The Chamber in Bryant Park

Frode Singsaas
Sep 1, 2018 · 15 min read

I was only 15 years old the very first time I laid eyes on the chamber in Bryant Park. At the time the purpose of the building wasn’t known to me, but it was something supremely about it, the way it tried to make itself invisible under the shade of the sycamore trees. It gave me a sensation of discomfort from that first moment. Still, I couldn’t stop myself at casting stolen glances towards it every time I had the opportunity.

The chamber stood out from the other buildings surrounding the park. It was whitewashed and had a classical look about it. Six ionic columns supported the roof above the entrance, and the massive bronze colored door was well hidden in the shadows from the ceiling. Around the building, there were white tulips that blended wholly with the whitewashed walls. On top of the roof was three sculptures representing harp-playing angels. All of them with their eyes closed and their heads turned away from the chamber itself. Over the entrance door, there was an inscription in Latin in addition to eight letters: O U O S V A V V. And a bit further down the letters D and M.

Years later I would learn that these letters were the same as the ones on the monument outside Shugborough Hall in England. A sequence of characters that was known as The Shugborough Inscriptions. A cryptic set of letters that had perplexed cryptologists since the 18th century, but so far no one had been able to decipher the code.

All this meant nothing to me as a 15-year-old boy. The only thing that interested me was the mysterious young men.

As a son of a municipal gardener, I soon became very familiar with Bryant Park, which was my father’s primary area of responsibility. Occasionally I would watch young men ( always young men) standing indecisively outside the chamber, only to turn back with an expression of shame and guilt on their faces. Only once did I see one of them enter the building. He was a very young man, barely twenty years old and was impeccably dressed. For several minutes he stood outside the chamber. In his right hand, he held a photograph which he from time to time studied closely as his eyes were filling with tears.

Curious as I was, I decided to spy on him. I pretended to be working on the plot nearest to the entrance and made sure to cast a glance through the massive bronze door when he entered.

The inside of the chamber consisted of a large turquoise room. On the wall was a painting that I much later would learn was one of the five versions of Arnold Böckling’s “Isle of the Dead.” A brief glimpse was all I got.

It was getting late when we called it a day. The hedge that separated the park from the back of the New York Public Library had been pruned into shape, and several flower beds had gotten a second helping of croci. Bryant Park was ready to welcome spring.

I never saw the young man again. I assumed that he had left while my father and I had our lunch at a nearby cafè. What I did see, when we were packing away our tools for the night, was an elderly gentleman exiting the building. He was almost grotesque tall. Also, impeccably dressed in a grey three-piece suit and a fedora. He made quite a spectacle of checking that the door to the chamber was safely locked before he departed. When he passed us, he stopped for a second and wished me a pleasant evening before walking in the direction of Times Square.

My father passed on two years later. Pneumonia. The illness and his longing for the old country finally caught up with him. I nursed him as best as I could during those last few months in our one-room apartment in East Village. My father had been a burly man, but in the end, he had lost so much weight that I could carry him on my shoulders to the bathroom we shared with the other tenants on the same floor. Both in stature and manners, he became like a toddler.

He now rests in an unmarked grave in Marble Cemetery.

During the months that followed after my father’s funeral, I rambled aimlessly through the streets of Manhattan looking for a job. Being only 17 at the time, I was too young to succeed my father as a municipal gardener, so the following years I supported myself in a myriad of professions. I was a shoe shiner, a paper boy, a delivery boy and sometimes a pickpocket. Our apartment had then been taken over by an Italian family, and I drifted between homeless shelters and the backrooms of whatever grocery store that would employ me for days or weeks at a time. Some nights I slept outside on the streets. I became a skilled pickpocket over the years. For some reason, this came naturally to me.

It was the hunt for a new victim for my newly acquired skills, which led me to Bryan Park for the first time in years on a cold spring day in 1923. I had spotted him outside the library on 5th avenue. His expensive camel hair coat revealed all I needed to know about him. And when I got a glimpse of a shining new Rolex Submariner on his wrist when he tried to get hold of a cab, I knew that I would eat well the following weeks.

It was numbingly cold, like only the New York winters can be in the early spring. I crossed West 40th street and followed him into the park concealed by the gothic shades from the Radiator Building.

The park was in shambles. It looked as though there had been no maintenance there since my father and I had worked there in the summer of 1919. Most of the hedges and bushes were neglected completely and every plot and flowerbed was now mud pools filled with dog poop and garbage.

I knew that Bryan Park had gotten a reputation for being a haunt for the homeless, prostitutes and sodomites, but never in my wildest imagination had I expected the degree of decay that I now witnessed. And to make matters even worse, the park was completely empty. Crowds are always preferable to empty spaces for a pickpockets, and I was validating if I wasn’t better off letting this one go when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye.

The years had not been kind to the chamber. One of the harp playing angels had lost its head, and the walls of the building that used to be whitewashed, looked depressingly green in their state of decay. Moisture and mildew had done a solid job of turning the once so impressive structure into a shadow of its former self.

One of the supportive columns was all gone. Only the foundation was left. And several of the neatly carved ornaments was in the process of disintegrating. But ultimately, what made me give up the hunt for my prey was the bronze door. At first, I thought it was the early morning sun that played a trick on me, but when I got closer, I could see that the door was ajar.

Inside the chamber was much commodious from what I had imagined from previously seeing only the exterior. In each of the eight corners, there was a column that went from the floor and up to the bulbous ceiling. The chamber was an octagon inside a hemisphere. Apart from Böckling’s painting and a chaise longue in the center of the room, there was nothing else there. The walls consisted of a series of turquoise marble tiles, which combined with the many hidden sources of light in the room, gave the whole place a slightly bizarre, but calming atmosphere.

A few minutes later I discovered an anomaly. The chamber was an imperfect octagon. Between two of the columns, there was a door that was almost imperceptible from the marble tiles. The door stood at least two feet out from the rest of the smooth sides of the octagon and concealed a second smaller chamber hidden from the main room. It was a clever optical illusion, only noticeable if one looked closely. At eye level, there was a small gap, like a letterbox, that could only be opened from the inside. A bit further down I spotted a door handle, this also almost entirely invisible from the door itself.

There was nothing in the chamber that revealed the purpose of the building. The chaise longue and the painting could belong to any of the many upper-class salons in New York, save for the fact that the motif of the painting was much to unorthodox to fit in amongst the aristocrats and their taste in art. The sight of the ferryman who rowed the white-clad woman to the island made me somewhat uncomfortable, and I was about to leave when the elderly gentleman who had bid me good evening that summer night so many years ago, suddenly appeared in the doorway.

He was dressed in the same grey three-piece suit, but the wear and tear of the years made his clothes look equally worn as the exterior of the chamber. But apart from his clothes, his appearance was the same.

His face was long and narrow with horse-like features. His lower lip was glittered of saliva due to him constantly sticking his tongue out to moisten it. His hair was cut short, almost down to his skull, and from his forehead and down to his left cheek, ran a birthmark the shape of a scimitar.

What stood out the most about him was his fingers. They were almost impossibly long and bony. Like they had one additional joint each. There was an almost otherworldly quality about him, and he moved with the grace of a much younger man.

Since that summer in 1919, I had grown into the same burly shape as my father, and I considered myself as a man of envious stature, but next to this man I felt like a dwarf.

- I hope I haven’t kept you waiting, Sir? His voice was a deep baritone. It filled the room.

- No, not at all, I replied, studying his face for answers to what he was referring.

- I’m pleased to hear, he said. — We very seldom entertain customers anymore. He looked back through the open door and slowly shook his head. — If you wouldn’t mind awfully, Sir, let us lock the door. We don’t want to be disturbed in the midst of the process, do we?

I had no idea what he was talking about, but I remained calm as I watched him close the bronze door shut. He stood motionless for a moment like as he tried to remember something before he pulled out a set of keys and firmly locked the door. He then proceeded to place the keys in the inner pocket of his jacket.

- I am Arthur Bissman, he said and shook my hand. I don’t remember what I introduced myself as, some fictitious name that came to mind.

- Pleased to meet you, Sir. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Or should I say displeasure concerning the business we’re about to partake in. His laugh was dry and humorless. — Say, haven’t we met before? Weren’t you the young gardener from some time ago?

- Impressive, I said. — And you’re correct. We worked here three years ago as municipal gardeners. I was only a boy then.

- We, Sir?

- My father and I. I used to wonder about all the young men who always stood outside the building with the look of guilt on their faces.

A thought suddenly struck me. Never during the whole summer did my father mentioned or questioned the building with much as a word. Like it was invisible to him.

- And only once did I see a man enter this building, I added.

- Your father, Sir? Did he also see this man enter the chamber? Arthur Bissman shifted his feet expectantly.

- No, I don’t think so. My father-

- I understand, Sir.

- What was it they wanted? What did they come here for? I never figured it out.

- Unfortunately, most men get cold feet when they see the chamber close up, Sir. Others change their minds even before they enter the park. There’s no shame in it, Sir. Very few have the courage to enter the building. It takes determination and strength of character to go through with the process. And since the contract is considered signed by both parties from the moment one enters the chamber, it’s understandable that most people are reluctant to approach the bronze door. But you, Sir, have shown yourself as a young man of remarkable character and high moral self-esteem.

- So please indulge me, what did all the young men come here for? I asked for the third time.

There was no reply. Instead, he made a gesture with his long, bony fingers, signaling that I should take a seat in the chaise longue. He then proceeded to the hidden door and opened it by pushing a concealed button on the top of the door while simultaneously twisting the door handle. In the room beyond, I could see a chair, a gramophone and a strange looking contraption with wires and tubes sticking out of it. One of the tubes seemed to merge with the inner wall that faced the chamber itself. On the wall behind the machine, I could see rows of photographs of young men sitting in the same chaise long as I now found myself in. All of them laying down with their eyes closed.

On the top of the contraption, was glass container with a led lid. Arthur Bissman removed the cap with gentle movements and started filling the tank with some white powder that he poured from an elongated metal cylinder. He made sure to keep a handkerchief in front of his mouth and nose while working the machine.

- What’s your pleasure, Sir? He asked when he finished. — We got something for everyone. “Dardanella” by Ben Selvin’s Orchestra, “I’ve got my Captain working for me now” by Al Jolson. He’s a singer with many admirers, these days. I also got “Crazy Blues” by Mamie Smith, if that kind of music is more to your liking?

I still had no idea what it was all about, but I saw something that distracted me from answering Arthur Bissman’s enigmatic questions. On the bottom part of the door, there were hundreds of tiny holes. They were almost impossible to spot. A ventilation system of sorts? Whatever it was I decided I have had enough. There was something in the way Arthur Bissman talked and behaved that I didn’t much care for. Besides the way he worked the strange apparatus in the small room, testified of something both dangerous and unpleasant.

- I’m sorry, but I got to leave now, I said and rose from the chaise long.

- Leave, Sir? I’m afraid that impossible. The mixture is all set. You won’t feel a thing. I can assure you that the process is painless.

The only thing that was clear to me at that moment was that I had to get out of there. No matter what he was up to, it wasn’t something I would be willing to partake in. With the firmest voice I could muster, I demanded that he unlocked the door.

- Impossible, Sir, he repeated. — The contract’s final.

- I’ll call the police.

- Nobody will hear you, Sir.

- Are you quite mad? And stop calling me “Sir” every god damn second. I want out of here. Is that clear?

- I understand, Sir. Regrettably, I’m not able to fulfill your request. If you’ll take a seat, Sir. It will all be over in minutes.

Without any thought about the consequences, I did something I’d never done before. I started running towards Arthur Bissman. I put all my weight on the impact, and he was thrown back towards the metal cylinder. He remained motionless for a few seconds, then started to get up while raising an arm to the back of his head where a rose of blood began to form. I seized the opportunity and reached into his jacket and grabbed the keychain. My hands were trembling so violently that I managed to drop the chain to the floor two times before I got out of the room.

I heard Arthur Bisman swearing behind me as I raced towards the bronze door. The key slid into the keyhole, but nothing happened. I tried the doorknob. It wouldn’t budge.

- Sir. I won’t allow you to-

His voice was strained. I didn’t dare to turn around. Instead, I twisted the key even harder. An almost inaudible click could be heard, and the door swung open.

- Sir? His voice was right behind me. I could feel the air pressure of his hands on the back of my neck as I legged it. Convinced that any second now I would feel his bony fingers around my neck, I couldn’t afford to look back. As I rounded the corner of West 40th street, I almost crashed into a woman walking her dog. I slowed down enough to cast a stolen glance back at the chamber.

Arthur Bissman was nowhere to be seen.

Many years later when I was sitting at the King Cole Bar at St. Regis Hotel enjoying a Red Snapper, the chamber in Bryant Park once again came to my attention. After the incident that cold spring day in 1923, I had had a series of lucky wins. A sudden opening at the parks department had secured me a job as a gardener once again. I worked hard and impressed my boss enough to be promoted to department manager for both Midtown and East Village. A job I did to my employer’s satisfaction for almost ten years. The reason for my visit to St. Regis that night was a celebration for being appointed the head of the park department for New York City earlier that same day.

If my wife hadn’t been late for our appointment that night, I would never have overheard the conversation at the table next to me. The topic was Bryant Park. An old public document that mentioned previous plans for the park had appeared in connection to the renovation of a building nearby. Apparently, there had originally been some talk of a total renewal of the park in the 1920’s. As the newly appointed park director of this great city, this peaked my interest and I walked over to the table and asked if I could join in on the conversation. The two gentlemen at the table first gave me a puzzled look, but as soon as I explained my position, they welcomed me aboard and offered to buy me a drink. They introduced themselves as Mr. Johnson and Mr. Evangetti. Both of them Wall Street brokers.

- In 1898 there were some plans of erecting an official chamber for assisted suicide in Bryant Park, said the man who had introduced himself as Johnson. — It was governor Frank Black’s proposal to the city council. An idea he had further developed from an essay by the Scottish journalist William Archer.

- This document that recently has been discovered amongst the city files, bears all the right signatures and stamps for it to be legit. It has more red tape on it than a New York crime scene, said Evangatti. — It even came with a full set of architectural drawings. This chamber was to be built in a classic style in the shape of a small dome. Wholly whitewashed and with an assortment of statues of cherubs, angels, and other religious icons. Probably as a sort of dimwitted way to conceal from the public eye the real purpose of the chamber. Both the building and the operation of the chamber was to be funded by the city. The document mentions a salary of 500 dollars to the position of “technical assistant.” A very flattering job title for a hangman, if you ask my opinion.

- Assisted suicide? I heard myself croak. My voice was almost unrecognizable.

Johnson leaned back in his chair and lit his cigar. — The governor published a public justification in the New York Times. Something about the city councils appreciation of every individual’s right to end his or her own life if it had become unbearable either through physical or mental suffering.

- A damn portentous way to put it, said Evangetti. — It was raised in the hope that the sodomites would take the hint and voluntarily end their own existence. The governor launched a smearing campaign against them in the extension of the project. His goal was that at least a few of them would take him up on offer and face the hangman instead of continuing living in shame or face incarceration for their sins. Clever fella’ he was, old Mr. Black.

- Where a painless demise awaits those who no longer can find the strength to bear the sorrows of life, said Johnson and blew a smoke ring towards me. — According to the document these were the words that were meant as an inscription over the entrance to the chamber. In Latin, of course. The preferred method of killing of the sodomites was supposed to be some gas made from powder. It promised a painless death, but from what the document it’s pretty clear the whole process involved merely choking slowly to death.

My glass was empty, and I looked frantically for the waiter. My mouth was bone dry, and my tongue stuck to my palate. An uncontrollable reflex made me reach out for Johnson’s glass. I downed it one big sip.

- I say, that’s not very polite, said Evangetti. — One might say that you are taking advantage of our hospitality.

- Keep your voice down, said Johnson. — Can’t you see the poor fellow looks like he has seen a ghost? Maybe we should call for a doctor?

- No, please don’t bother, I said. — But what did you mean by what you just said? That the inscription was intended to be placed over the entrance to the chamber?

Evangetti gave me a confused look before leaning forward. — One should think that you of all people should know this, the chamber was never built. The new governor that replaced Mr. Black made sure that the project never got started. They didn’t even break ground.

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