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The Numbers
“The first thing that was done almost everywhere but New York was to close the schools and the theaters and all places of public assemblage. In some communities they went so far as to prohibit small stores from admitting more than three persons at one time. All sorts of extreme and absurd measures were adopted in some places.”
So wrote Dr. Royal S. Copeland, New York City's health commissioner, in the November 17, 1918 edition of the New York Times in an editorial subtitled: “Dr. Copeland Tells Why New York Got Off Easier Than Other Cities.” Even with an official death toll at that point of 10,500—historians would later peg it closer to 30,000—Copeland cited death rates in Baltimore, Boston, Philadelphia and Washington that were higher than New York's. “That is a very fine record by comparison,” he boasted.
Copeland's column is, obviously, a reminder of the capacity of some public figures to congratulate themselves in the midst of catastrophe. It also predicts how history will analyze this episode—through the cold lens of statistics.
Objective math is important. There are usually around 54,000 deaths all year from all causes in New York City. That more than 11,400 deaths have been linked to a single infectious agent over just 35 days is breathtaking.
But that doesn't quite capture the true impact of the coronavirus. Many of us will hold onto more visceral reminders: memories of faces and voices gone forever, unemployment insurance documents, visions of empty subways and playgrounds.
Or the whirring of the refrigerated trucks outside a hospital on E. 233rd Street in the Bronx I walked past last weekend. Black sheeting had been set up to conceal the movement of bodies. Three rigs were parked there for a temporary morgue. Their hum was the only sound. It was as bland as it was eerie. I hope I keep it handy for when the official histories are ready to be read.
Stay healthy,
Jarrett Murphy, executive editor
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