Leaving Father Ptashchuk, who had some business of his own to attend to, at the Consistory, I left, bent for home. As I was mounting the stairs leading from the basement to the street, I met Bishop Alexander. I took off my hat, folded my arms, and asked for his blessing. Instead of a blessing, he shook his fist in my face, stamped his foot, and whispered maliciously: "Get out of here, you son of a bitch, you offspring of Satan! I'll break your head!" I cannot repeat
Archbishop Alexander Nemolovsky, fugitive from justice because of
a robbery of a half a million dollars.
the profane words he uttered—and those very lips pray and preach in church! "I did not come to you for this abuse, Holy Father," I said to him, "but for my money, which I earned with the sweat of my brow."—"May you be accursed, Anathema! You and all your
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