60
Toronto 1961
Reb Schmuel Black sat nervously in the interview room, wringing his hands, nails bitten to the cuticle, pulling his beard into tufts. I watched him through the small window. Callaway arrived. I handed him the file and he leafed through it quickly, nodding and murmuring to himself. Birdie shrugged in a non-committal manner. Callaway pursed his lips.
“Let’s go,” he said. He beckoned to the station stenographer, who’d been loitering behind us, waiting for him to make a move. She opened the door and we filed in behind her. She took her usual seat off to the side where a small desk sat with the steno machine. Reb Black started when we came in but didn’t say anything, merely stared down at his lap.
Callaway and I sat opposite him while Birdie remained standing by the door as
