IIn a building on the Upper West Side, a masked woman, trembling and with arms raised protectively, hugs the wall of the house, as if avoiding a grenade, because a woman without a mask came towards her – a rare, rebellious sight. People with face masks, plastic helmets and newspapers held in front of their faces walk on the streets, hold their breath at passers-by, change sides of the street.
New York is scared and scared, but not because of the mass graves and hearses. These are images that hardly correlate with the reality of most New Yorkers, but that fuel fear: the hospital warships that remained empty, the impersonal Jarvits Center with a good 1,000 hospital beds, of which only about 350 were ever occupied. The death or sick tents in Central Park and in front of the Bellevue Hospital, standing like a sad circus with hanging pennants in the rain, or the large, white hearse, which at most reached SoHo, but not to be seen in the middle-class to affluent parts of the city were.
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