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Feature
The Day My Brother Was Murdered
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?
About the Author
Michael Novak is the George Frederick Jewett Scholar in Religion, Philosophy, and Public Policy at the American Enterprise Institute. He wishes to express his indebtedness to his sister, Mary Ann Novak, for her tireless researches, which have uncovered many heretofore unknown facts.
Letter to the Editor View all comments (15) | Leave a comment
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David Govett| 12.24.08 @ 11:38AM
Perhaps you are starting a tradition by telling a Christmas Eve murder story. Whatever next, I wonder.
Matthew M.| 12.24.08 @ 12:18PM
David, it is said that the wood that cradled Christ in the manger was the wood of the cross upon which he was crucified. This story is a sobering balance to an overly sentimentalized Christmas.
Ken| 12.24.08 @ 6:41PM
A tale of family loss, set against the hope and glory that is Christmas. You can't expect people like Paddy or David G. to understand or even appreciate such a story. In their world, personal sacrifice is anathema to them. It is for people such as Paddy and David G. that we should pray. Merry Christmas.
David Govett| 12.24.08 @ 10:36PM
Ken: You evidently derive satisfaction from flaming complete strangers on the Web. If indeed you are as callow as your behavior evinces, experience probably will remedy your boorishness. If not, not. In either event, please consider behaving civilly toward your fellow humans, even though they are not you.
wanda keith| 12.24.08 @ 11:05PM
Mr. Novak,
Thank you so much for sharing your sad, yet beautiful story. It is clear your family has many happy memories of your brother. The world is poorer for having lost him.
Stephen Eakin| 12.25.08 @ 4:18AM
Mr Novak
I was educated by the Dominicans, the Christian Brothers and the Jesuits.
There were a few loonies in all those groups, but the majority were straight up and down, with problems, as described about your brother.
I am a better person to having been through the system. It didn't scar me. It made me a better person (for which I am truely thankful).
We are Anglo-Celtic stock full of Catholics, Anglicans, Hueguenots, Presbyterians, Welsh, Maronite Lebanese, left and right Oz's, and the only punch-up's (metaphorically) are are birthday
parties, weddings, christenings and funerals.
Why can't other groups accept the way that we do it?
Our story is the story of your family.
We have been so fortunate that we have not had to have undergone your family's bereavement.
We just have a refeeeeend punch up because of our Celtic female backround.
Our attitude is that you do your own thing. Your are on your own from the time you pop.
However, in our family there are squillions of
rellos to provide support.
Is this not the reason why God invented the extended family?
God works in misterious ways.
'Tis a pity that your brother was not here to listen to such a brilliant eulogy.
lillith| 12.26.08 @ 8:01PM
Father Richard gave his life doing what he knew he needed to do.
We are lesser in the lose, but he is in a better place.
My your family receive the peace the passing understanding.
L
Peregrinus| 12.26.08 @ 8:02PM
I write this from a place just a few miles from Stonehill, and, like Mike and Dick, as someone who, in "the old days," went very young to the seminary of an Order that drew into Community the most diverse group of individuals and made us a remarkable, if somewhat "weird" family of brothers who, across the years and miles and myriad changes are still in touch today (thanks to email and the Internet!).
The week of the Christmas Octave features in the liturgical calendar, the Saints who are dubbed the "comites Christi," the companions of Christ, a royal retinue for the newborn King, Saints who suffered: Stephen, John the Evangelist, the Holy Innocents, Thomas Becket.
What a worthy addition to that procession your brother Dick is, Mike! Thanks to you - and to your sister - for letting us share the story.
And, as TS Eliot wrote of one of those Christmas Saints in his Murder in the Cathedral: "It is this which forever renews the world, though it is forever denied. For wherever a martyr has shed his blood, there is holy ground, and the holiness shall not depart from it."
May his intercession help bring peace to the land and people he loved - and to ours!
Tim Allen| 1.9.09 @ 7:27PM
A sacred thing, this story. I am reluctant to even slightly touch it with comments, so I'll simply say thank you, Mr. Novak.
Irving M.Levine| 1.12.09 @ 10:19PM
Friend Michael. What a moving and fascinating tribute to a brother long gone but well remembered Once again, in our episodic history of knowing one another, I owe you gratitude for sharing from a rich Catholic life to this unreconstructed, but sober liberal who reads you with occasional disagreement but with abiding affection .
G| 1.28.09 @ 7:47PM
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Angela V. McDonnell| 2.26.09 @ 2:02PM
Dear Mr. Novak,
I am Johnstown Catholic High School classmate of Dick's.
I talked with your Dad once when he called to ask me to organize with him a reception for Dick after his ordination. I was sorry that I could not help, as I had recently had a third child.
Later, the news of Dick's slaying was too sad.
His was a unique personality; many of us knew him in such different ways. I enjoyed his droll sense of humor; I saw him as laidback, carefree. I was in many classes with him, he seemed always to be prepared.
Angela v. McDonnell
guo| 7.1.10 @ 5:06AM
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