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A Jewish State
Theodor Herzl proposes a solution to the 'Jewish Question' and to anti-Semitism: a separate and independent ...
My Father's Girl
Jane Addams, whose Hull-House became a symbol of progressive reform, here remembers her father who helped ...
Paris Goes to War
As the World War engulfs Europe in August 1914, Edith Wharton reports from Paris on the ...
Lord Charnwood recounts the development and importance of Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation, a signal event in American ...
Darwin Changes His Mind
Here is Darwin’s account of his visit to the Galapagos Islands with its myriad species, which ...
A Grand Way to Chronicle a War
A fascinating glimpse of World War II journalism behind the front lines at Paris’s Hotel Scribe, ...
The Genius and the Jerk
Walter Vatter explores the early years of Steve Jobs--was he a genius, or simply an expert ...
Wounded Knee 1973: Still Bleeding
The 1973 occupation of Wounded Knee by American Indians, defying ...
The Crime of the Century - Preview
The Enduring Mystery of the Lindbergh Kidnapping
It is a drizzly, overcast day in the early afternoon of May 12, 1932. A truck carrying a load of lumber to Hopewell, New Jersey, slows and pulls over onto a wide space between the road and a wood. The driver, a black man named William Allen, gets out and walks around the truck into the tall grass and brush to relieve himself. After fifty feet or so he has to bend over to duck under a branch. When he straightens up, he will later tell the police, “I saw a skull sticking up out of the dirt, which seems to have been kicked up around it. I thought I saw a baby with its foot sticking out of the ground.”
Allen calls out to his companion, “Wilson, Wilson, come over here.” Orville Wilson jumps out of the truck and joins him, and they both stare at a small, badly decomposed body wearing only what looks like a sort of flannel undershirt. Neither man touches the corpse. Nearby on the ground they see some tufts of blond hair. For perhaps five minutes they stand there wondering what to do. They both notice a large, quarter-size hole above the forehead, later identified as the child’s fontanel.
Finally, Wilson says, “Come on, let’s go and tell somebody about this,” and they get back in the truck. In Hopewell a few minutes later they see Deputy Chief of Police Charles Williamson walking along the street. Do you have a minute, Allen asks? Williamson nods. He has plenty of time, he says. What do they want? “I have found a dead baby,” Allen replies. “Where?” “Up in the woods on Mount Rose Hill.” Allen is talking about a place only a few miles or so from Highfields, the French country–style house of Colonel Charles Lindbergh.