Yom Kippur Murder

by Lee Harris

  Of course, I had to tell him about it, which I didn’t mind doing, because talking about things often clarifies them for me. And he turned out to be interested, which was nice, and then later to be helpful, which was terrific.

  “So you went down to take him to temple and you found him dead.”

  “That’s pretty much it.”

  “I guess he wasn’t inscribed for blessing in the Book of Life on Rosh Hashanah.”

  “You mean the New Year?”

  “Right. On both of those holidays you ask God to inscribe you for blessing in the Book of Life. My mother always said, when I was a kid and didn’t want to go to temple, that it was something like insurance. You went and put in your good word, and God gave you another year. At least, that’s the way I figured it when I was ten.”

  “When is the New Year holiday?”

  “Last week. Today’s Saturday, Rosh Hashanah was a week ago, Thursday and Friday.”

  “Mr. Herskovitz didn’t go to temple those days.”

  “He must’ve. It’s a package deal. You go on Rosh Hashanah, you go on Yom Kippur, and then, if you’re the average Jew, you don’t go the rest of the year.”

  I thought it sounded a little like Catholics and Easter. “Wait a minute,” I said. “You’re right. He asked me for Friday and I couldn’t come.” I took my little date book out of my bag. Arnold Gold had insisted I write down all my mileage and other expenses involved in my volunteer work for some theoretical tax advantage, and although I really didn’t know what he was talking about, I kept the records carefully. I opened the book to last week. On the Friday, September 21, rectangle I had written, “Church cleanup two miles.” “I was helping out in my local church,” I said. “He never said what he wanted me to come in for.” I felt a wave of sadness that I had denied Nathan Herskovitz his last chance to attend services.

  “Don’t let it get you. If he’d really cared, he would have told you what it was all about. How old was he?”

  “About eighty, but I never asked.”

  “Anyway, if I had to make a choice, I’d go with Yom Kippur myself.”

  The comment struck me as funny, and I laughed. “What happens on these special holidays?” I asked. “I’m afraid I don’t know as much about them as I’d like to.”

  “Well, they blow a ram’s horn called a shofar. Not a beautiful sound, but very distinctive. Since it’s only on the High Holy Days, it’s pretty charged.”

  “What do you pray for?”

  “As I said, to be inscribed for blessing in the Book of Life, to be forgiven for your sins. I’m Reform, and we do the whole thing right in temple, but on the second day of Rosh Hashanah, the Orthodox actually go down to the river and cast their sins in it.”

  “They what?”

  “Figuratively, of course. My grandmother told me about it.”

  Something came back to me with a rush. “Mark, when I saw Mr. Herskovitz a few days ago, when we made the arrangements for today, I remember he said that in the afternoon, maybe we’d walk down to the river. I assumed he meant he wanted to take a walk in Riverside Park, but that’s not how he put it. Maybe he wanted to do the river thing on Yom Kippur because he’d missed Rosh Hashanah. Do you think—?”

  “Why not? A man that old might have had a very religious background, even if he wasn’t very observant now. He must have been an interesting person.”

  “He was.” I suddenly felt the burden of Nathan Herskovitz’s dying without having cast off his sins, of his wanting to make peace in his old age and failing. If only he’d told me how important it was, I’d have given up the church cleanup that day. “I wish I knew more about all this,” I said.

  “I tell you what. If you come up to my place, I’ll show you the prayer book.” There was a mischievous glint in his eye, and I knew I was being tested and measured.

  “I’d love to,” I said, thinking it would have to be quieter there than here.

  “They’ll never believe this one in the office on Monday morning.”

  We walked to where he lived. It was a mild night and it felt good to be outside, away from all the noise.

  There was a doorman at Mark’s building, and the lobby was ultramodern. An image of 603 flashed before me. I hoped what happened to that building would not be repeated here. Time is sometimes very unkind.

  Mark’s apartment left me almost breathless. The kitchen was a fantasy, and the living room a dream. There were sketches and paintings on the walls, furniture that looked too good to sit on, a rug with an abstract design that I hated to step on. Something that looked like a column from an ancient Greek building provided the touch of antiquity that I supposed balanced all the modern effects.

  The contrast between this man and how he lived, and Jack Brooks and his life-style, was so striking, I could hardly see them sharing the same world. Mark was fairly tall and good-looking, his hair cut and styled so precisely that I couldn’t imagine it blowing. His suit was cut as though tailored for him, and perhaps it was, the fabric dark with the look of quality, the thinnest, subtlest pinstripe I had ever seen. The watch that he glanced at from time to time was large and gold and had one of those names that you see advertised in the best glossy magazines. Even his tie, which was many shades of blue, spoke of unobtrusive elegance.

  Jack Brooks, on the other hand, has curly hair, which I’m sure he thinks of cutting only when he starts to have trouble seeing through it. He has a face that I think is angelic but that, like the rest of him, is rough around the edges. I think it’s that roughness that I find so appealing. It speaks of where he comes from and what he’s capable of, a toughness that’s just below the surface, but always there. I saw it once last summer when my life was in danger, and I was grateful for it. I’m sure Jack could learn to wear five-hundred-dollar suits—anyone can—but I think it would take some mental shenanigans to get him to do it.

  Still, I liked Mark, and I was enjoying the evening. We sat in his living room sipping liqueur and listening to music on a compact disc player that was part of a huge sound system, most of it cleverly hidden around the room. He found his holy day prayer book and gave it to me, telling me I could keep it for a while; he would retrieve it when we next met.

  Finally I said, “You haven’t told me a thing about yourself.”

  “Not much to tell. I work on what’s known as ‘the Street,’ put in fourteen-hour days, come home and collapse, and have a good time weekends.”

  “You don’t have much time to appreciate your beautiful apartment or cook in that fabulous kitchen.”

  “But I have a deepening relationship with my microwave. It keeps me from starving.”

  “I don’t even own one,” I said.

  “You probably don’t feed yourself junk food that needs reheating or frozen garbage from the store.”

  “I’m trying to learn to cook, you know, starting with raw meat and vegetables.”

  He smiled. “They still grow ’em that way?”

  “Maybe not in New York.”

  We chatted for some time along those lines, conversation that we kept light and fun. Around midnight I said I ought to be getting back to Celia’s. Although I offered to take a taxi myself, Mark: accompanied me, and at Celia’s door, he gave me a good-night kiss. When I was inside and had locked Celia’s two locks, I thought it would be nice to get Jack a good silk tie for Christmas.

  Against one wall in Celia’s tiny kitchen was a small table with two chairs. She had left the light on in there to help me find my way around. Since the kitchen was around a corner from her sleeping alcove, the light didn’t disturb her. I sat at the little table and opened Mark’s prayer book. Much but not all of it was English on the left page and Hebrew facing on the right. I read some, scanned some, finding it interesting and often moving. The lines he had quoted to me appeared for both holidays, slightly abbreviated for the New Year. But I could see how his ten-year-old self had felt he had made a “deal” with the Almighty by reciting the prayers. The worshiper confessed to having sin
ned and then asked for a year of happiness, peace, and health. While it did not mirror the Catholic in the confessional, it struck familiar chords.

  One sentence made a strong impression on me, and I copied it into the little Steno notebook I keep in my bag: “Thou desirest not that the sinner shall perish in his sin but that he shall turn away from his evil and live.”

  Nathan, I thought silently, was that why you wanted to pray on this Yom Kippur? Was that why you wanted to cast your sins in the river?

  4

  The Sunday Times buried the story of Nathan Herskovitz’s murder deep in the first section. The building in which he lived merited more coverage than his life or death. There was a strong sense of looming evil concerning Metropolitan Properties, which “did not answer the phone,” and a Bertram Finch, listed as one of the partners, “who did not return phone calls.” But there was no overt speculation on who had done it. An unnamed police official said only that “suspects were being interviewed.”

  I went to mass with Celia and then drove home to Oakwood. I live in a small house with three bedrooms upstairs and a one-car garage separated from the house. Compared to the tiny room I had at St. Stephen’s, it’s a palace. I took over the master bedroom as my own and fixed up one of the other two bedrooms as a study. I’m teaching a course called Poetry and the Contemporary American Woman at a nearby college and having the time of my life. Since the semester had barely begun, I had, as yet, no papers to correct, although I had already assigned one for mid-October. But the preparation for the class had been a blissful experience of reading four centuries of poetry and planning lectures and discussions on their relevance to modern living.

  I was on my way upstairs to put the finishing touches on my Tuesday class when the phone rang. Caught halfway, I decided to take it on the second floor. I answered on the third ring.

  “Is this Miss Christine Bennett?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “This is Mitchell Herskovitz. I hope you don’t mind my interrupting your Sunday.”

  “Not at all. I’m glad you called. Can I help you with anything?”

  “I hope so. I flew up this morning, and the police have given me the royal runaround. This Sergeant Franciotti is off today, and no one seems to know what happened to my father, where the body is, when it’ll be released, or anything like that. I’m sitting in a hotel room, it’s Sunday, and I don’t know where to turn.”

  “Let me give you a number to call.” I told him about Arnold Gold, whom I had called yesterday afternoon. If anyone knew his way around the bureaucratic maze in New York, it was Arnold.

  “You think I can call him today?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Uh, I’m very grateful for your call yesterday. If I’d waited to hear from the police, I’d probably still be waiting. I talked to my sister afterward. She’s sorry for what she said, but her relationship with my father wasn’t exactly friendly.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “You’re the one who found him, aren’t you?”

  “I and one of the other tenants in the building.”

  “Could we have dinner tonight and talk?”

  There was nothing I wanted to do less than drive back into the city, but I wanted to talk to him, too, and I couldn’t leave the poor man alone under the circumstances. “I’d be glad to.”

  He mentioned a restaurant and asked me to be there at six. I agreed, we rang off, and I changed my clothes and settled back with a book and my notes to plan for my next class.

  Mitchell Herskovitz was the image of his father, but somewhat taller and about thirty-five years younger. Looking at him and listening to that voice was almost eerie. He was rather ruggedly handsome in spite of thinning hair and a worried frown. Like his father, he wore glasses that tended toward the thick side, but his were more fashionable than Nathan’s.

  “It wasn’t very thoughtful of me to drag you down here. I don’t know how far you had to come, but it’s very kind of you,” he said when we were seated.

  “Not far. And I wanted to talk to you, too.”

  “First off, the lawyer you referred me to, Arnold Gold, he’s a real godsend. When I told him I was Pop’s son, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for me. Seems he knows someone in the district attorney’s office, and a couple of hours ago he called back to say they’ll release the body tomorrow morning. The funeral will be at two.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “I told Mr. Gold I wanted to get into the apartment, and no one at the precinct would give me the time of day. He’s taken care of that, too. A policeman will meet me at the apartment tomorrow morning at ten. If you would care to join me—”

  “I would.”

  “Thank you. I haven’t been there for a long time, and there are things I’d like to preserve, my mother’s things. I’m still feeling kind of rocky, and maybe your presence will ease things a little.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can.” Actually, I was glad to be invited. I had not had my wits about me Saturday morning, and I had not had the stomach to take a good look at the living room, where Nathan Herskovitz had been murdered. With the body gone, I thought it might be a little easier.

  “Did it look like a robbery to you?”

  “Not really. The apartment wasn’t messed up.” I mentally reviewed the rooms I had looked in. They had seemed as neat as Nathan usually kept them. Certainly the study had not been disturbed. It was harder to say about the living room, where the body had lain. I had only glimpsed it, and although I thought a lamp had been overturned, that could have been the result of a struggle. I didn’t have a memory of great disorder. “It’s possible they took his wallet, but I don’t think they went through the apartment looking for jewelry or cash.”

  “Do they have any idea who did it?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. I haven’t heard anything.”

  “I suppose in New York people get killed for buttoning their coats wrong, and if you’re old, it’s that much easier to be assaulted, but it’s hard to imagine my father the victim of such a violent crime. May I ask you some questions?”

  “Of course.”

  We ordered first, Mitchell Herskovitz making his selections as though from a list of medically approved foods. He started with fruit, proceeded to broiled fish with no butter, and asked for a green salad with oil and vinegar on the side. After I had ordered, somewhat less cautiously, he began.

  “How long have you known my father?”

  “About two months.”

  “I gathered from the lawyer that it was through him.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Mr. Gold explained about the building and the three remaining tenants. Well, two now. Have you assisted all of them?”

  “Yes, I have.” I wondered where he was going.

  “You said you had an appointment to take my father to Yom Kippur services yesterday. Forgive me if I seem dense, but was that your idea or his?”

  “It was his idea, Mr. Herskovitz. I didn’t even know that day was Yom Kippur till he told me.”

  “I can’t figure it.”

  I decided it was time to ask my own questions. “What do you find so odd about your father attending services on the holiest day of the year?”

  “Because he hadn’t done it in living memory. My father had a private war with God that went back fifty years.”

  “Would you tell me why?”

  “My father was trapped in Europe in 1940. As he told it, he had guaranteed himself a way out, but when he needed it, it was gone. The people who had assured him safe passage were dead or gone themselves or too frightened to help him. He evaded the Nazis for as long as he could, but he ended up in a death camp. Somehow he survived. He met my mother in a camp for displaced persons in 1945, and they married soon after. I was born there.” “He didn’t talk about it to me.”

  “To his credit, he tried to put it behind him. But while he blamed the human beings who created that hell, from the designers of the camps down t
o the guards who ran it and the railroad engineers who carried people there, he blamed God, too. He said a just God would not have allowed such a thing to happen. He used the Holocaust as evidence that either there wasn’t any God, or the God who exists is unjust. In either case, he wasn’t about to worship him. Many people who survived the horrors that my father experienced came out of it more religious than before. My father was one of the others.”

  “But he told me he was Jewish. He seemed rather proud of it.”

  “My father’s quarrel was with God, not with the Jews. He saw most of the world as the enemy. Jews were the closest you could come to friends, and even then, you had to be careful. From the look on your face, I’d say you don’t believe me.”

  “It doesn’t sound like the man I knew. I’m Catholic, Mr. Herskovitz. My name is Christine. He called me Christine. He knew what I was even if I didn’t spell it out for him. Your father trusted me. I’d venture to say he liked me. He certainly didn’t treat me like the enemy.”

  “I haven’t seen him for many years.” He shrugged. “Maybe he changed.”

  “There were pictures in his living room,” I said, remembering groups of them on end tables. “They were old and showed a woman and a boy and girl. They must be you, your mother, and sister.”

  “She was very pretty, my mother, slim with short hair. She died a long time ago. I always thought the war killed her, but that’s probably an excuse. She wasn’t very well.”

  “There were no pictures of you and your sister as adults,” I said.

  “I haven’t seen my father for a long time.” His voice was low.

  “And your sister has thought of him as dead for twenty years.”

  “My sister is very bitter. She and Pop had a falling-out a long time ago. They didn’t speak. Nina didn’t speak to Pop,” he said, as if clarifying his first statement.

  “Yom Kippur is the Day of Atonement,” I said when it seemed he would go no further. “Can you think of any reason why your father would want to go to synagogue after all these years? Was there something he needed to get off his chest?”