He could be seen day after day going up and down Esplanade Avenue in the company of a few like-minded friends, passing out the pamphlet, “Fair Play for the Working Stiff.” He knew, though, that his bowel could make sudden demands. Wherever he picketed or passed out leaflets, the location of the nearest public toilet was always something to keep in mind. The condition had come upon him in his teens, in school at St. Cuthbert’s. Doctors told him it was a stubborn inflammation that could last the rest of his life. They had given it a name he had long ago forgotten. It was also a time when his dear aunt lay dying of a persistent and growing abdominal teratoma. She lay tucked into a narrow room at the Broad Street Charnel House, living out her last days. It was an awful place and Moldenke hated going there, yet he did so religiously every Sunday. His aunt’s surgeon, the well-known scientist Edgar Zanzetti, could do no more. It was now up to her to settle into dying. The growth that protruded from her abdomen looked to Moldenke like an apple under a tablecloth.
