A tale of two cities

​Spring had already begun over much of the country, but it was still a bone-chilling 32 degrees in Queens Borough, New York. Buttoning her coat to brave the weather, 28-year-old Catherine Susan “Kitty” Genovese headed for home at two-thirty in the morning after an exhausting shift at Ev’s Eleventh-Hour Bar at Jamaica Avenue and 193rd Street.

A Brooklyn native, Kitty was no stranger to streets that could be dangerous. After a murder occurred in their neighborhood ten years earlier, Kitty’s family relocated to Connecticut to be in a safer environment. But Kitty, ever independent stayed behind, intent on saving enough money to open a restaurant specializing in the Italian food she had grown up with and wanted to share with the world.

But work in Brooklyn was hard to come by for a young woman in 1964. After working a series of odd jobs, Kitty found a job bartending. An outgoing personality voted “Class Cut Up” at Prospect Heights High School, her customers naturally warmed up to her- a little too much for Kitty’s own good. In the summer of 1961, Kitty and another waitress at the bar were arrested on bookmaking charges. It seems that her eager-to-please attitude went as far as placing bets on horse-racing for bar patrons. But even the NYPD was a bit smitten with the charming young Italian lady. Kitty Genovese and her partner walked away from the charges. But as a result, both bartenders lost their jobs.

It was this incident that led Kitty to her job at Ev’s. Becoming essentially manager in the frequent absence of the owner, it was a grueling pace. But the double shifts often required were finally making the money Kitty needed to save up to achieve her dream and open her own restaurant. To this end, she relocated to an apartment building not far from Ev’s Eleventh Hour.

The small apartment was located at 82-70 Austin Street in the Kew Gardens section of Queens-generally considered a safe place for New York City in 1964. There she roomed with her friend and apparent lover Mary Ann from 1963-64.

When Kitty parked her red Fiat at the Kew Gardens Long Island Railroad Station, just one hundred feet from her apartment, she likely thought nothing of the Chevy Corvair that had followed her to Austin Street.

Walking through an alley way to the front of the apartment building, Kitty’s instincts told her something was off. That’s when she saw the man rapidly approaching her, armed with a hunting knife. Kitty ran for the apartment door with all the strength her tired body could muster, but 29-year-old Winston Mosley was too fast, and quicky overpowered her.
The first two stab wounds were to Kitty’s back, prompting her to scream to anyone who could hear:
“OH MY GOD, HE STABBED ME! HELP ME!”

Yet, according to police reports only one of several neighbors who heard Kitty’s anguished screams for help even reacted, leaning out of her apartment window and yelling “Leave that girl alone!” This frightened Mosley and caused him to flee-but only briefly.

Returning ten minutes after the first attack, only to fetch from his car a wide-brimmed hat to cover his face, Mosley found a bleeding and barely conscious Kitty having crawled into a hallway at the back of the building-only to find the door locked for the night and unable to get inside. It was here that Kitty met her fate at the hand of Winston Mosley. In an attack that lasted about 30 minutes, Mosely raped and repeatedly stabbed Kitty in front of several eyewitnesses. He also helped himself to the $49 in Kitty’s purse-what was to have helped open her restaurant. But over the course of the hour from the time of the first attack, not one of the witnesses who saw the attack or heard Kitty’s terrified screams attempted to help her. The one neighbor who did call the police was reportedly told that the police already had been called-but no one knows by who. Only after Mosley made his final retreat did anyone come out for Kitty- 70-year-old Sophia Farrar, who cradled the barely conscious Kitty in her arms until the ambulance arrived, repeating over and over “Help is on the way”.

But help was over an hour late. Kitty Genovese, 28 years old, died in the ambulance enroute to Queens General Hospital. She is buried in New Canaan, Connecticut-where her family moved to get away from the violence that would claim their “Kitty”.
Many reports exist about just how many people witnessed the murder of Kitty Genovese on that frigid New York night long ago. The New York Times claimed that no less than 38 people either witnessed the attack or heard the last cries for help as Kitty violently departed this world. No one can be sure of how many people were witnesses, but one thing was clear-nobody came to help. Few even thought to call the police.

But when the police arrived, they asked the witnesses why no one had intervened. One unidentified neighbor, quoted in the papers of the time, witnessed the attack, waited for a while, then finally asked another neighbor to call the police. Asked why he didn’t try to help Kitty, and why he waited so long to decide someone should call, the neighbor answered honestly. His response summed up the murder of Kitty Genovese, shook the conscience of the nation and still haunts us today:

​“I DIDN’T WANT TO GET INVOLVED”


​

 
From the 1960s on, people across the United States wondered what they would’ve done that icy night in Queens. Like many, my ego says that I would’ve come to Kitty’s aid during the attack-at least tried to get her to safety while the beast went to his car to prepare for his second attack. But I, too, was raised to question whether to get involved. What if the police showed up while I was assisting and mistook me for the attacker? What if she couldn’t identify her attacker in such poor lighting and thought it might be me? What if the attacker returned to find me an unarmed now-witness to his crime and killed me as well? What if the attacker got away, knew who called the cops and came back for me?

​These were questions that surely ran through the minds of the residents of Kew Gardens in March of 1964. Sadly, 61 years later, there has been no answer.

On August 22, 2025, the Blue Line Subway made its usual stop at Scaleybark Station outside of Charlotte, North Carolina. Among the late-night travelers boarding at Scaleybark was 23-year-old Iryna Zarutska, still wearing her uniform from Zepedie’s Pizzeria, where she had just gotten off the late shift. Having made her escape from war-torn Ukraine, the land of her birth, the blonde beauty had settled in Charlotte, hoping to build a new life in America she had always heard about.

We know all too well the rest of the story. Iryna barely noticed when 34-year-old DeCarlos Brown entered the Blue Line Car and sat down directly behind her. She had no idea about his history of violence, jail and release by an impotent “justice” system.

​But at some point during the late-night Blue Line ride, DeCarlos Brown repeatedly stabbed Iryna, her beautiful face a tortured mix of shock and mortal terror as she bled to death in the middle of the night in a foreign land while strangers simply watched.
Iryna could survive a war between two powerful countries and the refugee trip to America. But what she could not survive was mass transit in a major American city run by leftists.

As of this writing, DeCarlos Brown may get off easily yet again. Yesterday a Superior Court Judge ordered this vicious animal to “psychiatric evaluation”- potentially and perhaps intentionally providing him a way out of standing trial for the brutal murder he committed.

What prompted DeCarlos Brown, a man who didn’t know Iryna Zarutska, had never seen her before, and had no altercation whatsoever with her to so callously and violently end her life? We don’t know for sure, but we do know one thing-not long after Brown was arrested for murder, a GoFundMe account was set up to raise money for the obvious murderer so that racial justice could be served. Fortunately, it has since been pulled. But it begs the questions: is it just barely possible that DeCarlos Brown saw a white girl alone late at night and saw it as a hunting opportunity? Is it possible DeCarlos Brown was fed and nurtured with the same anti-white propaganda we have been battered with for decades? That in our reparations, DEI world that he viewed Iryna as a “privileged” white girl whom he could execute at his pleasure as racial “justice”?

​And what are we to think of Iryna’s fellow BlueLine riders on the night of August 22nd? No one rushed to help her during the attack. No one tried to render assistance until DeCarlos Brown had long since exited the train. Video surveillance shows many car riders standing idly, a few even looking straight forward, refusing to even acknowledge what was happening.
It's very possible that Iryna’s fellow passengers were fed on the same tiger’s meat, seasoned with viper’s venom, that all white Americans have been subjected to over that last 60 years. Given the racial and political make up of Mecklenburg County (the County voted almost 2-1 for Kamala Harris last November), it’s possible the riders have absorbed the sickening message of DEI more than your average American.

But a fateful summer night in Dixie in August of 2025 has something in common with that frigid night in Queens 60 years ago-nobody wanted to get involved. Moreover, it reminded Southerners of the price of Union.

Iryna Zarutska didn't die forgotten in a gutter in New York City. She died forgotten in Dixie, where chivalry and Good Samaritanism took their final bow. Here in the "Queen City" of Carolina, Iryna gasped her last breath in terror and helplessness surrounded by people who were indifferent to her-just as Kitty Genovese did in 1964. The diseased politics and the crass "don't get involved" mentality that it spawned have draped their tentacles well South of the Mason-Dixon Line to our once great cities.

We may never know for sure what all of us would've done for Kitty Genovese in 1964. All of us may not know for a fact what we would have done for Iryna Zarutska last month. But if the current trend continues to rot our beautiful Southern cities, spread like a cancer to our peaceful suburbs and finally reach the Bible Belt itself, our children may one day ask questions like: "Why can't I take the bus to the city? Why do you tell me at restaurants to sit so nobody is behind me? Why won't you let me go to the State Capitol to play by trumpet with the rest of the School Band?"

In that moment, these days in which we now live will flash through our minds and recall those frightful words from 1964: I didn't want to get involved.