The Invention of Solitude

Avenue in Kenosha, Wisconsin. The facts themselves do not disturb me any more than might be expected. The difficult thing is to see them in print—unburied, so to speak, from the realm of secrets and turned into a public event. There are more than twenty articles, most of them long, all of them from the Kenosha Evening News. Even in this barely legible state, almost totally obscured by age and the hazards of photocopying, they sti ll have the ability to shock. I assume they are typical of the journalism of the time, but that does not make them any less sensational. They are a mixture of scandal-mongering and sentimentality, heightened by the fact that the people involved were Jews—and therefore strange, almost by defini tion—which gives the whole account a leering, condescending tone. And yet, granted the flaws in style, the facts seem to be there. I do not think they explain everything, but there is no question that they explain a great deal. A boy cannot live through this kind of thing without being affected by it as a man.
    In the margins of these articles, I can just manage to decipher some of the smaller news stories of that time, events that were relegated to near insignificance in comparison to the murder. For example: the recovery of Rosa Luxemburg ’ s body from the Land wehr Canal. For example: the Versailles peace conference. And on, day after day, through the following: the Eugene Debs case; a note on Caruso ’ s first film ( “ The situations…are said to be highly dramatic and filled with stirring heart appeal ” ); battle reports from the Russian Civil War; the funerals of Karl Liebnecht and thirty-one other Spartacists ( “ More than fifty thousand persons marched in the procession which was five miles long. Fully twenty percent of these bore wreaths. There was no shouting or cheering ” ); the ratification of the national prohibition amendment ( “ William Jennings Bryan—the man who made grape juice famous—was there with a broad smile ” ); the textile strike in Lawrence, Massachusetts, led by the Wobblies; the death of Emiliano Zapata, “ bandit leader in southern Mexico ” ; Winston Churchill; Bela Kun; Premier Lenine (sic); Woodrow Wilson; Dempsey versus Willard.
    I have read through the articles about the murder a dozen times. Still, I find it hard to believe that I did not dream them. They loom up at me with all the force of a trick of the unconscious, distorting reality in the same way dreams do. Because the huge headlines announcing the murder dwarf everything else that happened in the world that day, they give the event the same egocentric importance we give to the things that happen in our private lives. It is almost like the drawing a child makes when he is troubled by some inexpressible fear: the most important thi ng is always the biggest thing. Perspective is lost in favor of proportion—which is dictated not by the eye but by the demands of the mind.
    I read these articles as history. But also as a cave drawing discovered on the inner walls of my own skull.
      The headlines on the first day, January 24, cover more than a third of the front page.
    HARRY AUSTER KILLED
    WIFE HELD BY POLICE

    Former Prominent Real Estate Operator is 
    Shot to Death  in the Kitchen of the 
    Home of His Wife On Thursday Night 
    Following a Family Wrangle Over Money—
    and a Woman.

    WIFE SAYS HUSBAND WAS A SUICIDE
    Dead Man Had Bullet Wound in His Neck and in the Left Hip and Wife Admits That Revolver With Which the Shooting Was Done Was Her Property—Nine-Year-Old Son, Witness of the Tragedy, May Hold Solution to the Mystery.
    According to the newspaper, “ Auster and his wife had separated some time ago and an action for divorce was pending in the Circuit Court for Kenosha county. They had had trouble on several occa sions over money. They had also quarreled over the fact that Auster [illegible] friendly with a young woman known to the wife as ‘ Fanny. ’ It is believed that ‘ Fanny ’ figured in the trouble between Auster and his wife immediately preceding the shooting. … ”
    Because my grandmother did not confess until the twenty- eighth, there was some confusion about what really happened. My grandfather (who was thirty-six years old) arrived at the house at six o ’ clock in the evening with “ suits of clothing ” for his two oldest sons “ while it was stated by witnesses Mrs. Auster was in the bedroom putting Sam, the youngest boy, into bed. Sam [my father]