The Silk City of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Paterson was a microcosm of all the aspirations and outrages that beset the nation. A thriving manufacturer of silk cloth and exquisite ribbons, the city was also host to labor warfare between the working class and its moneyed elite.
A few minutes later, after all the noise had subsided, a small, skinny man stumbled up Oxford Street. He wove along the sidewalk, occasionally staggering to the street, then regaining his direction and stepping back up onto the sidewalk. He held his head. He was bleeding and sobbing softly.
When the injured man saw me, he held out one arm with an open hand, There was blood on his shirt. On his face. Blood seeping through the cracks between his fingers.
I could not ignore him. “Here,” I called out. “Come here.” I crossed Garrison Street, put my arm around his waist, and brought him to our front steps, guiding him down to sit.
I dressed his wound and bandaged him as best I could. As I was finishing, I heard steps behind me.
“Mrs. Krieger. Please step aside.”
I turned. It was Officer Timothy Brophy, our neighborhood cop. – Kati Krieger