“But it was an insular community, wasn’t it?” Rick asked. “So it’s possible that no one was willing to speak to this detective, and he made a conclusion based on the only facts that he had at hand.”
Rochester and Rascal had been snoozing in the kitchen doorway, but Rochester woke up then and came over to me and woofed. “What do you want, boy?” I asked.
“He probably wants a treat,” Rick said. He stood up and opened the jar in the shape of a dog where he kept biscuits, and Rascal recognized the sound and jumped up, too.
He gave each of the dogs a treat, and I marveled at how easily our dogs could communicate with us without actually speaking.
“There might have been a language problem, too,” I said. “I’ll bet most of the more recent immigrants didn’t speak much English so it was hard for Parker to interview them.”
Rick nodded. “They didn’t have interpreters back then either. This is all you found?”
“Yes.”
“Show me how you found this information.”
I went back to the deep web database where the hacker had posted what he’d retrieved from the Agency for Records Digitization, and typed into the search box. But Rochester was nosing my elbow and made me hit the enter key before finishing the rabbi’s last name, sending a request for “Sapins” instead of Sapinsky.
This time, two results came up – the one I’d found earlier, and a second one called Hafetz, Meyer.
“That’s the guy who wrote the Holocaust survivor document,” I said. “At least, I think it’s the same guy—the name is spelled a little differently.”
I clicked the link and downloaded a folder similar to the one on Sapinsky. The first document was another medical examiner form, dated about a month before Sapinsky’s death. Hafetz, too, had been killed by a shot at close range from a small caliber weapon. One of those whom the detective spoke to was a Rabbi Sapinski.
My brain was buzzing with connections and I had to stop reading and pull out the translation Daniel Epstein had prepared for me. It was dated September 12, 1948. Then I looked back at the ME’s form, and pointed it out to Rick. “Hafetz was killed a month after he wrote up this document.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
I went back to the rabbi’s file. “See here? Another month later, the rabbi is murdered. Two dates that match could be a coincidence, but not three.”
Rick sat back in his chair. “You know when Hafetz came to Trenton?”
“According to the document that Epstein translated, Hafetz spent a year in a displaced persons camp in the American zone in Germany after he was liberated from Auschwitz in January, 1945. Then he made a connection with a relative in New York who sponsored him to come to the States. Probably no earlier than some time in 1946.”
“So Hafetz comes here, then dictates his testimony in September, 1948. A month later he’s killed outside the junkyard where he worked. Then a month after that, the rabbi is also shot dead in his synagogue. Anything after that?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Any connection between Hafetz and the rabbi?”
“Both Jews, both living in Trenton. It was a small community then. And the rabbi worked at the Hebrew Sheltering Home, helping refugees. So it’s a reasonable assumption that they knew each other.”
“Which still doesn’t get us anywhere in the present.”
“Suppose after Hafetz dictated this document he gave it to the rabbi,” I said. “Then Hafetz was killed, and the rabbi was worried, so he hid the document in the wall at the old shul.”
“I can give you that. Then what?”
“Whoever killed Hafetz discovered the rabbi knew about the document, and killed him, too.”
“Why?”
“That part I don’t know. But then Joel found the document when he was camping out at the old shul. Totally random, I know. But that opened this old wound, whatever it is.”
“But we’re talking about something that happened almost sixty years ago,” Rick said.
“There’s no statute of limitations on murder. Suppose there was something else at the shul, some other document or connection to the two murders, and Joel Goldberg found it while he was sleeping there. If it was hidden behind the Belgian block wall like the photos were, no one would have known to remove them when the synagogue moved, or before the demolition started.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I’ve been reading through Joel’s emails, and it’s clear he was obsessed with the Holocaust,” I said. “And you yourself said that it’s hard to know what’s going on in the mind of someone with schizophrenia.”
“Let’s go back to the stuff about Hafetz’s death,” Rick said, and we looked again at the information from the digitized file. Hafetz’s body had been discovered in an alley next to the junkyard where he worked, and the detective – Parker again – had assumed that someone had tried to rob Hafetz, and in the scuffle Hafetz had been killed.
“Well, this answers one question you had,” I said, once I located that reference to Rabbi Sapinksi. “The rabbi and Hafetz knew each other. Since immigrants were less trusting of authority, it’s reasonable that Hafetz took his suspicions to the rabbi rather than the police. Sapinsky even told Parker that he had discussed the Holocaust many times with Hafetz, trying to counsel him and help him recover from his trauma.”
“I can’t imagine going through something like that,” Rick said. “How can you go back to ordinary life after you’ve lived through what these people did? Seeing your friends and family slaughtered, being subjected to such awful conditions?”
“We spent all of eight grade in Sunday school studying the Holocaust,” I said. “The big question was where was God when all this stuff was happening to his chosen people.”
“And the answer?”
“There is no one answer.” I tried to put myself back in that classroom in the school building at Shomrei Torah. Those small wooden desks, the chalkboard at the front of the room, the way the late afternoon light slanted in through the windows that looked out at the railroad tracks, the way our teacher had to pause when a loaded train came by and shook the walls.
“Some people said that God abandoned the Jews,” I said finally. “Others said it was his way of testing us to make sure that we still believed in him.”
“What do you think?”
“I thought a lot about God after Mary had the first miscarriage,” I said. “How could he do this to us? How could he kill that innocent baby?” I felt my voice choking up as I remembered the horror of that time. “I went to services a couple of times after that, out in California, and I spoke to the rabbi there. He reminded me that God moves in mysterious ways, that it wasn’t all about me, or Mary, or the baby. That there were larger forces at work in the world, that we were all part of that.”
Rochester got back up from the floor, stretched his paws in front of him and yawned, then came over to nuzzle my knee. I stroked his soft fur, glad that I had him in my life.
“And did that help?” Rick asked.
“Eventually. When I was in prison, I recognized that Mary and I didn’t belong together, and having a child wasn’t going to solve the problems between us. That maybe this was God’s way of telling us that.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, I didn’t like that idea, that this tiny baby had to suffer because of us. But I had a lot of time on my hands then, and I started to read bits of the Bible and the commentary, and I realized that the rabbi I’d spoken to was right. It wasn’t about us, or the baby. That God is not vindictive, or benevolent. He – or she – just is. And as long as we believe, we have to keep moving forward.”
“I still go to St. Ignatius sometimes, you know,” Rick said. That was the Catholic church in Yardley. “And every now and then the priest will say something that resonates with me. That God handles divine justice, but that we are responsible for earthly justice. It’s why we have police and courts and prisons.”
There didn’t seem
to be much more we could do then, so I closed up my laptop. “Good job finding that information,” Rick said as I did. “And I’m glad you didn’t have to hack into anywhere to find it.”
“I’m doing my best to stay on the straight and narrow,” I said. “Though I have to admit, it’s not always easy.”
“That’s what makes us human,” Rick said. “Knowing the wrong that we can do, and resisting it.”
20 – Duty and Family
Before I left for work on Thursday morning, I put a piece of brisket in the slow cooker, along with some potatoes and carrots, so that there’d be a warm welcome home dinner for Lili by the time she returned.
We drove up to Friar Lake, where I met with Joey Capodilupo, answered emails, and filled out a lot of college forms relating to the agreement to rent out our facilities to the group represented by Professor Backus.
I took Rochester out for a walk around Friar Lake when I was finished. I missed Lili, and it was hard to remember how I’d functioned as a single man. Well, I hadn’t done all that well, at least not until Rochester had come into my life and given me his unconditional love, as well as the need to feed, groom, walk and play with him.
Back when I was married, I’d relished Mary’s occasional business trips for the chance to be on my own, and it was always a bit of a letdown when she returned home. Guess that should have told me something. We left for the airport soon after that, and once again I blasted Springsteen through the Bluetooth connection to my phone. Let Bruce wash all my cares away.
As I neared the airport I saw a skinny black shirtless guy, his torso covered with tattoos, walking along the verge waving at passing cars. Another homeless guy like Joel Goldberg? Or just a free spirit?
I expected Lili to be happy to be home and away from her mother’s demands, but she didn’t look all that pleased when she got into the car. Of course she leaned over and kissed my cheek, and scratched behind Rochester’s ears, but I could tell there was something wrong.
It’s the eternal conundrum between couples. Do you poke and prod for the source of the pain, risking an explosion? Or wait for your significant other to open up, with the possibility that she’ll think you uncaring because you didn’t ask?
Fortunately, Rochester helped me out. From the back seat, he kept woofing and leaning forward to sniff Lili until finally her bad mood evaporated. Good dog.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she said eventually, as we sped up the highway toward home. “My mother needs more than I can give.”
Another one of those booby-trapped comments, and I had to tread carefully. I remembered the rabbi’s commentary about the first fruits of the harvest offered at the Temple, the idea that you gave back to the one who had given you life – either God, or your mother.
“You love her,” I said. “The most important thing you can do is let her know that.”
“But who’s going to help her out when she goes back to her apartment?” Lili asked. “We can hire an aide, but how can I be sure that person can be trusted to take care of her? What happens when she falls again? Is it fair to shift all the burden to Fedi and Sara? She took care of both of us for years, decades even. Don’t I owe her that same duty?”
“Duty’s a heavy word,” I said. “In the end, what’s our duty to each other? You know my favorite definition of Judaism.”
“The one from Rabbi Hillel?”
“Exactly.” Rabbi Hillel, one of the early Jewish sages, had been challenged to state the essence of Judaism while standing on one food. He had said, “Love thy neighbor as thyself.”
“And what does that have to do with my mother?” Lili demanded.
“That you love her as you love yourself. You recognize that she has good and bad points, just like each of us does. And that your love for her has to be equal to your love for yourself. You don’t owe it to her to turn your whole life upside down to take care of her—just to make sure that she’s safe, and well-cared for, that she has a roof over her head, food in her belly, and that she knows you love her.”
“You’ve been hanging around with that rabbi,” Lili said, but she smiled. “That sounds like a very Talmudic observation.”
“And a selfish one,” I admitted. “I love you and I only want the best for you. I don’t want you to be torn up over what happens to your mother, just to be happy that you’ve done all you can.”
“But is this all? Occasional visits, telephone support? She gave me and Fedi a home, after all. Shouldn’t I do the same for her?”
“She already has a home,” I said gently. “You told me yourself, she loves her apartment and she doesn’t want to move out of it. You were infants, and then kids, and you couldn’t fend for yourselves, so she had to take care of you. Now you’ve got this balancing act to handle, letting her do as much as she can for herself, and then picking up the slack between you and your brother.”
“Sounds good in theory,” she said. Then she turned toward the window and we didn’t speak again for the rest of the trip.
The brisket was tender by the time we got home, the aroma filling the house with warmth and welcome. I threw a loaf of frozen garlic bread into the microwave, opened a bottle of wine, and we sat in the kitchen and ate in a companionable silence. I had missed Lili while she was gone, and I was glad to have her home. I told her so, and she said she was happy to be back home, too, even if it meant she had left things hanging in Florida.
We were relaxing on the sofa, our feet entwined as we read, when Lili asked, “Did Rick propose to Tamsen yet?”
“Don’t know. The only thing we’ve been talking about is murder.”
“Do you think Rick is stalling?”
For a moment I thought she was talking about the investigations into the two murders. Then I realized she wondered about his proposal to Tamsen.
“He’s got a lot on his plate right now,” I said. “Lots of petty crimes in town, and this murder, too. If I were him, I’d want to wait until I could give Tamsen my full attention.”
“I just hope he doesn’t wait too long.”
I turned to look at her. “Why? You think Tamsen might get impatient and break up with him?”
“I’m sure I’m just projecting. But both Philip and Adriano proposed to me on the spur of the moment, and both times I accepted without thinking too much. If we’d waited, I might have seen the warning signs and never agreed to get married.”
“Rick sends off warning signs?”
She pushed at my side. “Don’t go interpreting too much. Both of them have baggage, and if something big comes up before they’re committed, who knows what might happen. Suppose Justin gets sick, or Tamsen does. Or Rick gets hurt on the job. Or that crazy ex-wife of his comes back to mess up his life again.”
I slid onto my side so I was facing her. “We’re good, though, aren’t we?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m here for you whatever happens with your mother,” I said. “In sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, all that stuff. We don’t need a ceremony or legal paperwork to confirm that, right?”
She leaned in and kissed me. “I love you, Steve Levitan. Things feel different with you from what I felt with Philip or Adriano. Like we’re in this for the long haul. So yes, I agree with you, we’re good, and we don’t need anyone else to confirm that.”
We kissed again, and then Rochester scrambled up between us, eager to get in on the love fest. We laughed and pushed him away, and then got busy demonstrating that commitment we felt.
21 – Who is Sylvia
Lili warned me Friday morning that she’d probably be at her office all day catching up on work. “Don’t count on me for dinner. I’ll grab a sandwich or something.”
“I was thinking I’d go back to Shomrei Torah tonight,” I said. “I want to ask Rabbi Goldberg about the document that I found at the old shul, see if his brother might have been able to understand it. I’ll feed and walk the hound before I go.”
She kissed me goodbye and we
nt upstairs to shower and dress for work, and Rochester and I left the house a few minutes later. On my way to Friar Lake, Henry Namias called my cell. “Daniel Epstein left me a message I should talk to you,” he said. “Of course, now that I call him back, he doesn’t answer. What am I supposed to talk about?”
I explained about the testimony found by Joel Goldberg. “I understand you knew Myer Hafetz.”
“Who told you that? Epstein? What a mouth he has on him.”
“I also read a story you told my mother for the Oral History Project,” I said. “Maybe you remember her? Her name was Sylvia Gordon before she married my father.”
“Sheindeleh Gordon! Of course I remember her. You’re her son? Why didn’t you say so?”
I hadn’t heard anyone call my mother by her Yiddish nickname in years. Her aunts and uncles called her that when I was a kid, and my father often used it as a term of either endearment or frustration. “I didn’t think you’d remember her,” I said. “Could I talk to you about what you remember about Myer Hafetz? And my mother, too. I lost her too early.”
“What a shame,” he said. “I was at the funeral. Is your father still alive?”
“He passed a couple of years ago,” I said, grateful that Namias didn’t remember my father’s service, or that I hadn’t been able to attend because I was incarcerated. “Are you going to be at Shomrei Torah tonight?”
“Where else would I be? You want to talk after services? A little Shabbos wine goes a long way to opening up the memories.”
I agreed that I’d see him that evening. I remembered when I was a kid I’d stumbled on a book of translations of English songs and poems into Yiddish. There was “Affen Shpitz Alten Smoky,” or “On top of Old Smoky,” and one that had a particular resonance—Shakespeare’s short poem, “Who is Silvia?”
I had immediately looked up the poem’s text in a Shakespeare compendium I’d found in our basement – one of my mother’s old college textbooks. The poem became one of my favorites, because I adored my mother and at that age, she could do no wrong, and because her named matched in both English and Yiddish.
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