Memoirs of a shattered hope.
(Page 3 of 10)
Dick had apparently left Dacca on the morning of the 16th, Thursday, to visit an older priest at the village of Narayanganj, twelve miles away. For several days, there had been riots between Moslems and Hindus in that area, but on Wednesday things seemed to be quieting down. Thursday was a free day at the school. We found out years later that the medical mission sisters at the neighboring hospital had asked him that morning if he could check on the safety of one of their Pakistani nurses. He sought and received permission from his superiors (the riots had relented somewhat) and set off by bike. But my father was given the impression that Rich had gone out on his own.
So far as Dad knew by that time, Dick had never been seen again. Further riots had broken out that day. The only wise thing was to assume that he was dead. The area was not such that he could be in hiding for very long. The one possibility was that he was wounded or hurt and could not come for help.
“Assume that he is dead,” I counseled Dad. “It will be easier.”
“I do,” he said.
“How long have you known?”
“Since Monday. But we didn’t tell anyone until tonight. The Tribune called because they got a release from the Associated Press. They asked me to confirm it. Where have you been so long? I’ve been telephoning everywhere.”
“We lost a day. We couldn’t get into Paris because of a storm. We had to come by way of Madrid, and wait for a plane.”
“When did you get to New York? Did you get my message from Callahans?”
“We just arrived, this minute. We didn’t get to the Callahans. I called right away but your line was busy.”
“Yes, I was making a call. Joe and Ann are here, and we’re saying the rosary.”
“How’s mother taking it?”
“Very well. She’s holding up very well. She’s still hoping he’s all right.” His voice dropped. “But I don’t think so, Mike.”
“Let me speak to her.”
He called her to the phone. She tried to sound cheerful. Her voice was girlish and strong. I remember now only one remark she let slip. “I want to be like Jackie Kennedy.”
BACK AT THE HOTEL I BEGAN telling Karen what had happened. We were extremely sleepy, for it was after midnight European time, and we had been on the go for 20 hours that day, and very busy for three days before that. But intensity and despair drove away fatigue. Imagination presented horrible images of death and torture. Was he alive? How and why had he died? Would we ever know?
A man of faith in a godless age is hitting Americans where it hurts.
Mr. and Mrs. American Spectator Reader, let P.J. O’Rourke talk sense to your kids.
In Britain, defending your property can get you life.
The debacle of this president’s administration is both a cause and a symptom of the decline of American values. Unless Congress impeaches him, that decline will go on unchecked. An eminent jurist surveys the damage and assesses the chances for the recovery of our culture.
It won’t take long for conservatives to scratch this presidential wannabe off their 2008 scorecard.
The American Christmas, like the songs that celebrate it, makes room for everybody under the rainbow. Is that why so many people seem to be hostile to it?
Was the President done in by the economy, or by the politics of the economy?