Bethlehem Road Murder

by Batya Gur

  “Going back to the office? Going back to the office and what? Locating the brothers?” he asked unwillingly.

  “And phoning us to tell us what’s happening,” said Michael.

  “Yes, sir,” said Eli angrily. “It could take hours.”

  “Why are you so impatient? I thought you had a great vacation, and Tzilla says that your batteries are still full. Why are you so antsy? The moment you have them there, just let us know, bring them here, to their parents’, or tell us you aren’t.” He looked at Eli for a moment and clapped him on the shoulder: “You know that Yair is too young to do this by himself,” he added.

  “There are always reasons,” said Eli Bachar, “but it always turns out that I’m at the margins of the picture, and you have no idea how sick of this I am.”

  “Sometimes the margins are the center,” said Michael. “I’m waiting to hear from you.”

  When they found out the Basharis’ address, Michael ignored the “I told you so” expression that spread across Danny Balilty’s face, and instead of telling him there was no connection between his argument about the hasty purchase and the murder victim’s home, which was two streets away, he said: “So far we haven’t made any progress with anything.”

  Balilty’s extreme sensitivity to any remark that implied criticism of his effectiveness caused him to drop the matter of the apartment. “What did you expect?” he grumbled. “That I’d find her just by the one dress? It’s not an exclusive model from a Paris fashion house, you know. And anyway, if you’d waited another few days, I would also have traced her for you by the dress.”

  Even before the final identification, when Naeema Bashari mentioned Rosenstein, the lawyer in whose office Zahara had been working ever since she got out of the army, Balilty had put everything else aside and said: “Rosenstein? I know him. Of course I know him. Is there anyone in Jerusalem who doesn’t know him? He has a palace in Talbieh, doesn’t he? On Marcus Street, near Sherover’s villa, across from the theater”—he chuckled joylessly—“with a round façade and windows the size of a soccer field. She works for him?” And the moment Ezra Bashari lost consciousness, he called Rosenstein and informed him with no further ado of the death of Zahara Bashari.

  At the other end of the line, sounds of rapid, heavy breathing could be heard. “I don’t believe it,” whispered the lawyer finally. “I just don’t believe it. Murder? Are you sure?”

  “We’ve completed the identification,” promised Balilty. “Her parents identified her. There is no possible error.”

  “I don’t understand . . . I don’t understand this . . . Who would want to . . . Is it security-related?” Balilty remained silent and waited.

  “Or sexual? In what context?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Balilty into the receiver. “I didn’t know you were so close . . .”

  “What do mean?” The lawyer’s voice broke. “That lovely girl . . . A flower, she was like my daughter . . . It’s been two years now . . . She was our receptionist and answered the phones . . . Everyone was crazy about her . . . There hasn’t been a secretary who has stayed with us for so long . . . You don’t understand . . .”

  “I’m truly sorry,” Balilty said, and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. He hated to be the one to break the news, and this time he was also surprised by the lawyer’s emotional reaction, and regretted that he hadn’t gone to inform him face-to-face, because by the time they met he would have recovered. “I’m really, really sorry, Mr. Rosenstein,” he said to him again, “but I can be at your place in a little while. Just see to it that we can talk,” and, wasting no time, he was on his way immediately.

  Traffic police were directing drivers on the Tel Aviv-Jerusalem road into a single narrow lane, and there was a long line of cars. “Maybe you’ll tell me,” Balilty said to his secretary between the tasks he gave her over his mobile phone, “why they always do this in the morning? Why can’t they bring a few Thais or Romanians to do it at night? Everywhere in the world they repair the roads at night, and only here . . .”

  “Should I send someone to bring Netanel Bashari or should I just summon him?”

  “You can’t just summon him,” said Balilty. “It’s his sister who died like that. What’s got into you? You don’t tell a member of the family something like that over the phone or by summons . . . Where is he?”

  “That’s just it. He’s roaming around somewhere, and his wife isn’t home either. We looked for him at home and there was no answer. We tried the university, but it’s closed and will be closed the whole week.”

  “Does he teach at the university?”

  “He’s a professor.”

  “Which department?”

  “History. He’s a professor of history, at the Russian Studies Institute. Didn’t you know?”

  “Russian studies?!” Balilty laughed. “A Yemenite who knows Russian?”

  “How should I know? Probably he studied it. Why, don’t you know Yiddish? With my own ears I’ve heard you speaking Yiddish with Hannah from the cafeteria, so why are—”

  “A Yemenite and a professor—a killer combination,” said Balilty.

  “You shouldn’t talk that way,” scolded the secretary. “You know that on my mother’s side I’m also—”

  “That’s why,” said Balilty. “That’s why I talk that way.”

  “Aren’t you turning the siren on to get out of the traffic jam?”

  “I am. When we’re done. Look, this is what we’ll do: Send Moshe to Bezalel with the basic information and tell him to bring Netanel Bashari. His name’s Netanel, isn’t it?” And without waiting for an answer, he continued: “To his parents’ house.”

  “Okay,” said the secretary, “so now we’ve solved the problem with him. But what are you going to do about the other brother? He’s in the field now, with the army near Nablus. How do you want to—”

  “Nothing easier,” Balilty said, and angled the car onto the narrow margin of the road. “He has a mobile phone, doesn’t he? So call him on the mobile. He’s the youngest, isn’t he? Bezalel?”

  “Except for Zahara Bashari. She was born seven years after him,” noted the secretary.

  “What is he there? A company commander, isn’t he? In the armored corps?”

  “A deputy battalion commander, no less. So you want me to phone him? What am I going to tell him on his mobile phone? To drop everything and come because . . .”

  “You’ll have to tell him why on the telephone”—Balilty sighed—“or tell him something vague. We’re not sending anyone specially to Nablus now. With all the mess that’s going on, there aren’t enough police. They’re all at the Temple Mount or in Nazareth. With all those Arabs, this really isn’t the time to start a new case . . . What is he, Bezalel Bashari, a major?”

  “Can’t a person be a Yemenite and a major?”

  “He can be the chief of staff for all I care. They’re babies these days, those majors. They weren’t even born when we . . . How old is he?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Okay. What difference does it make? They should just bring him to where I . . . To the lawyer, not straight to his parents’ house, all right?”

  “All right. And there’s also Eliyahu,” she reminded him. “Who’s going to inform Eliyahu?”

  “Who’s Eliyahu?” Balilty was confused.

  “Nu, the second brother, the middle son. The one who lives in Los Angeles.”

  “Los Angeles?”

  “I already told you that, when you phoned from Abu Kabir the second time.”

  “The family can tell him. If he’s there, in any case it will take him two days to get here. And anyway, how much can he help us if he’s been there for three years now? What’s in him for us?”

  “You’re the one who always says you never can tell,” grumbled the secretary.

  “Etty, sweetie,” Balilty cajoled, “do me a favor and—”

  “Don’t call me sweetie.”

  “Why? If I call you sweetie, is that sexua
l harassment?” Balilty giggled and breathed loudly. “It’s impossible to talk anymore these days. ‘Don’t call me this and don’t call me that,’ and soon we’re going to have to ask permission to breathe.”

  “Why don’t you just turn on the siren, nu. Do you want us to have a debate now about what’s allowed and what’s not?”

  “Who’s talking about a debate?” The intelligence officer laughed loudly. “Debate, she says to me. Anyway, who’s going to sexually harass you with that belly you’re carrying?”

  “Is that what you think?” Even in the midst of all the noises that filtered into the telephone Balilty could hear the smile that didn’t conceal the fact that she was insulted. “Do you think a pregnant woman is no longer sexy? You better believe that it turns some people on. Ask Haim if he doesn’t love me this way. He’s always—”

  “Don’t tell me. That’s all I need, to hear about your sex life with another man. Etty, darling, I’m just so jealous. A husband isn’t for fucking, and if he is, then you don’t talk about it. And don’t let it go to your head, you hear? As if you haven’t fucked me enough with this pregnancy of yours, and in another two months you’ll be leaving me an orphan—”

  “Not two months. You wish. Less than a month.”

  “I don’t want to think about it.” Balilty sighed. “And I haven’t even found a replacement . . .”

  “I have.”

  “You have? You didn’ say anything about . . .”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

  “Something good, though?”

  “Someone, not something,” scolded the secretary. “Talk nice. She doesn’t know you. Her name’s Sarah. She’s new.”

  “I don’t want a new girl,” protested Balilty, and in the same breath he asked: “Is she good-looking at least? How old is she?”

  “Haven’t you turned the siren on? How do you expect me to get any work done here? She’s good, I’m telling you. Better than me. Afterward, you won’t want me back. You’ll see.”

  “You’ll always have a place in my heart,” sang Balilty. “Forever, and ever, a place in my heart,” and he turned on the siren in the police car and sped past the line of cars. It started to drizzle when he reached Sha’ar Hagai and the climb to Jerusalem began, but he didn’t slow down and he didn’t turn off the siren until he entered the underground parking lot behind King George Street.

  A long silence hung in the air in the Basharis’ living room, until Michael asked: “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  Naeema Bashari shook her head. “No, not anyone steady,” she said after some thought. “There were all kinds of . . . Everyone wanted her but she . . . She was waiting for someone . . . suitable, not Ashkenazi.”

  “What do you mean by not Ashkenazi?”

  “Our daughter hated Ashkenazim. She hated them,” Naeema Bashari said, and buried her face in her hands, through which her voice was muffled. “I don’t know where . . . It’s been that way . . . since her bat mitzvah, more or less. It started with the family roots project she did at school, and after that . . .” She took her hands from her face and spread them. “She’s been involved with the Yemenite heritage.”

  “But she dated,” said Michael.

  “She went out, to the movies, to a café . . . But there wasn’t anyone . . . you know.”

  “But her dates came to the house? You met them, didn’t you?”

  “Sometimes someone came here to fetch her, but they didn’t sit . . . Boyfriends, no . . . She preferred to meet them somewhere else . . .” There was embarrassment in Naeema Bashari’s voice. “She had . . . She liked her privacy,” and suddenly she suppressed a sob.

  “So you didn’t meet anyone?” Michael asked, and heard the astonishment in his own voice.

  “Maybe her brothers . . . Netanel . . . She was close to him. She didn’t want us to . . . never spoke . . . maybe she spoke to Linda. Ezra, she did speak to Linda, didn’t she?” She turned to her husband, but he remained in his silence. “They were sort of close, the two of them,” said Naeema Bashari distractedly.

  “Linda?” prompted Michael.

  “Linda. She lives here, in the neighborhood, up the street.” With a limp hand Naeema indicated the direction. “A good woman . . . half-Jewish, on her mother’s side only, but a good person. Truly good. Sometimes girlfriends did come over, to eat, and there’s also that fellow that was with her in the army. Danny? Is his name Danny?” She looked over at her husband, who didn’t raise his head.

  “Did she have a diary?”

  “I don’t know,” said Naeema Bashari. “Just that little one she kept in her handbag, with all her appointments and phone numbers, and you said that her handbag . . . You said you hadn’t found it.”

  “We’ll find it,” Michael said, and took a deep breath. “There’s something else I have to tell you.” He looked at Ezra Bashari’s bent head. “Your daughter, Zahara, she . . . ,” he stammered, and made himself look Naeema Bashari straight in the eye. She removed her glasses and fixed her eyes on him. “She was in the twelfth week of pregnancy.”

  Through the open window, above the shiny green leaves of the philodendron, the rising and falling sound of the burglar alarm of a car parked on the street cut through the silence that fell on the room.

  Ezra Bashari raised his head. “That’s a lie,” he whispered hoarsely. “You’re lying.”

  Michael felt his flesh crawl on the back of his neck and his shoulders. “No, I’m really sorry, but it’s the truth. The pathologist at the Forensic Institute can confirm it.”

  Ezra Bashari’s small, full lips trembled. “It’s impossible,” he said in a shaky voice. “Our daughter . . . She kept herself . . . She herself told me that . . .”

  Naeema Bashari rocked back and forth. She shut her eyes tight, as if trying to dam the new tears that were falling from their corners.

  “I though that you could also help us with—”

  For the first time since the beginning of the conversation, Ezra Bashari looked at his wife. “These are things that a mother knows,” he said to Michael.

  “She knows if she’s told,” said Naeema Bashari angrily. “If she isn’t told, she doesn’t know anything.”

  “There are things a mother knows even without being told,” said Ezra Bashari. “My mother, of blessed memory, always knew such things about my sister Carmella.”

  “And did that make Carmella’s life any better?” Naeema Bashari asked coldly, and wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. She pursed her lips.

  When disaster strikes, it does not necessarily reveal the love between couples; they don’t all hasten to lean on each other. There are couples for whom disaster brings to the surface all the bitter residues between them and animates all their repressed accounts. And these accounts, they had to be settled, said Michael to himself, and another voice inside him mocked his belief that these were things that could be settled.

  “We have to know exactly what happened on the last day . . . the last time you saw her . . . Perhaps we can try to reconstruct . . . the places she was before she disappeared. I mean . . .” Michael cleared his throat and glanced over at Tzilla, whose crossed legs tightened as if in protection against the hostility that had been exposed. “That is . . .” Tzilla’s head remained bent over the pad on which she was writing, and Sergeant Yair kept his head down and was silent. They let him ask the questions. If only Balilty had been here, he thought, because at a time like this you needed people like him, people who don’t know what embarrassment is. If only it were possible to ask them separately, but it was still too early to question each of them individually. “We have to get all the information you can give us, so we can solve this. I understand Zahara was a very pretty girl . . .”

  “Pretty!?” spluttered Naeema Bashari. “Pretty?! She was beautiful. A flower. You’ve never seen anything like her.” All at once she began to cry, loudly and bitterly, and she got up and left the room.

  “You probably know what your daughter’s schedule wa
s,” said Michael to Ezra Bashari.

  The father looked at him sharply. “She is the child of our old age, and with us it is customary . . . In our community, the mother deals with such things.”

  “But you certainly know, in a general way,” tried Michael.

  “What I know, everyone knows,” the father said. “You too know that our Zahara worked for Mr. Rosenstein, the lawyer. She was saving money for her education, and everyone knows that. And she also earned a bit of pocket money, singing at celebrations. She has . . . had a special voice—very beautiful, deep. She inherited it from my mother of blessed memory. She also had a beautiful voice and she also sang at weddings, but not for money. In her day, it was considered a good deed.” With a long, delicate finger Ezra Bashari touched the birthmark at the corner of his right eyebrow, and then wiped his forefinger over his eyelashes, as if trying to eradicate the vision he saw before his eyes. “Everyone also knows how active she was on behalf of the Yemenite heritage. She was planning to establish a museum at the synagogue, nearby here, and everyone knew that, too.” He suppressed a sob and continued: “And sometimes, after work, Zahara . . .” He buried his head in his small hands and bent his head. “She went”—his voice faded into his hands, and Sergeant Yair fingered the recorder—“to sing, or she went out to a movie like every—”

  “But the day before yesterday, when she didn’t come home, did she let you know where she was going?”

  “No, she didn’t let us know.”

  “Was that typical? Had it ever happened that—”

  “Never. She always let us know if she was going to be late. She knew that her mother couldn’t fall asleep until she came in. She would always let us know.”

  “You say she always got in touch to let you know,” confirmed Michael.

  “I don’t know details,” choked Ezra Bashari. “You can’t ask an independent girl of twenty-two where she is every moment, and I didn’t want to annoy her . . . I wanted her to stay with us at least until her wedding and even afterward, and I’ve been saving money for an apartment for her since she was born . . . You can’t keep asking her where she’s going and with whom and when . . . The times . . . are different. . . . I only know that in the morning she went to work.”