. “Every little thing.”

For now the bombs are still falling, with no end in sight. The idea that Gaza will be rebuilt anytime soon, let alone with the needs of someone like Layan in mind, is a pipe dream. Dina knows this, and at an appointment with Layan’s orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Ackman, she expressed concern about how Layan would use her prosthetics in a place where more than 70 percent of civilian infrastructure has been destroyed.

“She can use them on flat surfaces,” Ackman said.

“But what if there are no roads anymore? What about rubble?” Dina asked.

“They will break down a lot faster,” Ackman said. Once that happened, he continued, “they basically won’t work.”

Sometimes when she thought about returning to Gaza, Layan’s mind went to the darkest of places. “I’ve heard her crying and saying things like, ‘If they didn’t kill me the first time, they’re going to kill me the second time,’” Dina said.

When Eman and I visited Chicago a second time, in June, Layan greeted us with a slight smile while walking down the stairs of the Assafs’ home on her new prosthetics. These were the legs Malik had designed, and Layan would use them for the next year or two at least, until her growing body required new ones. They had been customized to match her skin tone, with a material meant to resemble the texture of human flesh.

When her medical team gave them to her two weeks before our visit, Layan wasn’t thrilled. “Their appearance was acceptable,” she told us with a shrug, but she didn’t like walking in them. They required adjustment and effort, and unlike the test prosthetics, she was supposed to use them all the time, which was exhausting. When she came home from the hospital she put the legs in her room, where they stayed, unused, for the next several days. To encourage her to practice walking with them, Dina hid Layan’s wheelchair. If Layan wanted to get around the house, she’d have to use her new legs.

During her sessions with Guerino, Layan worked her way from one side of the room to the other. “It’s really the left leg that bothers me,” she explained. That was the one with the mechanical knee; to unlock the motion of the joint, she had to put pressure on the prosthetic’s toes. The problem for Layan was the repetition—doing this with every single step, especially when the other prosthetic didn’t require it.

For the time being, she had settled on dragging her left leg without bending the knee. She had also decided that she was ready to don footwear other than orthopedic sneakers. A pair of silver flats were on the way in the mail, arriving just in time for Eid celebrations.

Layan’s final medical appointment in Chicago was scheduled for July 3, and as the date approached, there was a swell of anxiety in the Assaf household. Sometimes when she thought about returning to Gaza, Layan’s mind went to the darkest of places. “I’ve heard her crying and saying things like, ‘If they didn’t kill me the first time, they’re going to kill me the second time,’ ” Dina said.

In my conversations with him, Sosebee insisted more than once that HEAL would not return evacuees to Gaza amid continuing hostilities. But the Assafs and Layan weren’t convinced. What if the U.S. government gave Sosebee no choice?

There are scenarios in which Layan could wind up in a third country—perhaps Egypt, where the aunt who traveled with her to get a visa remains; or in Europe, where her sister Areej lives. Layan said that she misses Gaza, her family, and her friends. She wants to go back, but not if it means risking her life. She never wants to feel trapped again.

The Assaf girls, Layan, and Baha make s’mores in the family’s backyard.

Since the rocky meeting at O’Hare, Layan had become a fixture in the Assafs’ lives. She’d attended family gatherings and gotten to know Baha’s many sisters, their husbands, and their kids by name. She went on vacation with the Assafs to Miami. She could still be defiant, but her biting comments had given way to witty ones. That she had come to trust her hosts enough to be vulnerable in front of them was something Dina especially took to heart. “She has all her faith in us,” Dina said. “She believes in us.”

Dina was insistent that she would do everything in her power to keep Layan from going back to a place that is scarcely a shadow of the home she once knew. “That’s not an option,” Dina said. “We will put up lawyers. We will pay as much money as we have to.”

On our last night in Chicago, Baha and Dina lit up the backyard firepit, and the girls made s’mores before their attention flitted away. Sereen zipped around on a hoverboard with LED-illuminated wheels as Sara attempted to wrangle her sisters and Layan into doing a TikTok dance tutorial together. At one point, Layan dropped the crutches she used to steady herself on her prosthetics and bounded toward the firepit. She then propped one of her new legs on Sereen’s hoverboard and glanced over at Dina and Baha with a smirk.

“Get away from that right now Layan!” Dina yelled across the yard.

Layan laughed and galloped back to the other girls, joining them as they swiveled and shook their hips in front of a phone screen. In that moment she was just a kid, dancing.

The Extra Mile

The Extra Mile

After a horrific accident, doctors told Todd Barcelona that he’d likely never run again. So he and his wife decided to run farther than they ever had before.
By Maggie Gigandet

The Atavist Magazine, No. 152

Maggie Gigandet is a writer who previously worked as a trial attorney. She writes about the outdoors, people with interesting passions, and anything unusual. She has written for Folklife, Atlas Obscura, Mental Floss, and other publications. She lives in Nashville, Tennessee.

Editor: Seyward Darby
Art Director: Ed Johnson
Copy Editor: Sean Cooper
Fact Checker: Kyla Jones
Photographer: Stacy Kranitz

Published in June 2024.

One hundred and twenty runners stood in a clearing overlooking the Mississippi River, listening as a man with a curly gray beard needled them. He checked his watch; an unlit cigarette dangled from his fingers. “Thirty seconds,” he announced to the crowd. “You’re running out of time to change your mind.”

Over the next ten days, these ultramarathoners hoped to cover 314 miles on foot. From the clearing in southeastern Missouri, they’d board a ferry to cross the river, disembark in Kentucky, traverse a narrow corner of the state, then cross Tennessee to finish at the Rock, a cliff on a ranch in northern Georgia. “Remember, the earliest quit was at the Tennessee state line,” the man with the beard said. Someone in the crowd yelled out, “I can beat that.” Everyone laughed. Tennessee’s border with Kentucky was less than ten miles away.

Other than the ferry ride, the participants would have to run or walk every inch of the course. Most wore a hat to protect their face from the July sun and carried a small backpack with water and other essentials. Some stood with a crew, people who would supply them with necessities along the course. Runners without crews were called “screwed” runners. Among them were the Barcelonas.

Todd and Allison Barcelona, 57 and 55, respectively, had completed 20 ultramarathons together. Allison stood with her hands clasped in front of her polka-dot running skirt. Todd’s nerves had kept him awake for most of the previous night, and he felt a little sick to his stomach. But evidence of his grit and the battles he’d already waged in his life was etched into his skin: a jagged-edged divot in his lower left shin.

“Five seconds,” the bearded man warned. A dark wall of clouds encroached on the pale peach sunrise behind him.

At 7:30 a.m. exactly, the man transferred his cigarette to his mouth and lit it, cupping his left hand around the flame to shield it from the wind. He tilted his head back and exhaled a puff of smoke.

“You’re off!” he announced.

Whooping, the throng surged forward. The 2023 Last Annual Volunteer State Road Race was under way.

Scenes from the beginning of the 2023 Last Annual Volunteer State Road Race.

The beginning of Todd and Allison’s story is the stuff of a sweet country song. They attended the same elementary and high schools in Memphis, where Allison was a year behind Todd. When their friendship turned romantic, Todd asked Allison if she would go with him. Allison asked him where he wanted to go. He still teases her about that.

When they were dating, they mainly stayed home, preferring to save money for their future. Allison’s parents joked that they were “16 going on 30.” Allison finished school a year early to be with Todd; they graduated together in 1984. Three years later they were married—Allison was 19 and Todd was 21.

The Barcelonas welcomed a daughter in 1988, another about a year later, and a son in 1991. After they moved to Atoka, a small community about 40 miles north of Memphis, Allison gave birth to their youngest child, Ashleigh. Allison worked full-time as a paralegal, and Todd as a line mechanic at a Cadillac dealership.

In his mid-forties, Todd was diagnosed with high cholesterol. To avoid medication, he changed his lifestyle. He bought a treadmill and began running. He didn’t enjoy it at first, but it grew on him, and after a while he began jogging outdoors.

Eventually, Todd graduated to races. He enjoyed the camaraderie he felt with other runners. Each finisher medal he received was a point of pride. On August 31, 2014, Todd ran a marathon in Tupelo, Mississippi. His goal was to finish in under five hours; he did that with about ten minutes to spare. Allison ran a half-marathon at the same time.

Whether racing or training, the Barcelonas usually ran separately. Allison liked to run with friends, while Todd kept to himself. It might have stayed that way if not for what happened on September 29, 2014.

During their workdays, Todd and Allison stayed in touch. That afternoon, Allison called Todd to let him know that Ashleigh, the only Barcelona child still living at home, wasn’t going to her guitar lesson as planned. When Todd didn’t pick up, Allison assumed that he was still working. But when she looked at the clock a little while later and saw that it was almost 6:30, she got worried. Todd always called her by six.

With Ashleigh standing next to her at the kitchen table, Allison called her husband again. A male voice she didn’t recognize answered. She still recalls how it felt hearing a stranger on her husband’s phone: “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone else.”

The man asked her who she was, but she didn’t respond and repeated the question to him. The man said that he was with the Tennessee Highway Patrol and that Todd had been in an accident. He was at a hospital in downtown Memphis. Allison felt sick.

Allison hung up the phone and turned to Ashleigh. “Dad’s been in an accident,” she said. “We have to go.” Ashleigh said nothing, and mother and daughter got in the car and left.

As Allison drove, she and Ashleigh were both crying. They began pleading with God aloud. “Lord, please, please keep him here,” Allison prayed. “Please don’t let this be his time.” Later she recalled, “I told Him I couldn’t do life by myself.… We still needed Todd.”

En route to the hospital, Allison tried to take the Austin Peay Highway into Memphis, but it was closed. She didn’t know that it was because of what had happened to Todd.

A spreadsheet tracks their progress, and among the names in the document, one always stands out: Oprah. That is the moniker given to the minimum pace—15.7 miles every 12 hours—runners must maintain to stay in the race.

After getting off the ferry, the Barcelonas climbed a ramp to a two-lane road and strolled past a blue “Welcome to Kentucky” sign. Rounding a curve, they passed a cornfield, ears heavy on the stalks. Vol State, or LAVS, as this ultramarathon is sometimes called, winds through urban and rural communities. The course’s terrain is also varied—sometimes flat, sometimes steep.

The Barcelonas, like most of the other race participants, walked to start with, because speed isn’t the most important factor for a successful finish in Vol State. With such a sizable distance to cover, most racers gain little by bolting ahead and tiring themselves out. The key to Vol State is the ability to put one foot in front of the other, hour after hour, day after day. “Many will fail,” a website advertising the race explains. “But, for those who find the steely will and muster the sheer dogged tenacity to overcome the impossible obstacles … [it] can be a transcendental experience.”

Nonetheless, participants would need to manage their pace, because per the race’s rules, Vol State must be finished within ten days. At 7:30 a.m. and 7:30 p.m. every day, runners are required to check in via their phones to report mileage. A spreadsheet tracks their progress, and among the names in the document, one always stands out: Oprah. That is the moniker given to the minimum pace—15.7 miles every 12 hours—runners must maintain to stay in the race. Every morning and evening, Oprah advances up the spreadsheet, and any participant whose name falls below hers risks disqualification if they don’t hustle.

Quirks like Oprah are one of many attributable to Vol State’s founder, the man with the beard at the starting line. Even the full name of the ultra—the Last Annual Volunteer State Road Race—is an inside joke. Amused by race directors who, confident about the long-term prospects, declare an inaugural event the “first annual,” Vol State’s founder decided to dub his the last. (It’s now been run for more than forty years.) The founder once explained his choice to call the minimum pace Oprah: “She is real life. A world of celebrities and politics and ‘luxury.’ ” In other words, she represents the world the runners had left behind when they entered Vol State.

Even the founder’s name has a peculiar backstory. Born Gary Cantrell, he began using Lazarus Lake online years ago for privacy reasons. Now he’s equally well-known by his self-anointed nickname, or Laz for short. In the ultra world he’s a legend: a showman whose long, grueling races, designed with signature flair, have attracted a devoted following.

As the Barcelonas and other runners headed toward Hickman, Kentucky, the first town on the Vol State route, a boxy van approached. This was the meat wagon—another race fixture, driven by a woman named Jan. When runners fell too far behind Oprah, or if their willpower was simply crushed, they’d call Jan and wait for her to deliver them from the course. For now she drove alongside the crowd, a harbinger of what would be the runners’ greatest obstacle: the temptation to quit. Then she honked and drove on.

Chatting with two other runners, the Barcelonas entered Hickman. Todd stopped to take a photo of a black-and-white mural of Mark Twain. The author had once described Hickman as “a pretty town perched on a handsome hill.” Touches of Twain’s pretty town were still visible in the decorative brickwork and keyhole doorways of buildings along Hickman’s main drag, but few places seemed to be occupied. One structure, a popular hotel of yore, stood out with its horseshoe-shaped entryway and windows running the length of its facade. “LaClede,” the name of the shuttered hotel, was painted above the door.

Time and creativity were invested in building Hickman. Now it was a shell of its former self.

Allison and Todd Barcelona on the ferry carrying runners across the Mississippi River.

On the afternoon that changed his life, Todd was driving home from work in his sky blue 1994 GMC Sierra truck. He had purchased it used and lowered the suspension so it sat closer to the ground. It did not have airbags.

Todd approached the intersection of Austin Peay Highway and Old Brownsville Road heading north. A Shell gas station, fields of crops, and stands of trees filled his view. The light ahead turned yellow, and he continued through the intersection. A gray Honda Accord driving south made a left at the light at the same time, failing to yield the right of way. It smashed into Todd’s truck almost head-on.

Michael and Amy Matthews were in a car stopped at the intersection—they heard the screeching tires and saw the collision. Profanities slipped from their mouths. Amy grabbed her phone and called 911 as Michael drove toward Todd’s mangled truck. Before she exited the car, Amy told her 11-year-old son to stay inside. “Don’t even look over here,” she warned.

Michael checked on the Accord. Its airbags had deployed, and the driver and passenger, both teenagers, appeared to have minor injuries. He then walked over to Amy, who was standing near Todd’s truck. The impact of the crash had crumpled the front left corner as if it were a sheet of blue aluminum foil. The hood had been wrenched open and the cab’s frame above the driver’s seat rammed skyward, like the tallest peak in a newly formed mountain range.

The gore on Todd’s face made it hard for Amy to determine his age. To her it looked as if “his nose was almost off”—in fact, it had been flattened to one side. Blood spilled from his head and a gash on his arm, mixing with vehicle fluids that collected on the road beneath the battered Sierra.

The Matthewses tried to reassure Todd that he’d be OK, but he was drifting in and out of consciousness, his guttural moans replaced by silence when he went limp. “I just didn’t want him to die with me, you know, right there,” Amy recalled.

A nurse who had just finished her shift at a nearby hospital stopped to help. She reached in through the shattered driver’s-side window and placed two fingers against Todd’s neck, checking his pulse. In case he had a spinal injury, she put her hands on either side of his head to keep it stationary.

When first responders arrived, they had to pry open Todd’s door, revealing a pool of blood on the floorboard. Every time they tried to ease him from the truck, Todd came to, groaning in pain. Only when they realized why he was trapped—the emergency brake had impaled his left leg—could they remove him safely and rush him to the hospital.

When Allison found Todd in the emergency room, she saw that his face was mutilated with gashes and bruises. “It was gone,” she recalled. Todd asked her three questions.

“Where am I?”

“What time is it?”

“Am I OK?”

Allison answered, but Todd kept repeating the questions.

“Where am I?”

“What time is it?”

“Am I OK?”

Allison told her husband that whatever his injuries were, they would get through this together. They’d move on with their lives. She was just thankful that he wasn’t dead.

“I was thinking that it was going to be the bones, you know? The broken legs and things like that,” Allison said later. “I had no idea it would be the head trauma that would really take him out.”

From left: Lazarus Lake at the Rock, Vol State’s finish line; medals given to participants who complete the race.

After leaving Hickman, the Barcelonas soon crossed into western Tennessee. As screwed runners, they had no one to reliably supply them with food and water. They ate at gas stations and restaurants, and looked for motels with vacancies. Racers unable to find a bed slept on whatever flat surfaces were available: picnic tables, church pews, driveways, even the side of the road.

But rest only ever lasted a few hours. Oprah never slept, and because Vol Staters had to travel nearly 16 miles every 12 hours to stay ahead of her, few had the luxury of a full night’s sleep. Strong runners could cover enough miles to give themselves a buffer, but everyone needed to keep moving. “The lack of sleep was murder,” one runner later admitted.

At least traveling at night was cooler than suffering through the heat of the day. Less than 48 hours into the race, a woman’s glasses were ruined when high temperatures warped the frames. Another runner posted online, “I melted today. I’m just liquid skinbag goo walking down this white line with a giant backpack.” The Barcelonas used umbrellas to shield themselves from the unrelenting sun.

During desolate stretches, runners depended on the generosity of so-called road angels to sustain them. Because the Vol State course is the same every year, there is a strong tradition of people who live along the race’s path aiding runners; these volunteers aren’t race staff, but they’re crucial to participants’ success. Road angels might do something as simple as leave a pack of water bottles on the side of the road. Some set up tents in their yards, along with inflatable mattresses, food, and other supplies. Some road-angel stations have become so well-known that they’re race landmarks. “The people you meet along the way just take your breath away,” Allison said.

On the road, Vol Staters are concerned only with the pursuit of miles, calories, fluids, and shelter. But this winnowing of life soon becomes monotonous. As the world narrows to a seemingly endless stretch of pavement, there’s nothing to distract from the pain of sore joints, aching muscles, and fresh blisters. Each excruciating step chips away at a participant’s resolve, until for some the desire to be rescued from the course swallows the last of their stamina.

On the third day of the race, the Barcelonas were closing in on the 100-mile mark when heat and exhaustion overwhelmed Todd. He erupted with anger, blaming Allison for his misery and pain. They were only there, he said, because she wanted the race jacket awarded to finishers.

Allison did her best to calm him. She’d done it before. “She had to reel me back in,” Todd said. A race like Vol State, he continued, “is very, very, very mental.”

A TBI is a hidden injury. It’s not visible to the eye, like an oozing cut would be, but the effects can alter a person’s life forever.

At about 1:30 a.m. the day after his accident, Todd underwent his first surgeries. An orthopedics team worked on his lower left leg where the brake pedal had impaled him, fracturing his fibula in two places and exposing the bone. At the same time, surgeons worked to repair a lacerated artery in his left wrist. Later that day, Todd had a third surgery to repair the damage to his face. Doctors inserted a metal plate to help reposition his nose. They put a splint in each nostril and fitted another over the bridge.

Some damage couldn’t be repaired surgically. His neck was fractured in two places. The bone in his right heel had splintered. The doctors decided to let his body heal those injuries.

Todd spent eight days in the hospital. Allison never left his side. At one point, after being awake for almost 48 hours, she confessed to a nurse that she needed to rest. The staff set up a cot in Todd’s room so Allison could lie down next to her husband.

Todd was immobilized. He wore a neck brace, a boot on his left foot, and a splint on his right. Pain medications—Dilaudid, morphine, oxycodone—kept him in a stupor. Early in his stay he became disoriented, scratching himself and trying to get out of bed, so hospital staff restrained him and put mittens on his hands. Once, while his restraints were off, he tore away one of his nose splints. It wasn’t like him to be so unruly.

When finally he was allowed to get up, Todd couldn’t put weight on his right foot. He was told to use a walker but didn’t have much strength in his arms. All he could do was inch himself forward.

Allison tried to feed her husband, but he had no appetite and was soon losing weight. He couldn’t understand what had happened to him. The last thing he recalled from the day of the accident was running an errand at lunch. He never regained his memory of the crash.

Tests revealed that Todd had suffered a traumatic brain injury, or TBI. The accident caused hemorrhaging in both sides of his frontal lobe, the large section of the brain behind the forehead, which governs emotions and personality traits. It was impossible to say exactly how that happened. Maybe Todd’s head had slammed into the steering wheel, or maybe the force of the crash jerked his brain violently enough against the interior of his skull that it caused tissue damage.

A TBI is a hidden injury. It’s not visible to the eye, like an oozing cut would be, but the effects can alter a person’s life forever. Depending on the nature and severity of the injury, people may have trouble focusing and controlling their emotions and impulses, among other symptoms. Behavioral changes can affect careers and relationships. TBI sufferers may also be at increased risk of epilepsy, dementia, anxiety, and depression.

Allison didn’t yet grasp the impact that Todd’s brain injury might have on their lives. In the days immediately after the crash, she was focused on his physical recovery. Todd’s medical team wanted him to go to an inpatient rehabilitation center, but he refused when he learned that Allison wouldn’t be allowed to stay there with him. The prospect of caring for Todd at home scared Allison—she knew that he was too heavy for her to lift alone, for instance—but she agreed to it.

Satisfied with his progress with the walker, the hospital discharged Todd on October 7, 2014. Allison drove them home. They didn’t say much on the way, each lost in their own thoughts and worries. As they approached the intersection where Todd’s accident had occurred, they saw the stains on the pavement. Todd began to sob.

The Barcelonas at a road-angel station about halfway through the race.

On the evening of the fifth day of Vol State, around mile 165, the Barcelonas walked single file down a country highway, listening to birdsong and the chirping of crickets. They were cooled by bursts of air as vehicles zipped past, the sound of motors concentrating into a vibrating crescendo before fading to an echo. They turned down a long driveway leading to a house. An orange sign advertised a road-angel station in the backyard. “Congratulations on surviving the hills so far!” it read.

The Barcelonas seated themselves in a pair of tan patio chairs next to the garage and took off their shoes. Todd pulled his left ankle onto his right knee and adjusted a doughnut-shaped piece of foam on the ball of his foot. A white patch of Desitin stained his shorts; he used the diaper cream to combat foot moisture. When he started the race, his feet weren’t in perfect condition. He already had a blister and a stone bruise, which feels like a pebble in your shoe. For the time being, his feet were holding up.

Allison knew that Todd’s feet would be a factor in this race and any they ran in the future. Lazarus Lake’s newest creation, called the Last Annual Third Circle of Hell, began two weeks after Vol State ended. The course covered 370 miles of mountainous terrain across Tennessee. Lake had likened finishing Vol State to getting a bachelor’s degree in his races and completing the Third Circle to earning a doctorate. Runners had to finish the former, along with another one of Lake’s ultras, to qualify for the latter. Even if she and Todd completed Vol State, Allison wanted to see how his feet fared before committing to the Third Circle.

The Barcelonas put on fresh socks, pinning the ones they removed to their packs to dry. Allison walked gingerly over to a cooler and returned with a bottle of water and an energy bar. After resting a few minutes, she signed a guestbook that had been placed on a fold-out table and the couple returned to the road. A floral smell wafted on the evening breeze.

Not far down the road, the Barcelonas stopped at another rest station at a horse farm. Because they hadn’t found a restaurant or a convenience store to get dinner, they hoped to stock up on calories. Allison rummaged through the cooler and pulled out an apple. She peeled off the sticker and handed the fruit to Todd. While he chugged a Sun Drop, Allison asked if he wanted her to pack another apple for later—she carried their snacks in a small drawstring bag. Allison said that she had to feed Todd to keep him going. Todd worried that she’d weigh herself down.

Todd tends to his feet with diaper cream.

After the Barcelonas returned from the hospital, their two-story brick house, set in a peaceful neighborhood of spacious lots and pristine yards, became Todd’s prison. For months he couldn’t leave on his own. “It was like shutting somebody down and putting them in a suitcase,” he said.For Todd, the loss of independence was the loss of his humanity. Describing that time, he compared himself to inanimate objects: a mannequin, a dummy, “just a big lump.”

Because of his injured nose, he struggled to breathe. Sitting upright helped, so he spent most of his time in an overstuffed recliner. He couldn’t sleep comfortably, and sometimes he got so frustrated at his neck brace that he tore it off and threw it across the room. When Allison heard the telltale rip of the brace’s Velcro, she’d retrieve it from the floor and make Todd put it back on.

Eventually, his body began to mend. After a few weeks, the stitches from his left wrist and the splints in his nose were removed. After a couple of months, he didn’t need the neck brace. The splint on his right foot was replaced with a boot, which allowed him to put pressure on both feet for the first time since the crash.

But even as his lacerations and broken bones healed, his behavior worsened. Todd was like an obstinate child again, throwing tantrums when he didn’t get his way. Sometimes he hurled things at Allison: water bottles, magazines. “It wasn’t the man I married,” Allison said. In abandoning “he” for “it,” she emphasized the distance between the person she knew as her husband and the attitude that had accompanied him home from the hospital.

Allison couldn’t recall Todd laughing even once in the first year after the accident. “There was no joy in him whatsoever,” she said. While she was at work each day, Todd was alone wrestling with his anguish. To keep busy he tried memorizing Bible verses, but he quickly lost focus. He spent a lot of time on WebMD, his morbid quicksand. Desperate to know if he’d ever return to his old self, Todd searched for information about his injuries. When she got home, Allison would explain to her anxious husband that the doctors had done everything they could for him in the hospital.

Before the crash, Allison and Todd had been training for the St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital marathon in Memphis. Allison decided to keep going, treasuring her workouts as time for herself. Todd became jealous. When his orthopedic surgeon told him that running again would be too painful—the doctor suggested biking instead—Todd got even more upset. When he saw Allison lacing up her running shoes, his anger would explode into snide comments. “The bitterness would jab [at me],” Allison recalled of those moments, again separating her husband from his demeanor.

On Tuesday evenings, Allison and Ashleigh went to a Bible study group at a friend’s home. One night, the subject of the Barcelonas’ home life came up. When the group heard about Todd’s behavior, they told Allison that they would pray for her. A running friend offered her a place to stay if she needed to leave home. Allison declined. “I’ve got twenty-something years invested in him. I’m not giving up yet,” she said. When Ashleigh told her mother that she wanted to move out, Allison replied, “But if we leave him, he won’t survive.”

Three months after the crash, when Allison ran the St. Jude half-marathon, Todd and Ashleigh watched her cross the finish line, passing an Elvis impersonator in a cape and bell-bottom jumpsuit shaking a red scarf. From his seat in the stands, Todd saw his wife accomplish what he couldn’t. He was proud of her, but he felt his envy grow.

Around mile 184 on the Vol State course, a red bench sits in front of a cream-colored building in a small community near Columbia, Tennessee. The words “The Bench of Despair” are painted in black on the backrest. Scrawled signatures surround the ominous phrase, some more faded than others.

In the early 2000s, it had become clear that the bench marked a turning point in the competition. During one Vol State, Lazarus Lake found the race leader perched on it, wrestling with his desire to quit before giving in and abandoning the course. The following year, Lake again found the lead runner at the bench. Holding his head in his hands, this participant was also despondent, but he announced, “I won’t get there by sitting here.” He stood up and kept going.

Lake attributed the bench’s make-or-break quality to its location in the race. When runners reach it, they’ve already battled long and hard against fatigue, the elements, and the temptation to give up, yet they’ve only just passed the halfway mark. There’s so much ground left to cover, and burdened with the weight of experience, they’re are acutely aware of the suffering left to be endured. Without the energy or the hope they started off with, it’s easy to drown in the hardship. Lake summarized the stakes. “You either get in your car and go home and regret it for the rest of your life,” he said, “or get up and go on and regret it for the rest of the race.”

When the Vol State community first began calling the spot the Bench of Despair, the building behind it was home to a country store and grill. The owners heard about the bench’s importance in the race and embraced it. They painted it red and set out a permanent marker for runners to commemorate their progress as they passed.

When the Barcelonas arrived at the spot, they posed for a picture. Grinning into the camera, Allison sat on one side of the bench and Todd on the other, bookending the famed insignia. Allison added their names at the bottom right corner of the backrest, along with the year. Underneath she wrote “Team Barcelona,” affirming their commitment to each other: They’d either finish the race together or not at all.

Before he started running again, Allison described Todd as “a man that was out of control.” Running gave him a chance to regain control.

In early 2015, Todd was able to return to work. He struggled with anxiety during the commute. When he saw an accident on the side of the road, he’d get so upset he had to pull over. His doctor prescribed medication to help him cope.

That spring a letter arrived from the hospital where Todd was taken after the crash. Addressed to Allison, it advertised a seminar for the families of people who’d sustained a brain injury. Allison, a self-described introvert, attended the event but kept to herself.

Listening to the speaker, she felt like she was finally getting the tools she needed to help Todd. She grabbed all the pamphlets on offer. At home afterward, she dived into research, hunting for anything that might improve her husband’s well-being. She burned frankincense to help Todd’s brain heal and lemongrass to improve his mood. She also changed their diets.

Allison learned that Todd needed something enjoyable to focus on instead of obsessing about his injuries and anxiety. Todd had an idea: He wanted to run. Registration for a number of annual races was approaching, and he didn’t want to sit them out again.

One day, Allison and Todd made their way from their house to a nearby street. Todd, finally rid of his boots and braces, had wrapped runner’s tape around his legs and ankles for support. The couple began a slow jog together. Pain raged from Todd’s heels up into his legs. “I was boiling in tears,” he recalled. “It was hurting so bad.”

Seeing her husband in agony, Allison asked him if he wanted to stop. He said no. It broke Allison’s heart to see him suffer, and she worried that the experiment would set Todd back mentally and physically. He covered maybe a few hundred feet before he had to stop.

Still, the brief jog was a victory. Todd felt great. To his mind, he’d struck a blow against the misery that had plagued him for months. When he recalled the experience more than eight years later, the emotion of that day flooded back. He choked back sobs as he described it, slipping at times into the present tense as if he were still standing on that stretch of pavement. “I finally got out on the street,” he said. “This is going to be the start of something that I can do. Regardless of how hard it was and how painful it was, it gave me some hope.”

That summer and fall, Allison and Todd ran together, adding distance as his stamina improved. This was the unglamorous phase of distance running, the repetitive slog of returning to the road again and again to train, and Todd’s constant pain made it even more challenging. That October they ran a half-marathon, the Greenline at Shelby Farms Park in Memphis. Propelled by willpower, Todd finished the race in tears—happy ones.

Before he started running again, Allison described Todd as “a man that was out of control.” Running gave him a chance to regain control. If he wanted to return to the sport, he had to manage his pain, both physical and mental. As he worked toward that goal, Allison saw his attitude improve; he even seemed happy. Over time, flashes of the old Todd returned. “You could see a little bit of him come back, piece by piece,” Allison said.

Running did more for Todd than give him purpose. Exercise helps injured brains in numerous ways. It stimulates production of important chemicals in the body, including brain-derived neurotrophic factor, a protein that promotes cell growth and helps the brain heal itself. Exercise reduces cerebral inflammation and supports essential processes—sleep, for instance, which is necessary to remove toxins that build up in the brain, and hormone regulation, which can ease depression. It isn’t a miracle cure for a brain injury, however. Many factors affect a person’s ability to heal; genetics, personality, diet, even education can affect outcomes.

Sometimes, Todd’s determination almost outweighed his capabilities. In January 2016, the Barcelonas ran the Herb Parsons Trail half-marathon. Todd typically ran on flat surfaces, but this was a trail race. Because he still struggled with mobility in his ankles, it was difficult to maneuver his feet over rocks and roots. Again and again, he tumbled to the ground—so often that it scared him. But he picked himself back up, and after three hours he and Allison finished together.

In April 2016, the Barcelonas ran the Tanglefoot Trail marathon in Mississippi, Todd’s first full marathon since the crash. He finished in about five hours—remarkably, that wasn’t too far off the time it took him to complete the last marathon he ran before the crash. But the Barcelonas were a little bored by the course. They decided that they needed a bigger goal.

Their new plan was to run an ultra.

Extreme weather was a feature of the 2023 Vol State race.

Lazarus Lake founded Vol State on the notion that people “are built to overcome challenges.” He wanted to run across Tennessee, and in 1980 he decided to try. Lake, who had been interested in running since his high school cross-country days, ran 65 miles in his first 12 hours on the road, then stopped in Murfreesboro, where he caught a football game in a bar and drank free beers provided by patrons who got wind of what he was doing. When he hit the road again, he was caught in the rain. He stuffed his jacket with newspaper to keep warm, but it turned to mush. He finally called someone to pick him up after running 93 miles in about 20 hours. Lake tried the run again and again; others joined, and Vol State was born.

Lake declared Vol State 2023 “the year of the thunderstorm,” predicting that it would “be remembered for the most mercurial weather in the history of the race.” The Barcelonas equipped themselves with ponchos and umbrellas, but they were continually soaked from either rain or sweat. Almost a week into the race, the National Weather Service issued a flood watch for the area. During one storm, runners and road angels huddled under a purple supply tent as hail pelted the ground. Other tents were crushed.

The Barcelonas avoided one deluge by sheltering in a Dollar General. When they felt the first drops of rain, they headed for the store, which was about a quarter-mile off the course, sacrificing hard-earned mileage for a dry haven. Next to the household cleaning supplies, the Barcelonas sat on flattened cardboard boxes and took off their shoes. They made sandwiches with ham, cheese, and a loaf of bread they bought on-site.

For a few hours, the couple shared their food and chatted with other runners who’d found their way to the Dollar General. It was a fun break from the race, but Todd knew that time spent inside was time they weren’t making progress. When the rain stopped, they had to recoup the lost mileage by walking or running late into the night.

As the race wore on, runners vented via online check-in comments about blisters and hip and knee pain. “All my body parts are screaming at each other. Can’t we just learn to get along? Just for 94 more miles?” one person wrote. Another complained, “Pain. My body is in pain. A lot of pain. Agonizing pain. Wow.”

Days of suffering frayed runners’ nerves. One confessed, “2 miles of tears for zero reason today. Yes, we are having fun.” Even Allison, usually the more stoic of the Barcelonas, had a deprivation-induced meltdown. She had to sit on a guardrail until she collected herself enough to continue.

The race conditions also shook runners’ sanity. At one check-in a participant joked, “Want to experience killer hallucinations, but need to pass a urinalysis? Run LAVS.” Another runner reported having a conversation with Theodore Roosevelt. Allison once thought she saw a horse standing in the middle of the road. Todd had to tell her that it wasn’t there.

The Barcelonas never leave each other’s side during a race; one would never finish without the other.

Ultramarathons all have one thing in common: Runners must cover a distance greater than a marathon’s standard 26.2 miles. Beyond that, the races can vary significantly. Some are defined by a set distance, anywhere from about 30 to hundreds of miles; others are classified by duration, with participants covering as much ground as they can in a set period. Some ultras can be finished in less than a day; some require several days. Participants might run on paved roads or trails; they might start at one point and finish at another or circle a looped course. Some courses have aid stations that provide food and fluids; others, like Vol State, lack official support. Ultras occur all over the world in all types of terrain and weather, from the frozen Arctic Circle to the extreme heat of Death Valley. No matter what race an ultramarathoner finishes, there’s always something harder out there.

After deciding to enter the ultra world, the Barcelonas hired Kevin Leathers, a running coach. At first Leathers was skeptical that Todd could finish a race that long. He’d never worked with anyone required to manage as much daily agony as Todd did. Leathers soon realized, however, that “Todd had a different definition of pain and discomfort” than most people—an asset when it came to ultras. “No sane person who has lived a stress or trauma-free life typically indulges in the voluntary trials, difficulty, and mental and physical dark places that the sport requires,” Leathers wrote to me in an email.

The Barcelonas ran several times per week and dedicated some of those runs to tackling longer and longer distances. They grew stronger by running hills and by exercising their upper bodies and core muscles. They optimized their diets and experimented with gear and fueling strategies. They persevered through blisters and sore muscles; Allison broke a toe. Eventually, Todd’s legs were strong enough that he no longer felt pain while running, although the ankle that was crushed in the accident still got tired and tight. Leathers never heard Todd complain.

Leathers also trains clients to deal with the mental side of ultras. “It’s like you’re in a nice room-temperature pot of water, and then gradually, all day, they turn it up—just tick, tick, tick, all day. It’s a very slow burn,” he said. “All of a sudden, it’s just awful.”

Todd and Allison competed in their first ultra, Run Under the Stars, in Paducah, Kentucky, in the summer of 2016. Overnight they circled a half-mile track, covering as much distance as they could in ten hours. Their goal was 38 miles. After nine and a half hours, they stopped at 36.5, pleased with the accomplishment. They’d found their niche: Endurance, it turned out, was a Barcelona specialty.

On June 26, 2017, almost three years after the crash, Todd was rear-ended by another driver. It happened while he was on his way home from work, this time driving a gray 2003 Dodge Durango, Allison’s old car. Allison was at work when her phone rang. She answered and heard Todd crying and shrieking. At first she couldn’t understand what he was saying. When finally he was able to communicate where he was, she left work and drove to the scene. She calmed Todd as much as she could. After speaking with the police, Todd was able to drive his vehicle away; the car that hit him had to be towed.

Todd’s fender-bender was a reminder that trauma still haunted him. Still, no matter what else was happening in their lives, the Barcelonas kept running. They met with Leathers regularly at a coffee shop to get new training plans. “As a couple and individually,” Leathers said, “I found out there was a lot more under the hood than meets the eye.”

Leathers once advised the Barcelonas about what to do if one of them was unable to continue in a race. He said they each needed to be clear that it was OK for the other to keep going. In time, however, he learned that his advice was moot. Allison and Todd never left each other’s side during a race, no matter what—one would never abandon the other to finish. It was Leathers who first referred to the couple as Team Barcelona.

Running had become part of Todd’s identity and key to his survival. “It’s something for me to hold on to,” he said. “And if it’s not there…” He tried to find words to explain. “I don’t know, I can’t go there,” he said.

Allison’s relationship with running had changed, too. During their meetings with Leathers, she asked pointed questions and listed their goals. Leathers had worked with many women like Allison. They’d had a career, raised a family, and come to running later in life. “They discover this inner beast, competitive, tough as nails,” Leathers said. “She’s got something there that she unleashed.”

One day, Todd and Allison came to Leathers with a new idea: They wanted to run 100-mile ultras. When a client mentions this goal to him, Leathers’s first job is to push back. “Are you sure?” he’ll ask. “Do you have any idea how hard that is?” He details the physical and time commitments that pushing the human body to cover such a long distance requires. But he couldn’t dissuade the Barcelonas.

In November 2017, Todd and Allison ran their first 100-mile race in Vienna, Illinois. Eventually, they advanced to multi-day races. And in June 2021, they ran their first ultra designed by Lake—the Last Annual Heart of the South Road Race.

HOTS is unique even by Lake’s standards. Runners board a bus at the Rock—the finish line of Vol State—and only learn where the race starts when the bus stops somewhere about 350 miles away. Every year it’s a different location. Lake designs the course to pass through as many towns and by as many interesting sights as possible, and despite the challenges of the race, the Barcelonas enjoyed taking in the scenery. They did the race the next year, intrigued by the idea of a new course. “Laz is such a detail man,” Allison said.

When Lake learned the Barcelonas’ story, he wasn’t surprised that they’d turned to ultras. “When you run ultras, you’re always rebuilding yourself,” he said. The Barcelonas were doing that as a unit. “They’re struggling together,” Lake said, “and they’re struggling to do something new.”

A cheeky sign posted along the final stretch of the course.

At about 6:15 p.m. on Friday, the eighth day of Vol State, the Barcelonas arrived at the Mountain Mart, a race landmark that sits high above the Sequatchie Valley, about 23 miles from the finish line. The store’s name was spelled out in individual letters cut from wood, painted red, and cracked by exposure to wind, sun, and rain. Inside, Allison ordered two of the store’s famous giant burgers from a woman in a black hairnet behind the counter. Then the Barcelonas found a table where they could wait for their food. They sat in chairs bolted to the tile floor, sandwiched between shelves of paper towels and toilet paper on one side and display cases of rifles and handguns on the other.

A middle-aged woman with short blond hair and an oversize black purse walked up to a cooler near the couple. Noticing the Barcelonas’ packs, she asked them why she’d seen so many people walking on the highway. Allison and Todd explained.

“What an adventure,” the woman said. “It’s like you’re really living life.” They exchanged pleasantries, and the woman turned to pull a case of hard seltzer from the cooler. Then she blurted out, “Yeah, get all the life you can, because tomorrow I’m burying my husband.”

Allison couldn’t speak. Todd managed, “Oh no.” And then: “How old?”

“Sixty-four,” the woman said. “Yeah, love of my life. So ya’ll walk on.”

Then she stepped away, turned past some shelves, and was gone.

Allison was trying to hold back a flood of tears. Todd took a napkin from the dispenser between them and gave it to her. She clenched it in her fist as she hunched over, with her head bowed toward her knees. Todd leaned on his elbow, turning his face away.

“If people ask me now whether I’d want Todd to go through it again,” Allison said, referring to the crash, “and I automatically say yes, they don’t understand.”

One night back in 1986, Todd and Allison sat down to eat dinner. Todd had snuck a ring under Allison’s hamburger. When she picked up her food to take a bite, Todd proposed. Allison can’t remember the exact words he used. “Whatever he said, the answer would always have been yes,” she said. “I mean, we were just paired together for so long.”

Todd sees their bond in a similar light. “We’re just part of each other, I guess,” he said. “You can’t have one without the other.”

But given enough time, even soulmates can start to take each other for granted. The crash and its aftermath made Allison realize that, in her words, they’d been “going through the motions” as a couple. The accident became a catalyst for a different kind of relationship, one nourished by running long races together. “Now everything we go through, we go through as a team,” Allison said. What to many people might sound like the premise for a survival film is therapy for the Barcelonas: Pushing themselves to the limit with only each other to rely on has brought them closer.

“If people ask me now whether I’d want Todd to go through it again,” Allison said, referring to the crash, “and I automatically say yes, they don’t understand.” But they don’t have to.

The Barcelonas made it to Kimball, Tennessee, the last town they’d pass through before the Vol State finish line, a little after 11 p.m. on Friday night—a few hours after stopping at the Mountain Mart. They had a decision to make: Would they get some rest or push through to the end? They walked into the white, freshly remodeled lobby of a roadside hotel to discuss their options. A soft bed and air-conditioning awaited mere feet away. Still, they decided to continue.

Back outside, where the neon lights of gas stations and fast-food restaurants glowed in the dark, the Barcelonas headed for the Shelby Rhinehart Bridge spanning the Tennessee River. Called the Blue Bridge by runners because of the shade of its elegant metal arches, the structure marked 11 miles from the end of the race. They kept going, eventually crossing into Georgia’s northwestern corner. With six miles to go, they began their ascent of Sand Mountain and walked what’s known as the Cheesegrater, a road riddled with potholes. For many exhausted Vol Staters, taking a few extra steps to avoid the craters wasn’t worth it—runners remained fixated on the shortest, straightest course to the finish. “Had rocks in my shoes,” one participant said. “My brain kept telling me to stop and get them out, and I was like—no, we don’t care anymore. Just go.”

Finally, the Barcelonas made it to the private ranch where the Rock is located. They walked through a stone entrance and down a tree-lined driveway before turning left onto the race’s final stretch. A sign placed by Lake greeted them: “Finish—one mile! No kidding.” A red arrow pointed the way.

The couple followed a pair of tire tracks worn into a grassy path between cornfields. Runners who’d already finished the race had reported seeing a mountain lion in the area. One report could be dismissed as a hallucination; two were cause for concern. When the ranch owner confirmed that a wilderness camera had caught a large cat on the property, Lake posted a warning on Facebook. But the Barcelonas were too exhausted to worry about wild animals in the cornstalks.

The recent storms had made sections of the path almost impassable. The Barcelonas’ shoes squished when they slipped in the muck. At one point the ground sucked a sneaker right off Allison’s foot, but she managed to step back into it. More of Lake’s signs appeared, taunting her and Todd.

“Finish—Last Mile! (really) (trust me!)”

“Finish—only 1 more mile! We really mean it this time!”

“Finish—one mile! We would never lie to you!”

At about 4:45 a.m., after 24 hours of traveling nonstop over the final 38 miles of the course, the Barcelonas emerged from a wooded area into a clearing—Allison first, Todd a bit behind her. Their gasps for air joined an early-morning chorus of crickets and frogs. Lake appeared, too—he’d been sleeping in his car—and led them to the Rock to take in the view of victory. Just a hint of light had turned the sky from black to dark blue.

Allison walked out onto the moss-covered stone that forms the cliff’s edge and stood at a metal guardrail with a red stop sign. Lake announced her finishing time: She’d covered 314 miles in 8 days, 21 hours, 21 minutes, and 10 seconds. Todd then took Allison’s place at the guardrail. His time, Lake said, was 8 days, 21 hours, 21 minutes, and 53 seconds.

The Barcelonas hobbled to a nearby tent. Todd’s feet were throbbing, and he was scared to take off his shoes—because of what his feet might look like, because he might not get them back on, or both. Lake joked with them, inventing a story that Todd had battled the mountain lion with his bare hands while Allison sprinted to the finish. Slowly, the Barcelonas’ haggard faces became more visible as the sun rose.

Another runner finished. “Y’all been together the whole time?” she asked the couple. Todd told her they had. “That’s a crazy way to do it,” she replied. “I don’t think I like anybody enough to spend eight days suffering with them.”

The Barcelonas laughed.

Anatomy of a Murder

Anatomy
of a
Murder

How a shocking crime divided
a small Minnesota town.

By John Rosengren

The Atavist Magazine, No. 151

John Rosengren is a journalist in Minneapolis and has written for more than 100 publications, including The Atlantic, Sports Illustrated, and The Washington Post Magazine. He is the author of nine books, including Hank Greenberg: The Hero of Heroes. His previous Atavist story, “The Pretender,” was published as Issue No. 107.

Editor: Jonah Ogles
Art Director: Ed Johnson
Copy Editor: Sean Cooper
Fact Checker: Kyla Jones
Illustrator: Marco Lawrence

Published in May 2024.

Grand Marais is a quiet outpost on Lake Superior’s North Shore, set among boreal forest in the easternmost corner of Minnesota. The town of roughly 1,300 is home to a mix of artists and outdoor enthusiasts, working-class people and professionals, liberals and diehard Trump supporters. In the summer, Grand Marais’s art galleries, shops, and restaurants swell with tourists drawn to what the website Budget Travel once dubbed “America’s Coolest Small Town.” The wait for a table at the Angry Trout Café, which serves locally sourced cuisine in an old fishing shanty, can run to more than an hour. When summer is over, the town retreats into itself again, which suits full-time residents just fine. “Even though we’re a tourism economy, most of us live a life where we just don’t want to be bothered,” said Steve Fernlund, who published the Cook County News Herald in the 1990s and now writes a weekly column for The North Shore Journal. “I’m at the end of a road, and I’ve got 12 acres of land. My closest neighbors are probably about 600 feet away through the woods. So, you know, we appreciate being hermits.”

Content warning: This story contains graphic descriptions of the sexual abuse of children.

Yet privacy only extends so far here. Gossip travels fast while having breakfast at the South of the Border café, or in chance encounters along Wisconsin Street. Everybody knows everybody else’s business—or thinks they do. “Even though there are differences of opinion—we have an eclectic collection of opinions—this is a close-knit community,” said Dennis Waldrop, who manages the Cook County Historical Museum. “Anything that happens here is discussed extensively.”

The residents of Grand Marais have had a lot to discuss in recent years. A suspicious fire that destroyed the historic Lutsen Lodge. The suicide of their neighbor Mark Pavelich, a star on the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team that defeated the Soviet Union. Plans for the 40 acres near town owned by convicted sex offender Warren Jeff’s fundamentalist clan. All those events stirred plenty of talk.

But nothing has captivated local conversation quite like what happened between Larry Scully and Levi Axtell in March 2023. A shocking act of violence attracted international attention and split the town over questions of truth and justice. Grand Marais is still trying to piece itself back together.

Every small town has its cast of offbeat characters. Larry Scully was one of Grand Marais’s. Larry, who was 77 in 2023, dwelled on the fringe of town, where Fifth Street meets Highway 61, and on the fringe of reality. His two-bedroom house, which used to belong to his parents, was crowded with items he’d hoarded over the years. The mess spilled into his front yard, which was cluttered with satellite dishes, a statue of the Virgin Mary, and a wood-frame sign advertising “antler bone art.” The sign was decorated with several of Larry’s scrimshaw carvings, which he hawked at art fairs. In addition to carving, he’d tried his hand at an array of other pursuits: refurbishing broken electronics, selling solar-powered generators that could run home appliances in the event of an emergency, and even fashioning leather lingerie that he peddled to women. Larry had had no stable career to speak of since he arrived in town in the early 1980s.

Larry was a conspiracy theorist. On his Facebook page, he posted videos and articles declaring that the federal government controlled the weather, that Sandy Hook was a hoax, that Timothy McVeigh was a “CIA patsy,” that the totalitarian New World Order was real. Around Grand Marais, Larry was also known to be exceedingly religious. He attended Mass on Saturday evenings at St. John’s Catholic Church, always sitting in the front row, and he believed that the statues there cried actual tears—sometimes of blood. He carried a lock of hair that he said once belonged to Father Mark Hollenhorst, a priest at St. John’s who died in 1993, in a leather pouch around his neck; he claimed that it could effect miraculous cures.

Larry referred to himself as a prophet and would often appear around town dressed in a cloak and sandals and carrying a wooden staff. He once showed up on the courthouse steps for the National Day of Prayer clad all in black, his head covered by a medieval-type chainmail hood, and fell to his knees screaming. Another time he berated a group of gay people who’d gathered in downtown Grand Marais, shouting through a bullhorn that God didn’t approve of them.

Many locals found Larry’s zeal exhausting. “When I’d see him, I’d know I was going to be there for a long time, because he’d go on and on,” said Laura Laky, a Grand Marais resident. “He’d talk about the end-times, the Book of Revelation, Christ coming again.”

Other people were scared of Larry. Rumors that he abused children circulated around Grand Marais for years. People whispered about him watching kids from his parked car. There were claims that he’d videotaped girls’ volleyball games and children at Sven and Ole’s, the local pizzeria. A member of the nearby Chippewa tribe told me that Larry had been banned from the Grand Portage powwow after parents complained about him passing out candy to their children.

Larry once approached a man named Gary Nesgoda at a gas station and asked if he had kids. When Nesgoda said that he did, Larry showed him pictures of a fairy garden he’d built behind his house. There were miniature staircases and doors, and little figurines set amid tree roots. Larry insisted that Nesgoda, who had recently moved to Grand Marais, should bring his kids over to see it. “Everything he was telling me sounded pretty neat,” Nesgoda told me. Then, in the gas station parking lot, someone who’d overheard the conversation stopped Nesgoda. “Do not bring your children over there,” they warned.

This was a common theme. “Larry was the boogeyman,” said Brian Larsen, editor and publisher of the Cook County News Herald, who is a father of four children. “You’d tell your kids to stay the heck away from him.”

In 2014, Larry decided to run for mayor of Grand Marais. In a candidate forum broadcast on WTIP, a community radio station, he ranted about Christianity. “We can’t sit by and let our government stop us from having the Bible in the military, taking out the crucifixes, taking out the Ten Commandments in our federal buildings and establishments,” he said. Then, just before election day, the Cook County News Herald ran a front-page article that seemed to confirm the longstanding speculation about Larry. The piece detailed his criminal conviction for the sexual assault of a six-year-old girl.

“Take whatever treatment is available to you,” the judge said, “because this type of conduct, of course, is just wholly unacceptable.”

Before he became an object of fear and fascination in Grand Marais, Larry was married—twice. For a time he lived with his second wife, Sheila, in Ramsey, about 25 miles outside Minneapolis. On Ash Wednesday in 1979, Sheila went to evening Mass and then to bowl in her weekly league, leaving Larry home alone with their five children: three young boys from his first marriage and six-year-old twins, a boy and a girl, from hers. While the other children slept, according to police and court records, Larry invited his stepdaughter into his bedroom.

The little girl later told a police investigator that he showed her “pictures of naked people,” touched her “potty area” with a vibrator, then stuck his tongue and finger into her vagina. She said it wasn’t the only time he’d touched her, and that he’d warned her not to tell anyone, but she went to her mother anyway. Sheila reported the incident to child welfare services, who notified law enforcement. She told the police investigator that her husband had also recently become violent and suicidal.

The police arrested Larry. In a recorded statement with investigators, he admitted that he’d had sexual contact with his stepdaughter on two Wednesday evenings while his wife was bowling. A psychiatrist determined that he was competent to stand trial, finding no evidence of “any kind of psychiatric disorder.” Rather than face a jury, Larry confessed to second-degree criminal sexual conduct, and the prosecution recommended a sentence of five years. Two court psychologists submitted reports indicating that Larry wasn’t open to receiving treatment. At an October 1979 hearing, the judge urged Larry to reconsider. “Take whatever treatment is available to you,” the judge said, “because this type of conduct, of course, is just wholly unacceptable.”

Larry was incarcerated in Minnesota’s Stillwater prison, and in records from his time there, there’s no mention of him receiving counseling or treatment, though he did join a Bible study. Soon, changes to the state’s sentencing guidelines allowed Larry to seek early release. Since the state did not provide evidence that doing so would “present a danger to the public,” the court approved Larry’s request. He left prison on January 19, 1982, after serving a little more than two years for his crime.

In those days, there was no sex offender registry in Minnesota, or in most states. Larry was at liberty to go where he liked. Sheila had divorced him by then, and his three sons were living with their mother. Larry, who was 36 at the time, hitchhiked to Grand Marais to move in with his parents.

Three decades later, Larry lost the town’s mayoral election, 345 votes to 42. Many locals were surprised that he’d gotten any votes at all, especially after the story broke about his criminal record. “Forty-something people voted for him,” said Amber Waldrop, who lived down the street from Larry. “They knew about this guy. For anybody to even think that someone like that should become mayor of this town is sickening.”

Some of those votes came from Larry’s friends, many of whom shared his belief in conspiracy theories. Perhaps it’s no surprise that they also believed what Larry told them: that the accusations against him were made up, that his ex-wife had encouraged her daughter to lie to the police, that he only took the plea deal to avoid a long prison sentence.

Larry’s friends knew that he tended to hijack conversations and go on at length about topics ranging from the Rapture to homeopathic cures, and that he engaged strangers in ways many people found uncomfortable. But being an oddball, they said, isn’t a crime. Some of his friends thought Larry was on the autism spectrum, which made it hard for him to read social cues and show empathy. “This man has been persecuted all of his life,” said Bob Stangler, a Vietnam veteran who knew Larry for years. “The citizens of the area have labeled him a pervert, and he’s not a pervert at all. He’s a genius with Asperger’s who’s overcaring of people.”

A woman I’ll call Carol, who asked that her real name not be used, said she was so close with Larry that she spoke to him almost daily for 12 years. She knew him to visit sick people, distribute food to the needy, and take care of his ailing mother, who died in 2013. At her memorial service, Larry displayed his mother’s ashes in a cookie jar resembling the Star Wars character R2-D2, saying that it was what she wanted. (His father passed away in 1997.) “As long as I’ve known him, he never hurt anybody,” Carol told me.

She knows that hers is a minority opinion, that for many people in town Larry was foremost a convicted sex offender. “You can never get rid of that label,” she said.

Once they learned about his 1979 conviction, many parents in Grand Marais were more worried than ever that Larry posed a threat to their children. It’s a common enough fear. On the far right, popular conspiracy theories such as QAnon decry a global cabal of child molesters, but even among the general population, concern about the danger posed by pedophiles is widespread. In a Lynn University pol l, 75 percent of roughly 200 Florida adults said they believed that sex offenders would reoffend. Yet according to a meta-st udy cond ucted by researchers at Public Safety Canada in 2004, one of the most comprehensive available, only 23 percent of people convicted of child sexual abuse were charged or convicted of a similar crime within the next 15 years. (The study’s authors concede that many victims never come forward.) In interviews for this story, researchers noted that recidivism rates have declined even more in recent years.

No one came forward to accuse Larry of more recent abuse after his 1979 conviction. Still, perception alone was enough to put many Grand Marais parents on edge. For one young man, that concern became an obsession.

If you were passing through Grand Marais a few years back and stopped for gas at the Holiday station on the corner of Broadway and Highway 61, you might have met a stocky cashier with a round, friendly face. While making change, he might have told you one of his homespun puns or signature dad jokes: Why does Paul Bunyan trip in the woods? Because he’s always felling.

That cashier was Levi Axtell. He was raised by his parents, Denise and Treg, in Hovland, a small community located 18 miles from Grand Marais. The Axtells were devout Christians and widely respected in Grand Marais, where they both worked. Denise was a nurse, Treg a physical therapist. The couple had three children: daughters Karlee and Katrina, and Levi, the youngest.

Levi grew up in a picturesque log cabin in a clearing among birch and pine trees. The woods were his playground. He spent hours there as a child, often with his friend and neighbor Cedar Adams. They roasted marshmallows over campfires, tried to catch fish barehanded, and played make-believe, running through the trees as if an attacker were pursuing them.

But Levi couldn’t outrun his demons. There was a history of addiction on Denise’s side of the family, and Levi seemed to have inherited a predisposition to substance abuse. At Cook County High School, he played football, ran track, and drank. Brad Wilson, a carpenter in Grand Marais who was a few years behind him in school, recalled Levi getting caught with liquor bottles in his locker and running from the cops.

Levi’s parents sent him to finish school in Duluth, but he was cited twice within two months for underage drinking. The first time was at Duluth East High School. On the morning of May 29, 2014, when a resource officer tried to restrain him, an inebriated Levi pulled away. The officer wrestled Levi to the ground, but he pushed himself up and army-crawled—with the officer on top of him—down the hallway, until he wore himself out. Levi spent two days in jail and was charged with disorderly conduct and obstructing the legal process with force. “I didn’t know it made the charges worse if you resisted arrest,” he later told Cedar Adams.

Not long after, a law enforcement officer stopped Levi as he walked along the shoulder of Interstate 35. The officer smelled booze on his breath, and Levi admitted that he’d been drinking. The officer cited him and let him go after Levi dumped out a container of alcohol he was carrying.

Three days later, Levi was given a year of probation for his disorderly conduct at Duluth East. (The obstruction charge was dropped.) A judge also ordered him to obtain a chemical-dependency assessment and follow any recommendations. Levi satisfied the terms of his probation, including a stint in treatment.

By 2015, Levi had started dating Anna Ross, who was from Duluth. Their daughter was born on June 17, 2016. Anna had just turned 19; Levi was 20. At first they didn’t live together—Anna stayed in Duluth, while Levi lived with his parents in Hovland. He adored his daughter and beamed when she was in his arms.

Despite the new light in his life, Levi remained burdened at times by darkness. About a year after his daughter’s birth, on the Sunday evening of Memorial Day weekend, Levi got drunk, taped a vacuum hose to the exhaust pipe of his car, ran the other end through the back window, and started the engine. When he texted Anna about what he’d done, she called the sheriff’s department. While she was on the phone with them, Levi called her, and she talked him into turning off the car. Deputies arrived at his home and transported Levi to the hospital. It appears that he received some psychiatric treatment after the incident; a year later he indicated in a court document that he’d been a patient in a mental hospital and had seen a psychiatrist.

Despite his troubles, Levi was by all accounts goofy and lovable. Christina Conroy, a friend who worked with Levi briefly at the Holiday station, described him as “a beautiful soul.” Cedar Adams said, “He’s the best person you’ll ever meet. He’s joyful.” Michael Farnum, another friend, told me, “Levi is very kind and caring. He’d give you the shirt off his back.” His mother, Denise, described Levi as “a sweet, thoughtful boy.” (Levi’s family otherwise declined to talk to me.)

People who knew him casually from encounters at Holiday or Grand Marais’s Whole Foods Co-op, where he also briefly worked, described Levi as personable and a hard worker. Pat Eliasen, the Cook County sheriff and a former assistant coach for the varsity football team at the local high school, coached Levi, who played nose tackle and offensive guard. “You’d tell Levi to do a technique or something and he would just go do it,” Eliasen told me. “You couldn’t find a better football player than that.”

A photo posted on Facebook in 2023 shows Levi with his daughter climbing on his shoulders. According to friends, she was his everything. He was often her primary caregiver while Anna completed a social work degree and later held down two jobs. In the winter, Levi built his daughter snow forts that were so solid he could light a campfire inside. He and his daughter cooked together, drew pictures, and took walks. “She’s his life,” Adams told me.

Levi could not bear the thought of anything bad happening to his little girl. Like any parent, he was on the lookout for any threat to his child. At some point, his attention came to rest squarely on Larry Scully.

By 2018, Anna was working as a day care provider at the YMCA in Grand Marais, which was adjacent to an elementary school. People in town had seen Larry in his van across the street; they claimed that he was watching kids. Anna told Levi that the day care staff opted not to take the kids, which included her and Levi’s daughter, on outings when they knew that Larry was in the vicinity. (Sara Cole, who oversaw the Grand Marais day care operation as CEO of the Duluth Area Family YMCA, disputed this in an email to me.)

But while Anna and other local parents were wary of Larry, Levi became fixated on him—intensely so. On April 5, 2018, when his daughter was 21 months old, Levi filed for a protective court order to keep Larry away from her. In his petition, Levi wrote that Larry “was stalking” his daughter “by waiting in his van by the YMCA,” where he’d said hello to the little girl. “He has been there many times stalking children in his van. I have seen him parked right next to the school,” Levi noted.

On April 12, just a week after filing for the protective order, Levi went for an afternoon run. Even though he’d been attending 12-step meetings, he wound up drunk after buying a handle of whiskey and draining it in half an hour. Levi and Anna had an agreement that he couldn’t be around their daughter if he was intoxicated. He knew he had to tell Anna not to bring their daughter over that night, so he stopped in at Trinity Lutheran Church in Hovland to call her—either because he didn’t have a cell phone on him or because his service in the area was spotty.

Around 4:30 p.m., pastor Kris Garey encountered Levi at the church. He told her that he was drunk and needed to use the phone, which she’d let him do in the past. They sat down to talk in the sanctuary, then Levi tipped out of his chair, which triggered an outburst of anger. “I’m getting the fuck out of here,” he yelled. “I’m killing the fucking bastard.”

Garey followed Levi outside to the church’s parking lot, which was empty except for her gray Nissan Rogue. Levi circled the car and climbed inside. When he couldn’t find the keys, he got out and yelled so loudly about killing someone that neighbors of the church heard him. Then he grabbed a snow shovel and punched out the Nissan’s headlights and pounded its hood. Garey quietly called 911.

Levi kept going: He picked up a wrought iron table and heaved it at the Nissan’s windshield. He removed the car’s gas cap and sparked a lighter next to the opening. Garey, trying to remain calm while waiting for the police to arrive, implored him to give her the lighter. Levi sparked it again. She approached him, holding out her hand and asking for the lighter. Finally he let it fall to the ground.

When deputy Christopher Schrupp pulled into the Trinity parking lot, Levi dropped to his knees, placed his hands on his head, and let Schrupp handcuff him. Levi would later plead guilty to first-degree criminal damage, a felony, and receive four years of supervised probation. The judge would also order him to complete an additional chemical-dependency assessment and submit to more treatment.

In his report about the incident, Schrupp wrote that Levi had screamed the same thing repeatedly. He did it inside the squad car, during the 15-minute drive to the hospital, and in the emergency room, even after hospital staff had placed him in restraints. Over and over, Levi screamed that he hated pedophiles and wanted to kill Larry Scully.

“I fear for my daughter’s safety and well-being knowing that Larry’s out there stalking and grooming children,” Levi told the judge. “It’s very distressing for me.”

None of this came up six weeks later, on May 25, 2018, when Levi appeared before Judge Michael Cuzzo in the Cook County courthouse to argue that Larry should not be allowed anywhere near his daughter. Cuzzo, a grandfatherly type with a close-cropped gray beard, told Levi to provide “evidence of specific facts and circumstances” supporting his petition for a protective order. Levi was unable to do so. Indeed, he seemed confused and overwhelmed by the proceedings. He even backtracked on his charge that Larry had spoken to his daughter and to other children, saying that he’d merely waved. “You were expected to have come prepared,” Cuzzo admonished Levi.

The most Levi could do was describe his worry. “I fear for my daughter’s safety and well-being knowing that Larry’s out there stalking and grooming children, like giving them gifts and stuff, while I’m at work and unable to watch out for her,” he told the judge. “It’s very distressing for me.”

When it was Larry’s turn to speak, he told the court, “I have never had any words of disagreement, or arguments, or anything to incite Mr. Axtell. And as far as I know, I’ve never done anything that would upset him. And in the past, he has been very gracious and pleasant to me at his place of employment, even going so far as giving me stuff that was going to be discarded. ”

Larry called two witnesses, his friend Jerome Brandt and Jerome’s wife, Patricia. The couple lived across from the YMCA, and Larry explained that when he parked his van on the street next to the facility, it was to visit the Brandts. He said that he waved at children when they waved at him. Jerome confirmed in his testimony that Larry visited the Brandt house “several times a week.” Patricia, addressing Larry directly, said, “You’ve always been good to us, and our family, and my granddaughter, too. I trust you with children. I’ve never seen you abuse one of them.”

Cuzzo needed only six minutes in his chambers to consider the situation. When he returned, he said that Levi had not provided sufficient evidence that Larry had harassed his daughter or was a threat to her. “I can’t just issue a harassment restraining order because you believe Mr. Scully has performed acts against other people,” Cuzzo said. But before he adjourned the court, Cuzzo issued a directive to Larry. “Take notice from the filing of this petition that Mr. Axtell does not want you to have contact with his daughter,” Cuzzo said. “Take heed of that so we don’t end up back here at some point in the future.”

A few weeks later, Larry came into the Holiday gas station to buy lunch, and Levi refused to ring him up. Larry left in a huff. He drove to the sheriff’s office and reported the matter to a deputy, demanding that she make Levi serve him. The deputy pointed out that this wasn’t a criminal matter, and she suggested that Larry speak to the Holiday manager.

Larry complained that he was being harassed, and not for the first time. It seemed like people were trying to make his life miserable, maybe even run him out of town. That included members of his own family.

Larry, born in 1945, was the eldest of eight children. His parents, Marge and Al Scully, raised their kids in Minnetonka, now a Minneapolis suburb. Patrick, the youngest, was a sophomore in high school and the only one still living at home when his parents relocated to Grand Marais in 1975. He stayed in town after finishing school, working as a first responder and an ambulance driver. Patrick didn’t like it when Larry got out of prison and moved in with their parents, and he didn’t like it when Larry stayed in the family home after their parents died. Nor did their brother Jon, who visited regularly from his home in suburban Minneapolis. (Jon eventually retired and moved to Grand Marais in 2019.)

Patrick and Jon kept close tabs on Larry. They tracked him on Facebook, scoured the newspaper for items about him, confronted him in town, and frequently reported perceived legal infractions to the sheriff’s department. Patrick and his siblings showed people around Grand Marais photocopied court documents pertaining to Larry’s 1979 conviction. In 2015, shortly after Larry’s conviction had been detailed in the newspaper and he’d lost the mayoral election, Patrick obtained a restraining order against his brother. He applied for another one to protect himself, his wife, and his brother Jon in 2019. At the hearing, Judge Cuzzo, who’d denied Levi Axtell’s request for a restraining order a year prior, was again on the bench.

Around town, Larry complained to anyone who’d listen that he was the real victim in the situation. He accused his brothers of slashing the tires on his car, torching his motor home, and stealing a crucifix from outside his house. He claimed Jon once pointed a pistol at his head in Patrick’s presence. “Don’t shoot him here,” Larry claimed Patrick said. “If you shoot him here, I’ll go to prison as an accessory.” When a sheriff’s deputy questioned Jon, he said the incident never happened. The brothers also said they had nothing to do with any damage to Larry’s property and were able to provide alibis when questioned by law enforcement.

Patrick told his pastor, Dale McIntire, that he was worried about Larry’s mental state and thought Larry needed medical treatment. Patrick and Jon insisted that by monitoring their brother and publicizing information about his criminal record, they were only trying to keep the citizens of Grand Marais safe. They had the support of their other siblings, who were scattered about Minnesota and Colorado, and details from court records and subsequent interviews with six of the siblings indicate why.

According to the Scully siblings, when they were growing up in Minnetonka, Larry molested all seven of them. “We’re all in one large bedroom, and I’m up in my bed, listening to my sisters trying to fight off my brother,” Terry, the fourth-eldest child, told me. “This happens repeatedly. It was so tormenting for me. I wanted to protect my sisters, but I felt so weak.” Patrick stated under oath that Larry molested him on a family vacation, when Patrick was just five years old. Jon testified that Larry once suspended him by his wrists from the rafters in a cellar and abused him. “The torture Larry did to Jon was medieval,” said Beth, the second youngest, who also claimed that Larry raped her many times. If she fought back, she said, he smothered her mouth and nose with his hand or clamped down on her carotid artery until she passed out. If she stayed still, he rewarded her with candy or a trip to Queen Anne Kiddieland, a small amusement park not far from their home. “He’s the devil,” Beth told me, bursting into tears.

Patrick remembered Larry killing chickens and decapitating a cat. “He’d tell us, ‘If you tell Mom and Dad what’s going on, you’re next,’ ” Patrick said. That mostly kept them quiet, but when they did speak up, according to the siblings, their parents didn’t believe them, even when presented with direct evidence. Jane told me that Larry raped and impregnated her when she was 12, and when their mother noticed that Jane had stopped using menstrual pads and confronted her about being pregnant, Jane snapped, “If I am, it’s your asshole son’s baby.” She said that Marge knocked her down a set of steep steps, causing Jane to bloody her head against a wall. Jon said that he watched it happen. According to the siblings, their parents borrowed money to pay for an abortion and gave Larry condoms.

In another instance, Mike, the Scullys’ second son, came home one night when he was 17 and found Larry assaulting Mary, the eldest girl. Mike blackened Larry’s eyes, then carried him into his parents’ room and heaved his naked brother onto their bed, waking them up. “I said, ‘Larry, you tell them what you were doing,’ ” Mike said. Larry wouldn’t, so Mike did. “My mother said to me, ‘Pack up your stuff and get the hell out of here, you little lying son of a bitch!’ ” Mike left and moved to Colorado.

Much of this was detailed at the 2019 court hearing to consider Patrick’s application for a restraining order. When it was Larry’s turn to speak, he didn’t deny the accusations against him. Instead, he focused on an anecdote Jon had shared about a time when Larry had held him down in the front pew during Mass and wouldn’t let him go until the priest, Father Seamus Walsh, halted the communion service to intervene. “I wish Father Seamus was here as a witness,” Jon said, to which Larry responded, “Being that Father Seamus isn’t here, then you don’t have any[thing] other than your word against mine on what took place.”

Larry argued that his siblings had no evidence of what they claimed he’d done to them as children, or of the threat he now posed—to them or to anyone else. “I have never done anything to hurt anybody,” Larry told Judge Cuzzo. “There was no proven stuff of me being a person going around trying to groom people, or going around in town, assaulting children, and doing all this stuff. So it was false accusations, just hearsay.” Still, Cuzzo found the siblings and their concerns credible and granted the restraining order Patrick had requested. The judge set it for 50 years.

Larry’s friends dismissed his siblings’ accounts of abuse. “That’s all false,” Carol told me. “There were no facts, no evidence to prove it.” She said that Larry’s brothers and sisters resented that he’d been given the family home after their mother died and were motivated by greed. The siblings maintained that Larry was squatting in the house, though they never took any legal action to remove him.

Jerome Brandt recounted a time when, in July 2015, he drove Larry over to Patrick’s house so that Larry could give his brother a Bible. As they walked up the driveway, Patrick saw them through the screen door. “He was shouting, ‘Get off my property, you blankety-blank,’ ” Brandt said. “ ‘I’ve got you in my crosshairs.’ ” Brandt did not see a gun. Still, afraid that they might be shot, he persuaded Larry to leave the Bible in the driveway and retreat to his car.

According to Patrick, he met Larry and Brandt ten feet from the door and told them to go away. He recalled Larry saying, “I’m praying for you. I forgive you.” Patrick insisted that he never threatened to shoot the two men. He said that he wasn’t even armed. He told a sheriff’s deputy who questioned him about the encounter that if he’d wanted to shoot his brother, he would have done it.

Brad Wilson, who lived next door to Larry, told me that he sometimes saw Patrick and Jon slow down when driving by. They’d shout nasty things or throw objects to provoke Larry to come outside. They’d yell that he needed to get out of their parents’ house. Larry would tell them to leave or he’d call the police. Wilson thought that the brothers picked on Larry. “I believe the guy was trying to mind his own fucking business for a long time,” he said.

Paul Scully, the eldest of Larry’s three sons, told me that he didn’t believe his father had ever molested anyone—not in the family, and not outside of it. He blamed his father’s siblings, especially Patrick and Jon, for tension in the family. “They hated my father,” Paul told me. “It’s almost like they made it a full-time job to harass him. They wanted that house ever since my grandma died.”

“My father always said if anything ever happened to him,” Paul added, “my uncles had something to do with it.”

Following their encounter at the gas station, when Levi Axtell refused to ring Larry up, the two men had a few more run-ins. The Holiday’s owner ended up banning Larry from the premises because of something he’d said to a female cashier that made her uncomfortable, but almost a year later he came back anyway and purchased a prepaid Verizon card. Levi was at the register. When the phone card didn’t work, Larry demanded a refund, and Levi told him to take up the matter with Verizon. Larry returned the next day and confronted Levi, and the owner, Courtney Quaife, told him that he had to leave. Quaife then reported Larry to the police, and he was charged with misdemeanor trespassing.

On November 13, 2020, a court determined that Larry was not competent to stand trial for the misdemeanor charge; according to two court-appointed psychologists, he met the criteria for civil commitment, in which individuals are placed in a secure facility for treatment, most often for mental illness. One of the psychologists diagnosed Larry with “substantial psychiatric disorders of thought, mood, perception, and orientation that grossly impair [his] judgment, behavior, capacity to recognize reality, and to reason or understand.” The psychologist concluded that Larry posed a danger to other people, based on “recent alleged threats that he made toward his family members,” and that there was a “substantial likelihood” of him causing “physical harm to himself,” because he seemed to have difficulty with self-care.

In recent years, Larry’s house had become practically unlivable. His hoarding was so out of hand that there was almost nowhere to move inside. Four-foot-high piles of debris clogged the rooms. “Nobody could go in there,” one of his friends told me. “Same with his car—you couldn’t even get in it.” Larry had grown a long, unkempt white beard. His teeth were rotting. He told his son Paul that he’d stopped taking his diabetes medication because he’d “cured” it by losing weight.

Patrick and Jon managed to enter the house at one point, and what Patrick saw stirred his compassion for his brother. Larry had moved a microwave and toaster into the bathroom, because it was the only place with any space for him to live. “I saw he’d been reduced to this, eating and sleeping in the bathroom,” Patrick said. “I saw him as a victim at this time. Even a pig doesn’t have to live like that.”

At first, Larry contested that he met the criteria for civil commitment. At a court hearing on March 19, 2021, Judge Cuzzo agreed to stay a mandated commitment for six months, in part based on Larry’s willingness to meet with a primary care physician, follow any recommendations for therapy, and take any prescribed medications. The court also informed Larry that he’d be required to allow representatives from the Cook County Public Health and Human Services Department to inspect his home. Grand Marais being a small town, one of the social workers who would attempt to visit Larry’s home was Anna Ross, the mother of Levi’s daughter. But neither Ross nor any other social workers were able to reach Larry or gain access to his house, prompting the county attorney’s office to ask Cuzzo to lift the stay and commit him to a facility. Larry failed to appear at a court hearing on April 21, and sheriff’s deputies detained him three days later. Cuzzo signed an order for him to be treated for six months at the Community Behavioral Health Hospital in Baxter.

At the hearing regarding a restraining order two years prior, Patrick had requested that his brother receive a psychiatric evaluation so that he could “get the long-overdue help that I believe he desperately needs.” Now Patrick believed Larry might finally get that help, at the age of 75. For the other Scully siblings, the overwhelming feeling was one of relief in seeing the man they claimed had abused them locked up; they hoped that he would remain so for the rest of his life. When Jane saw him in court before he was sent to Baxter, Larry was wearing an orange jumpsuit and shackles. “That was wonderful,” Jane told me. “It was good to see him like that. He could hardly walk. Being restrained where he couldn’t get you, you know?”

The feeling of relief didn’t last. After Larry’s mandated stay at Baxter, the court ruled that he had “substantially complied with all items outlined in the discharge treatment plan.” He was released and went home to Grand Marais. The county and court would intervene again only as a result of a precipitating event: another arrest, a family member expressing concern, or a physician who’d treated him saying he could no longer take care of himself. None of that happened.

Larry remained at home, where his physical condition, and that of his house, declined over the next two years. The mounds of junk grew. They blocked the path to the bathroom, so Larry started using an outdoor toilet. Sympathetic observers were concerned. “Law enforcement could’ve done more in getting him help for his problems and him away from his community,” Grand Marais resident Laura Laky told me.

But there are limits to how long the state can hold someone. In Minnesota, individuals can only be committed for up to six months at a stretch unless someone is deemed to be mentally ill and dangerous, to have a sexual psychopathic personality, or to be sexually dangerous. Larry didn’t qualify as any of those. “We did what we could when we could,” Cook County attorney Molly Hicken told me. “Our commitment laws are such that people maintain their own authority over themselves and their bodies up until a certain point. It’s all about the balancing of people’s rights. That’s what our system is set up to do.”

Some people in Grand Marais believe that the system was to blame for what happened next—and not only to Larry. “I believe if Levi would’ve gotten more help,” said Amber Lovaasen, Larry’s niece. “that probably wouldn’t have gone the way it did.”

Levi and Anna got married in late 2018, but they filed for divorce less than two years later, signing legal paperwork that said “the marriage cannot be saved” due to “an irretrievable breakdown of our marriage relationship.” Levi’s mental health no doubt played at least some role in this.

The following winter, Levi staged a one-man protest urging a boycott of the Whole Foods Co-op, where he’d recently been employed. He’d earned $14 an hour stocking produce and ringing up groceries, but he didn’t think it was enough to provide for his daughter. Her day care alone cost $760 a month. After wrangling with the store’s management over a personal tip jar he propped up at the register, Levi lost his job. Soon after that, he set up a table and chair outside the store’s entrance along with a sign demanding that the co-op pay living wages.

Levi sat alone in the bitter cold for days—some locals remember it as weeks. He collected a few donations that he split with other co-op employees, but on the whole his campaign garnered scant sympathy. For a lot of people, it was a sign that something might not be quite right with Levi. “That was an indicator to me that perhaps he was struggling with his mental health,” his friend Christina Conroy told me.

After that, to make ends meet, Levi did odd jobs: clearing snow from roofs, picking weeds, cutting down trees, cleaning apartments, building shelves. By the end of 2022, he and Anna had reconciled enough that they agreed to live together for their daughter’s sake. They shared a split-level home on the edge of Grand Marais, and their property backed up against the woods behind Larry’s house. That meant Levi was now neighbors with the man who, over the previous five years, he’d come to consider his worst nightmare.

According to friends, Levi generally kept his fears about Larry to himself following the outburst at Trinity Lutheran. He didn’t bring up Larry in casual conversation, though it seemed that Larry was on his mind. He once posted a meme on Facebook depicting a person holding a gun, with a caption that read, “Only cure for pedophiles. A bullet.” In a comment below the image, Levi wrote, “People always ask me why I hate pedophiles. They assume I’ve been abused. But really I think being protective is just an Axtell trait.”

His friend Amber Waldrop knew that trait well. She’d met Levi in an outpatient treatment program for addiction, and she found that despite his personal struggles—or maybe because of them—he looked out for other people. Once, they were walking on the lakeshore together and stumbled upon a hornets’ nest. Waldrop thought that she’d been stung and panicked because she was allergic and didn’t have an EpiPen with her. Levi rushed her home in his car. In another instance, when Waldrop was in a dark place, Levi talked her through it. “He has a really big heart,” Waldrop told me.

Many people in Grand Marais knew that Levi had issues and that he could be aggressive when he was drunk. But those close to him didn’t imagine that he would commit brutal violence against another person. On March 8, 2023, Brad Wilson, the carpenter who lived next to Larry Scully, learned that they were wrong.

As the light drained from the sky that afternoon, Wilson was in his garage putting away some tools when he heard a loud crash, like the sound of a car accident. It came from Larry’s driveway. Wilson raced over and saw that Levi had slammed his white Dodge Caravan into Larry’s car. Levi had then jumped out of the van, grabbed a garden shovel from the deck, and barged inside the house. Wilson arrived on the scene in time to hear Larry’s screams.

Wilson stopped short of going inside. He heard the thud of the shovel hitting something, then hitting it again. “Help! Help!” Larry cried out.

Wilson, who had mowed Larry’s lawn the previous summer without pay and generally felt sorry for the man, wanted to intervene, but he feared for his own safety. From his vantage at the front door, he could tell that Levi was in a drunken rage. And Wilson knew from watching Levi play football when they were in high school that although he was only five foot eight and 185 pounds, he was strong. Wilson also feared that Levi might have a gun.

Wilson went around the back of the house to look through an open window. He saw that Levi had trapped Larry in a corner of the kitchen. Hemmed in by stacks of hoarded junk, 77-year-old Larry had nowhere to go. Wilson saw Levi swing the shovel at Larry, who raised his arms as a frail shield against the blows.

Wilson ducked beneath the window and called the sheriff’s department. He then heard a different kind of smash and what was “almost like gurgling.” Wilson said, “It sounded like he was choking on his own blood.” The screaming stopped; Wilson knew that Larry was dead.

Levi bolted out of the house, got into his van, and peeled away. But he wasn’t fleeing. Instead, spattered with his victim’s blood, he drove four blocks to the sheriff’s department, walked inside, and announced that he had just killed Larry Scully. He confessed that he had hit Larry between 15 and 20 times with a shovel, then “finished him off” with a large moose antler.

According to a report from the court-appointed psychologist who evaluated him, Levi considered himself a hero for killing Larry: “[He] believes that others are likely ‘relieved this was taken care of.’”

At Levi’s arraignment, Cook County attorney Molly Hicken successfully argued that bail should be set at $1 million. She told Judge Cuzzo, who was again presiding, “This was a brutal attack without provocation on an elderly man.” People close to Larry thought the attack was provoked—by his brothers Patrick and Jon. “They basically got the whole town against him,” his son Paul told me. “They created the environment where my father could be lynched.”

It was a sentiment that Larry himself had voiced at the hearing three years prior, when Patrick sought a restraining order. “He’s talked to other people and had Levi Axtell say I was trying to groom his daughter,” Larry said. “This shows the vindictiveness of my brother Patrick. He’s trying to establish that I’m a predator.”

According to a report from Mischelle Vietanen, the court-appointed psychologist who evaluated him, Levi considered himself a hero for killing Larry. “[He] believes that others are likely ‘relieved this was taken care of,’ ” Vietanen wrote. She determined that Levi was “impacted by hallucinations, delusions, and paranoia,” and that he was “unable or unwilling to take responsibility for making decisions to interrupt a repeat of impulsive, harmful behaviors.”

Based on Vietanen’s recommendation, Cuzzo found Levi incompetent to stand trial and suspended the criminal charges against him. Should he regain competency, prosecutors could proceed with trying him for second-degree murder.

In a separate and parallel proceeding before a different judge, the Cook County Public Health and Human Services Department pursued a civil commitment of Levi on the grounds—supported by Vietanen’s report—that he was mentally ill and dangerous as well as chemically dependent. At a hearing held via Zoom on June 23, 2023, Levi sat at a table inside the Lake County jail in Two Harbors, 80 miles down Highway 61 from Grand Marais. He wore a black-and-white-striped uniform. He picked at his hands while answering a series of questions, agreeing that he met the criteria for civil commitment. He appeared docile, almost childlike. The judge, David M. Johnson, ordered that Levi be committed, “for an initial period not to exceed 90 days,” to a secure treatment facility.

Levi would remain in the Two Harbors jail for nearly a year, waiting for a bed to open up at a psychiatric facility. When I spoke to him briefly on the phone in late September 2023, he couldn’t discuss the particulars of his case, but he told me a story about a time when he was working at the Holiday gas station and a customer—a man who drove a snowplow for the city—reached across the counter and slapped him in the face. Levi said that he reported the incident to the sheriff’s department, but “they were saying since he didn’t slap me very hard, I shouldn’t have called about it. I was feeling like the cops didn’t care about anything that happened.”

Levi told me that he didn’t know Larry was arrested for trespassing at the gas station, or that the arrest had led to his civil commitment. It seemed as though Levi mostly felt that law enforcement had failed to find a permanent solution—meaning a way to keep Larry away from his daughter and other kids forever.

While he awaited transfer, Levi was able to see visitors, including his daughter. He passed the time drawing pictures that he intended for his daughter and others to color. He sent them to his sister Katrina, dozens every week, and she posted the pictures on Facebook with the invitation, “Please consider mailing him your colored version of his artwork, a letter, photos, and/or a piece of art of your own creation.”

Levi also sent drawings to his friends. One of them went to Amber Waldrop. It depicted a bird’s wings spread wide. “To my dear friend Amber,” Levi wrote. “Remember to … celebrate every victory. To not give up … To leave the past behind … And on your darkest days I hope you learn to dance in the rain.”

When Waldrop showed the drawing to me, she said, “It’s almost like he’s giving himself advice.”

It didn’t take long for a substantial cohort of people in Grand Marais to elevate Levi to the status of folk hero. In their view, what he did was in service of the greater good. Brandy Aldrighetti, a sexual-abuse survivor who lived near Larry, told the Star Tribune, “To me, Levi is like St. George who slayed the dragon—he killed a monster.” Kelsey Valento, a Grand Marais resident and mother, posted an article about the murder on her Facebook page with a comment addressing Levi directly: “I stand by you for removing a horrible nasty pedophile from this community.”

Within days of the crime, his sister Katrina had started a crowdfunding campaign, “to ease the financial burden of the family.” As of this writing, it had raised more than $7,000. When Katrina saw that Amber Lovaasen, Larry’s niece, had posted on Facebook that she and her family had nothing against Levi, she reached out. Soon Lovaasen had designed T-shirts featuring the words, “Our Connection Is Our Strength. Two Families. One Goal. Stop Childhood Sexual Abuse.” She told me that “my family and Levi’s family are coming together pretty much as one family now.”

She does not speak for Larry’s three sons. “I feel sorry for this poor Levi guy,” Paul told me. “He’s obviously got mental issues. I just hope my father gets some justice, that his name is cleared, and he can be seen as the kind, gentle, loving person he was.” Paul and his brothers also hoped to inherit Larry’s house, but a district court judge ruled in March 2024 that a photocopy of their grandmother’s will appointing Larry the sole inheritor of the property was not valid. That placed the home in the possession of Larry’s seven siblings.

His siblings had mixed reactions to Larry’s death. His sister Beth told me that she was worried when she heard the news. “I wanted to make sure that none of my siblings had done anything,” she said. “When I realized that everybody I loved was OK and they all had alibis and it was not them, then I felt relief, kind of lighter and bouncier.” His sister Jane said, “Nobody has the right take anybody else’s life, but when Larry was beating me up and doing things to me as a kid, I wish I would have had access to something to kill him.” Patrick told me that he feels Larry’s death was preventable, if the court system had only listened to him and his siblings. “The sad thing is we tried to warn authorities something like this was going to happen,” he said. “We were afraid some kid’s dad would go over and kill him when they found out about him.”

Within a week of the murder, someone created an online petition asking people to sign “if you agree that Levi Axtell should not be charged with any crimes and immediately be released from jail.” As of mid-May 2024, it had drawn nearly 900 signatures. The petition asks people to “stand by this father, who tried to seek relief via the justice system which failed him.” People who signed the petition noted various reasons for doing so: “I would’ve done exactly what he did if the court system failed me” (Dmitri Birmingham); “Anyone with children understands how this man felt and why he acted” (Joan Folmer); “The world is better off without a child molester!” (Grace Koopman).

Paisley Howard-Larsen, a local mother, told me that she believes Levi did the community a service by killing Larry. “I think this should have been done a long time ago, and I feel bad that it had to be Levi doing it,” she said. “I don’t even see Larry as a human. I think he’s just a monster. It makes me really sad that Levi is going to do any sort of time, whether it’s in a prison or a mental institution. I don’t think that’s right. I think he should have got off free.”

“Even though he actually murdered somebody?” I asked.

“Yeah. I think he did the right thing.”

Others in town, while not condoning murder, nevertheless welcomed the news of Larry’s death. One mother of four young children said, “What Levi did wasn’t justified, but that’s not to say I’m not thankful for it.” Others felt that Levi had been treated unfairly by the state. “Levi tried to go the legal route, he tried to do what he was supposed to do,” his longtime friend Cedar Adams said, citing Levi’s effort to get a protective order against Larry. “They say, ‘Don’t corner a wild animal, because if you do it will attack.’ I feel he felt he was backed into a corner and had no other choice. I feel he’s a victim more than anything.”

Adams’s boyfriend, Nick Swenson, who works at Buck’s Hardware, never met Larry but had heard rumors about him. “You can’t go around killing people,” Swenson told me, “but Levi couldn’t have picked a better person.”

There’s another side to public opinion, and its defining feature is dismay. The Cook County News Herald published a letter from Jim Boyd, a Grand Marais resident and retired newspaper editor, that argued against vigilante justice. “Scully had not been arrested, charged, jailed, tried, or convicted of any recent crime,” Boyd wrote, referring to the fact that no one had come forward to accuse Larry of abuse since 1979. “You can’t go around killing people just because they are horrible. (The dead would be stacked up like cord wood.)” Similarly, on Facebook threads about the case that mostly lionize Levi and disparage pedophiles, an occasional voice of dissent pops up. For example: “You can’t just murder people because you ‘think’ they might do something” (Penelope Orl). And: “Child molestation is horrible and wrong. Murdering someone by butchery is also wrong” (Don Croker).

For Larry’s friends and sons, much of the discourse about his death is chilling. “He did not deserve to die the way he did,” Carol told me. “I hate the way Levi’s family and Pat and Jon are going after Larry as a monster, and Levi’s a hero.” She conveyed that the main reason she didn’t want her real name used in this story was that she feared repercussions from Larry’s brothers.

She wasn’t the only person to request anonymity. People on both sides of the Levi–Larry divide told me that they were concerned about their reputations. Two sources said the situation is so polarizing that having their names attached to their opinions might hurt their businesses.

On March 7, 2024, Levi was finally moved to the Forensic Mental Health Program, a locked facility in St. Peter, Minnesota. Where his life goes from here, and how the dust of his crime will settle in Grand Marais, is an open question. During my visit to Grand Marais last August, I spent the better part of an hour talking to Amber Waldrop and her father, Dennis, a thoughtful man with a thick gray beard. We met in a building downtown overlooking Lake Superior’s seemingly infinite horizon. When it came to this story, the Waldrops saw no happy ending in sight.

“It’s just a series of people being hurt: Larry’s family, Levi’s ex-wife and daughter, Levi’s parents,” Dennis told me. “There are a lot of victims here. And being in a small town, there’s a conflict going on with what happened and what should’ve happened. It’s a tough line to walk. This is sensational news to the rest of the world, but we’re living it.”

The Social Register was a who’s who of America’s rich and powerful—the heirs of robber barons, scions of political dynasties, and descendants of Mayflower passengers. It was also the perfect hit list for the country’s hardest-working art thief.By Jack Rodolico

The Atavist Magazine, No. 168

While stealing art is a challenge, selling it—and making a profit—is much, much harder.

Blue Book members were the richest of the rich, the oldest of old money. Their homes were almost guaranteed to be chock-full of high-value loot.

amazingly, they appeared to commit yet another burglary right under the FBI’s nose.

Over time and dozens if not hundreds of robberies, Flynn came to recognize by sight the kinds of paintings His Fence was looking for.

Finding him wasn’t easy. All I had to go on was the Boston equivalent of John Smith—indeed, shortly after Ray Flynn’s arrest in 1982, voters in the city elected a mayor by the same name.

“Maybe I was a little adventurous. Maybe it was challenging to some degree.”

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“Rechnitz has been, without exaggeration, one of the single most important and prolific white collar cooperating witnesses in the recent history of the Southern District of New York.”

What’s more, according to court records, Voutsas later got wind that Rechnitz hadn’t sold the jewelry at all, but instead pawned it for a $1 million cash loan.

As Englanoff’s family exited, Rechnitz stared at Englanoff’s 15-year-old son, made a threatening gesture, and yelled, “Do you have something to say to me?”

Several jewelers say Rechnitz claimed not only that he was a prolific government informant in New York—but that he was still working in that capacity.

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Hammer insists that Blood Tribe is more hardcore than other white-supremacist groups. (This is a claim many fascist organizations make in relation to one another: We’re better neo-Nazis than you are.)

Word that a neo-Nazi shopped at Smith’s spread over family dinners, at store counters, and in sidewalk conversations. The gossip fuse had been lit. In small-town Maine, few things are quite as powerful.

“The more I think on it, the more I realize we need to make it ABUNDANTLY clear that Chris isn’t welcome here,” one commenter wrote. “[He] lost the right to feel safe.”

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The night violent anti-government conspirators sowed chaos in the heart of Manhattan.

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As with the attack on the U.S. Capitol on January 6, 2021, the lead-up to the arson campaign on November 25, 1864, was long, ugly, and both actively and tacitly encouraged by powerful men.

Confederates wreaking havoc on New York in the midst of Thanksgiving festivities could still devastate the city and humiliate the president.

In closing Kennedy warned, “Burn this. Stationery is dangerous.”

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Two women promised they would see the Golden Gate Bridge for the first time once they were together. They had no idea how long that would take.

By Kelsey Rexroat

The Atavist Magazine, No. 154

Girl Meets Girl

She sometimes pictured herself in the ocean, swimming as far away from her true self as she could, yet never finding safe harbor.

Something was happening with Shree, something she hadn’t experienced before, and she wouldn’t walk away from it when it had barely begun.

A Threat and a Promise

Ashwini had always been on the move, always striving, always running away from herself. Shree was teaching her how to embrace stillness and be comfortable in her own skin.

The Separation

“I thank God every day that you have given all of your love to me. You have moved mountains for our love.”

The Bridge

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مجلة ذا اتافيست (The Atavist)، العدد 153

ليان لا تحب أن ينظر الغرباء الى أرجلها المبتورة ولا تريد شفقتهم، وهي بالتأكيد ليست مهتمة بإلقاء نظرة على حياتهم السعيدة والغير متأثرة بالحرب او الفقدان.

The Atavist Magazine, No. 153

Layan didn’t like strangers looking at her amputated legs. She didn’t want their pity. And she certainly wasn’t interested in having to glimpse their happy lives, untouched by war and loss.

Sometimes when she thought about returning to Gaza, Layan’s mind went to the darkest of places. “I’ve heard her crying and saying things like, ‘If they didn’t kill me the first time, they’re going to kill me the second time,’” Dina said.

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After a horrific accident, doctors told Todd Barcelona that he’d likely never run again. So he and his wife decided to run farther than they ever had before.By Maggie Gigandet

The Atavist Magazine, No. 152

A spreadsheet tracks their progress, and among the names in the document, one always stands out: Oprah. That is the moniker given to the minimum pace—15.7 miles every 12 hours—runners must maintain to stay in the race.

A TBI is a hidden injury. It’s not visible to the eye, like an oozing cut would be, but the effects can alter a person’s life forever.

Before he started running again, Allison described Todd as “a man that was out of control.” Running gave him a chance to regain control.

“If people ask me now whether I’d want Todd to go through it again,” Allison said, referring to the crash, “and I automatically say yes, they don’t understand.”

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“Take whatever treatment is available to you,” the judge said, “because this type of conduct, of course, is just wholly unacceptable.”

“I fear for my daughter’s safety and well-being knowing that Larry’s out there stalking and grooming children,” Levi told the judge. “It’s very distressing for me.”

According to a report from the court-appointed psychologist who evaluated him, Levi considered himself a hero for killing Larry: “[He] believes that others are likely ‘relieved this was taken care of.’”

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The Social Register was a who’s who of America’s rich and powerful—the heirs of robber barons, scions of political dynasties, and descendants of Mayflower passengers. It was also the perfect hit list for the country’s hardest-working art thief.

_{By Jack Rodolico}

Conversations and revelations about an ailing nation along Interstate 95.

_{Words by Masha Hamilton
Photographs by Cheney Orr}

^{Hammer insists that} Blood Tribe is more hardcore _{than other white-supremacist groups.} (This is a claim _{many fascist organizations make} in relation to one another: _{We’re better neo-Nazis than you are.)}

_{Word that a neo-Nazi} shopped at Smith’s _{spread over family dinners, at store counters,} and in sidewalk conversations. ^{The gossip fuse had been lit.} In small-town Maine, _{few things are quite as powerful.}

“The more I think on it, ^{the more I realize we need to make it}ABUNDANTLY clear _{that Chris isn’t welcome here,”}one commenter wrote. ^{“[He] lost the right to feel safe.”}

After a horrific accident, doctors told Todd Barcelona that he’d likely never run again. So he and his wife decided to run farther than they ever had before.
By Maggie Gigandet

How a shocking crime divided
a small Minnesota town.

By John Rosengren