Missing

by Adiva Geffen

  “Tomorrow. Let the preschool director know I’m coming, all right?”

  “I can send someone to drive you there, if you’d like.”

  I politely refused. I intended to give Eve Magidal a nice, fat expense bill. If she started driving and feeding me, what could I possibly put on it? Besides, I wanted to take the same bus Daria used to take, even if it meant I’d have to be at the bus station at six thirty in the morning.

  ◊◊◊

  Bus number 4 brought me to the Tel Aviv Central Bus Station, a place that gives bad reputation a bad reputation. I knew exactly what I was looking for — a teacher. Like hobbits, teachers always go there and back again. Mine stood a short distance from the other passengers, holding a cheap imitation-leather bag, dressed in a brown suit and matching brown leather boots that looked like they’d been purchased at the nearest Dollar Store.

  “Excuse me, how do I get to Upper Yokneam?” I asked.

  She gave me her best teacher’s look and hesitated, apparently checking my survival skills. I’ve lived through worse.

  “I have to get to the preschool by seven thirty — you think I’ll make it?”

  “I’m not sure. If the bus leaves on time, which rarely happens, then maybe.”

  I issued a desperate sigh, and she stared at my tight jeans and my scarf.

  “Are you a seminar student?” she asked.

  “Sort of,” I lied. Nothing like the first lie of the day. “I actually got a job offer there as a substitute teacher, but only for a week.”

  “Where?”

  “Magidal Preschool. You know it? Love your earrings, by the way.” Nothing like a compliment to open clenched mouths and condescending hearts.

  “Thanks.” The corners of her mouth twisted — I guess she was trying to smile — while her hand stroked an earring. “I know it. They told you to come only for a week because they’re stuck-up. You’ll be out of there in five minutes unless you follow protocol. Just don’t try to be too independent — they’re very strict.”

  “I’m replacing a girl named Daria. Do you know her by any chance?”

  “I know who she is. Used to board the bus at the Herzliya station. She hated working there and planned to get out as soon as she could,” said the teacher. “Wanted to spread her wings and fly as far from there as possible.”

  “What was it she didn’t like there?”

  She paused. “Maybe she just didn’t like Yokneam. There’s nothing there for a young woman to do. I’m going to be promoted to principal next year — that’s the only reason I’m still working there. Otherwise, I’d be teaching in the city.”

  The bus came, and I hurried to follow the future principal and board it. But she quickly set her Dollar Store leather bag on the seat next to her, indicating that the conversation was over. Disappointed, I returned to the front of the bus and sat behind the driver. The bus sped north up the highway, and most of the passengers napped, continuing their night’s sleep.

  As soon as we left the central bus station, I chatted with the driver. Yes, he said, he drives that route every morning and knows almost all the passengers. “Can’t say I know you.” He chuckled and looked at the mirror, examining my face. “But it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “What about her?” I asked and showed him a photo of Daria.

  He glanced at it then returned his eyes to the road. “Sure, I know her. Daria. Used to come up with me Sunday mornings and come back every Thursday. I think she stayed in Yokneam during the week. Why, what’s up with her?”

  “She’s gone missing, and her mother is worried sick.”

  “You should ask about her at the Yokneam station, maybe they’ll know something. Look for Itzik Schumacher, the station manager — he’s the gossip king of Yokneam, knows everything about everyone. Tell him Elhanan sent you.”

  ◊◊◊

  The road began to twist its way through the Carmel Mountains. Just a few more slopes and a single incline, and we’d reach the golden gates of Upper Yokneam. The passengers alighted from the bus. I waved Ms. Dollar Store goodbye and went to look for Itzik, the gossip king of Yokneam.

  I found him in his office, a narrow niche with walls full of endless timetables in microscopic print and a NO SMOKING sign.

  “This is not information,” he said as soon as I entered and waved his hand as if I were a bothersome fly.

  “Of course you’re not information.” I flashed him my brightest smile. “You’re Itzik.”

  That softened him up. “Most of the time. Why?”

  “I was told you’re the man to see around here,” I said and showed him Daria’s photo.

  “Her? You’re not the first to ask about her,” he said and pushed away the photo. “Told me she didn’t come back home. Me? I’ve no idea where she is. What exactly were you hoping to find in our little backwater bus station?” he turned hostile again.

  “I thought maybe you’d seen something.”

  “All I’ve seen around here is the timetable.”

  “They told me you’re the man who knows everything around here.”

  “Well, they were wrong. I’m just an underpaid bus station usher.”

  ◊◊◊

  I went into a coffee shop next to the bus station that boasted the catchy name Baba Joe’s Cup of Joe. It had a spacious wood porch and a sign promising the best pastries in the country. I ordered an Americano and sat in a white plastic chair outside. Then I lit a cigarette and tried to organize my thoughts.

  “Could I interest you in Baba Joe’s Cup of Joe’s soup of the day?”

  I raised my eyes. A skinny, curly-haired man stood next to me. Judging by the goofy smile, I assumed he was the owner.

  “Soup? In the morning?”

  “Why not? I just made it. Best pea soup in Yokneam.”

  “Maybe later. You Joe?”

  “Just call me Baba,” he said and pulled over a plastic chair to sit next to me. Because I was eager for any piece of information I could get my hands on, I didn’t explain to Baba Joe that customers want their peace and quiet, especially early in the morning. But Baba Joe’s Cup of Joe had a strategic location. Maybe Daria used to have her morning coffee there from time to time.

  “Dikla.” I smiled at him.

  “Well, you already know my name.” He smiled back and extended a calloused hand. “Not from around here, are you?”

  “How could you tell?”

  “Experience,” he said with a smug smile.

  “Got me. I’m from Tel Aviv. Do you live here in Yokneam?”

  “Temporarily. I’m about to open a chain of bakery shops that will take the country by storm. Trust me, you won’t find a rum baba like Baba’s anywhere in the valley. People are just crazy about my rum baba. You have to taste it!”

  He didn’t wait for my approval and asked the sleepy waitress to warm up an almond croissant for me. While I was devouring it, a rum baba the size of a Russian mama was set down in front of me. A rum baba, for the uninitiated, is a sugary pastry. A lump of whipped cream nestled in a ball of moist, spongy dough, soaked in liquor. It used to be as popular as the national anthem and was apparently making a comeback.

  “Who are you visiting here?”

  “My sister.”

  “She lives here?”

  “Used to. She went missing. Here, take a look, maybe you’ve seen her around.” I handed him both photos. He looked at them and shook his head in an uncertain movement.

  “Your sister, what is she doing here?”

  “Assistant preschool teacher.”

  “And what happened?” he asked.

  “She hasn’t come home for over a week. We’re worried sick about her and are looking for her everywhere. Maybe someone has seen or heard somethi—”

  “What’s the preschool name?”

  “Magidal. You know it?”<
br />
  “Sure, I know it.” Something in his tone sent my spider-sense tingling.

  “Know how?”

  “Well once, one of my waitresses…” He stopped.

  “Yes, one of your waitresses…?” I spurred him on.

  “Oh no, I’m not messing with them. Did you go to the police?”

  “Police,” I grumbled in contempt and snorted. “My mom’s worried sick. Her little girl is missing. God knows what might have happened to her,” I whispered weakly. Men like Baba Joe always like to help the fairer sex.

  “Why be negative? Maybe she found someone who makes her feel like a woman.”

  “I hope so, I honestly do. But why hasn’t she called or sent a message? That’s not like her.”

  “Maybe she got fired?”

  “I don’t think so — if she had, she’d come straight home in tears.”

  He wrinkled his forehead and looked at the picture again, “She does look familiar. Hold on.” He went to his waitress and showed her the photo. She shook her head then whispered in his ear.

  “What?” I asked when he came back.

  “Nothing. She doesn’t know her. I think you should just go to the preschool, talk to whoever’s in charge there.”

  “What did your waitress tell you just now?”

  “She doesn’t know anything,” he said too quickly. He wasn’t a very good liar.

  “Can I talk to her?”

  He hesitated for a moment then told me he didn’t mind.

  When I rose, he told me, “If you ask me, your sister got some sense into her head and split town. That preschool isn’t a good place.”

  “Why?”

  “Just take Baba Joe’s word for it. I don’t like that place, that Magidal Preschool. Nice building, lots of trees and playgrounds, more teachers than children, but it’s all baloney. They keep giving the parents workshops. And workshops for how to take workshops.”

  “Joe” — I placed my hand on his — “help me. Daria is my dear sister, and I have a feeling something bad has happened to her.”

  Baba Joe jumped to his feet as if he’d been stung. “Well, I gotta get back to the kitchen and check on that pea soup.” He waved the waitress over, and she came with my check.

  “Rum baba’s on Baba,” she said and walked away.

  I got the hint, paid, left a nice tip, and headed out.

  On my way through the door, I saw the sleepy waitress trying to catch my eye. She motioned with her hand that I should wait for her. I went down the stairs toward the main road then turned and went up to the parking lot above Baba Joe’s Cup of Joe. I had the feeling it’d be worth the wait. A few minutes passed before the waitress came out the back door and beckoned me with a look. I got closer and put on my most desperate expression.

  “Please, perhaps you could help me?”

  “Is she really your sister?”

  “My little sister — my poor mother just can’t take it anymore...” .

  “Here. I think this is Galia’s number.” She handed me a note with a phone number.

  “Who’s Galia?”

  “A girl who used to work here. Baba Joe doesn’t like to talk about her.”

  “Why?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just try to get hold of her…she might be able to help you.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Rohik, but Jeez Louise, don’t tell her I gave you the number. I’m just trying to do a good deed. May the Lord bless your mother and her health,” she said quickly and went back into the coffee shop.

  I looked at the note with pride. Not bad for a beginner.

  7

  I called Galia from the taxi on my way to the Magidal Preschool. No one answered. The twenty-something driver was busy arguing with his wife on the phone, while a woman on the radio screamed advice about how young couples should listen to each other more. Unfortunately, the driver was too busy shouting at his wife to pay attention.

  The neighborhood changed as we drove away from the central bus station and the midtown area. The houses looked newer. There was even a luxury commercial center that towered over the sterile streets.

  The driver stopped next to a red wooden gate with a sign announcing Magidal Preschool Complex. I rang the bell. After I identified myself and mentioned that Eve had sent me, a female voice told me to come inside and wait in the yard. The gate swung open, revealing an immense, breathtaking compound. No wonder the preschool had so many admirers and a waiting list the length of James Joyce’s Ulysses. Three elegant buildings stood side by side, each one topped by a truncated glass pyramid in a different color. Pathways with edges painted to match the colors of the glass pyramids stretched between the buildings. A huge, Neverland Ranch-style playground surrounded the buildings. Beyond the playground lay an expansive blooming garden. I stood by the gate and waited.

  A few minutes later, a scarily skinny woman came over to me. She wore a light-blue gown and a white apron around her waist.

  “Delighted to meet you.” She reached out her hand. “I’m Amia. I’m so sorry you had to wait. I’m the director here.”

  She hugged me as if she’d found her long-lost twin. I normally try to keep a safe distance from overly affectionate strangers, but in light of the circumstances, I just suffered quietly.

  “Welcome to the Magidal Preschool Complex,” she announced like Pocahontas welcoming John Smith to the new continent. “Follow me, please.”

  We walked down a stone walkway lined with manicured cypress trees and entered the building with the green pyramid on its roof.

  “This is the preschool for children aged two to three,” Amia explained and smiled happily when she saw my surprise.

  “How do you get two-year-olds to be so quiet?”

  “Well, the children are having their creative movement class. We have separate areas for each activity.”

  I know everything there is to know about preschools, kindergartens, and other educational establishments. They have hallways reeking of urine, graying walls covered by scrawled posters, and a million children screaming at the top of their lungs. Not at the Magidal Preschool. The Magidal Preschool was the embodiment of every education expert’s dream. A vast, open space; a well-lit library; tiny, comfy armchairs; brightly colored wall-to-wall carpets; a rich play area; indirect lighting; and lots and lots of blooming potted plants. The walls were sky blue and free of scribbled masterpieces. A slogan was painted on the wall: Be proud of who you are! — Deborah Magidal.

  “This is the preschool Daria worked in,” said Amia. “She was only an assistant teacher.”

  “Why only an assistant?”

  “She was merely starting on her way with us.”

  “Do you know why I’m here?”

  “Of course. Eve explained everything to us. Terrible story. It’s hard for all of us. They told me Deborah feels as if she’s lost a limb…that’s not good.”

  “What can you tell me about Daria?”

  “Daria… How can I say this? That girl was a little…”

  “A little what?”

  “If you ask me, I don’t think she was suited to our method. She’s had quite a few slipups.”

  “Slipups?”

  Amia clasped her hands and gave the ceiling a sorrowful look. “This is an unfortunate case. We all feel very bad about it.” She smiled heavily and took off her apron. “Eve is very worried. We’re all worried, and that’s not good. It arrests our spiritual… But why am I rambling? Ask whatever you want, I’m here for you.”

  “I understand she used to sleep here in Yokneam?”

  “She lived downstairs in The House, the network’s center. That’s where… You need to get authorization to stay there. You can’t just book a room — it’s not a hotel, you know.”

  “Eve’s daughter needed permission as well?”

 
“We all need it.”

  “And who decides who gets the authorizations?”

  “You need to be connected to us, to know that we’re your family. It is a gift that only Deborah can bestow.”

  “Got it,” I said, even though it sounded a little bizarre. “And where do I find The House?”

  “It’s in the other part of Yokneam, the rural settlement. Here, I’ll write you the address. Tell them you have authorization from Eve. Anything else?”

  “Did she give anyone any indication she was about to go away?”

  Amia shook her head.

  “Did she have any close friends here?”

  “No, I don’t think so. She was a little… I told you, off, but she fit in nicely, and they were pleased with her. They were about to send her to the advanced workshop. Eve was very proud of her, at least that’s what we all thought.”

  “Advanced workshop for what?”

  “The Magidal Method. It’s a highly sophisticated teaching method that can make anyone, even children, be filled with joy. Just close your eyes and feel the energies in this place. There is an atmosphere of real giving between these walls.”

  I took a deep breath and inhaled the Magidal Preschool scents — disinfectants and fresh paint.

  “Did she suffer from any mood swings, depression?”

  Amia shook her head again.

  “Was she in any romantic relationship?”

  “No, not really,” Amia was quick to deny. “At least not that I’m aware of. And I’m pretty sure I’d have known. We shared everything with each other here.” She suddenly seemed startled by something. “Just a moment,” she said and turned to a heavyset dark-skinned woman who stood next to one of the windows, painstakingly scrubbing it. “When did you get in? What are doing here? Don’t you have work to do?”

  The cleaning lady recoiled and walked away. Amia waited until she turned the corner then said something about not being able to trust foreign workers.

  “Can I see more classrooms?”

  “Gladly,” she said. “Let’s go to the one for ages three to four.”

  “Can I talk with any other teachers?”

  “Of course, whatever you want,” she said. “We’re a family here. We all want her back.”