by Naomi Ragen
“What about a tie, Dad?” he asked his father, who wasn’t really an expert.
A machinist in a tool and die factory, Arthur Goodman had exactly two suits and two ties hanging in his closet: the ones in which he had gotten married and which no longer fit him, and the ones his wife had picked out for him for his son’s upcoming wedding.
“Well, son, you know, you should really ask your mom about such things.” He cleared his throat. “How you doin’, Steven?”
“Shlomie, Dad. I’m called Shlomie now.”
“Right. Shlomie,” his father said, pronouncing it “Slo-me.”
“Oh, I’m great, great! She’s … Daniella’s … I just … well…”
His father patted him on the back. “Yeah, she’s a doll, your Daniella. A real sweetheart. I want you to know that. Your mom and I, we’re real happy for you. Just—and don’t take this the wrong way, son—how are you going to support yourselves?”
“Always so practical!” Shlomie grinned. “You don’t understand, Dad, the world I’m in … it’s not the same as yours. People aren’t practical. They want to study, to bring themselves closer to God. There are thousands and thousands of such people sitting in yeshivas all day long, just studying.”
His father scratched his head. “Who pays for their lunch?”
“They don’t starve, Dad!”
“Yeah, but how does it work, exactly?”
“I don’t know. Government subsidies for yeshiva students, charities…”
“What, like welfare?”
“No, no, Dad, nothing like that!” He sighed. “It’s, like, to learn is the highest purpose in life. To learn Torah, that is. And people who can’t do that, they get part of the merit of those who do by helping them. It’s mutual. You take, but you also give.”
“I can’t get my head around that—I’m sorry, son. I wanted you to … We wanted a better life for you than ours, me and your mother. We wanted you to go to college, make something of yourself. But ever since your Bar Mitzvah, you’ve gone places I’ve never been in my life. I respect that. It’s why I never dragged you into the tool and die makers union. But now, I’m not so sure I did you a favor.”
“Oh, Dad! Can you see me with my math skills learning computer drafting? Or juggling weights and gauges?”
His father chuckled. “Dropping them on your own or someone else’s foot, more likely!” Then he turned serious. “I was never much of a philosopher myself, and I’m not a great reader. But I remember this one book they made us read in high school, David Copperfield. There was this character, Mr. Micawber, who was a great guy, really kind, nice to his family, but always in debt. I remember this line that went something like this: ‘Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty-one pounds, result misery.’”
“Oh, Dad!”
“Remember it, son!”
Shlomie looked at his father. He was a tall man, taller than he’d ever be, his body large and solid, two feet planted firmly on the ground. His hands were also big, work roughened, full of scars from abrasions and scratches, the leathery ridges between his fingers permanently stained with paints and oils that could never be entirely removed.
He’d long ago given up on the idea of competing with his father. He’d taken another path entirely, one his father had never trodden. He patted his father’s shoulder. “I’ll be fine, Dad. Don’t worry. Eventually I’ll get a job. I’ll support my family.”
“What are you both doing up there?” his mother’s voice drifted up the steps.
“Hi, Mom! Dad’s giving me his philosophy of life.”
His father looked at him oddly, then looked away.
“Oh, didn’t know he had any! Leastways, he never shared it with me.” She laughed, entering the room. She patted her son’s shoulders, almost giddy with happiness.
He was her child, small-framed and almost delicate for a boy, with what people like to call an intelligent forehead and big, gentle blue eyes like her own, which still had a shine of innocence about them, like when he was a newborn; a boy who didn’t like rough sports and enjoyed reading.
While they couldn’t say it to each other, both she and her husband had breathed an enormous sigh of relief when he’d brought home Daniella. A woman, after all, no confusion about that, thank God! Of course they—she—would have loved him all the same. But this was so much less complicated both for Steven and for them all, wasn’t it?
And such a lovely, lovely girl! From such a fine family. Everyone in Pittsburgh had heard of the Auerbachs and the Whartmans. Old money. That lovely Victorian mansion in Highland Park. But a sweet, modest girl, without her nose stuck up in the air like you’d expect, wouldn’t you? Though you couldn’t say the same for the mother. A new boyfriend. At her age. Imagine! She laughed to herself, nodding. Money didn’t buy class, that was for sure.
“What’s so funny, Mom?”
“No, nothing. I’m happy, Steven. Really, really happy. Never had a grandmother of my own. And now, I might actually be one!”
“Hey, what’s the rush! Let them get married first, Marsha!”
She chuckled, dimpling like a girl as she hugged her son.
Shlomie put a smile on his face but he couldn’t help wondering: Was he rushing into this? Or was he simply taking advantage of something wonderful that had been granted to him like an unexpected gift, this pretty, smart, spirited girl who was so attentive and admiring?
He had never experienced anything remotely like it. How could he not want it all settled, before the clouds vanished before her eyes and she realized who he really was? He had no doubt that it would happen one day but hoped there would be a good life and a few children tying them together before it all unraveled.
Other times, he was more optimistic. Was it not written: forty days before conception, a heavenly voice calls out, This man for this woman? She had been chosen for him, a heavenly gift, a reward. It was humbling. He would spend the rest of his life trying to be worthy of her, trying to bring them both closer to God and to holiness.
He didn’t feel any guilt for her dropping out of school. It had never been his idea. He would have waited patiently for her if she’d wanted to be a doctor. But she didn’t want to. She’d opened her heart to him about that. She’d never wanted to.
So there it was. Who knew the future? As the Baal Shem Tov wrote, “A leaf cannot fall from a tree, unless it be God’s will.” He would trust in Providence.
5
Hearing the screeching of jets, Detective Bina Tzedek looked up, squinting at the blue, Mediterranean skies, wondering if it was just practice or if they were actually going somewhere. As an Israeli, her ear had become attuned to the sounds that ushered in momentous, life-changing events in her small country. From personal experience, she knew that you could just be going along, your day completely ordinary when—whoop—out of nowhere, a siren would sound, signaling the end of normalcy and the beginning of anything from a civilian drill to a rocket attack to even the beginnings of a war.
It was the same with her job. Every morning, she just never knew what was going to land on her desk. She took a deep, calming breath, taking in the blooming rows of colored violets that bordered Yemin Moshe. She loved this daily morning walk from her home in Talbiya to the bus stop. No one could understand why she didn’t drive to work, a detective, a modern, powerful professional in control of her own life and those of many others. What was it about steering wheels and horns and the screech of tires that she found so distasteful that she avoided them whenever possible?
What she usually told people who asked was that other drivers were crazy and parking spaces such a problem. If they looked at her oddly, she’d add that she lived a short bus ride away from everywhere she needed to go and hiring taxis was cheaper than owning a second car.
All this was true, but not really the truth.
The real reason she didn’t want to drive was because she loved the extra time it too
k to walk down the street, to wait for a bus, to sit back and look out the window in peace before she got to work—time leached out of her crowded day to think about her life. It was in such short supply these days, with two-year-old Lilach and five-year-old Ronnie and a briefcase bulging with reports studied late into the night that hung heavily, physically and metaphorically, on her slim shoulders. She always got the worst ones: wife beaters, pedophiles, rapists.
Lately, though, she and her husband, Noah, had been talking about having another child. They missed having a baby: that delicious smell of a warm bath and baby powder, the soft little kissable face and bottom. But the last birth had been a horror: a detached umbilical cord, an emergency cesarean, hemorrhaging. But she knew she couldn’t wait too long. Statistically the chances of birth defects went zooming up with every passing year once you hit your thirties. She was thirty-four. She’d already seen the first wrinkles around her eyes and between her brows, little lines that used to disappear immediately after a frown but now lingered.
She drew her fingers through her hair, recently cut and a full-blown disaster, the hairdresser misinterpreting her “give me something cute and youthful” into a license to chop up her curly, shoulder-length auburn hair into a ridiculous pixie that had no chance in hell of looking good on anyone over six. For the millionth time, she tugged on her bangs, trying to stretch them to cover her forehead. It was useless.
She walked into the modern police headquarters, surrounded by shopping malls and car dealerships, taking the elevator up to her floor.
“Hi, Bina. Just the girl I want to see,” Morris said as soon as she stepped out into the corridor. He frowned. “New haircut?”
She grimaced, nodding.
“Want me to bring in the guy who did it?” He grinned.
She shook her head. “It’s useless. There is no death penalty in Israel.”
He put a sympathetic arm around her shoulder.
Morris Klein was a senior detective with forty years’ experience. A former paratrooper who had been through three major wars and uncountable skirmishes, he had lost two fingers of his left hand and wore a prosthetic leg. Everyone in the department looked up to him. She was flattered he had sought her out.
“What’s up?”
“It’s on your desk.”
He hovered by the door as she hung up her purse, settling herself in her chair. He seemed impatient, begrudging every extra second. She looked down at the pile of material and began to read, her face slowly draining of color. She looked up at him. “Tell me, Morris, is it because I’m inexperienced? Or is this the most sickening case ever? I feel nauseous.”
She was shocked to see his face change color as well. He shook his head. “It’s the worst one anyone in the department has ever come across. It goes way beyond crime. There’s something truly satanic about it. It’s like a true-crime novel, or one of those tabloid stories that happen in far-off places. These kinds of things just don’t happen in Israel, among Jews, especially religious Jews. Certainly, it doesn’t happen in Jerusalem, the Holy City.”
Two young children, he told her, victims of horrific child abuse that had left one in a coma and the second with horrifying burns. Five other children who were so traumatized they refused to say anything. And a mother and father in custody, the former reading psalms all day and the latter proclaiming his innocence and ignorance.
“Unless we come up with something, we’re going to have to let the father go.”
She was shocked. “Why?”
“He’s separated from the mother, divorced, something, living outside Jerusalem. He hasn’t seen the children in months and he has an iron-clad alibi for the days the kids were injured.”
“What’s he like?”
“Weird, American, dressed in prophet-wannabe flowing white robes. But not evil. Incredibly naïve, though, a born-again Jew, brainwashed by all that Breslov stuff, the red strings, amulets, and whatnot. My gut tells me he wasn’t involved. Maybe he’s a fool, but he isn’t a monster.”
“Did you get anything from him?”
“Hard to tell at this point. He rambled. But he did say something curious we need to follow up on. He said the divorce itself wasn’t supposed to be permanent. It was simply a temporary tikkun.”
“He used that word? From the kabbalah?” Tikkun, a correction, a way of returning the divine sparks of holiness that had been lost—she remembered from her days in the religious public school system.
He nodded slowly. “He said he divorced his wife in order to, get this, improve their relationship! Go figure that one out. While he was gone, his fellow yeshiva students had apparently started living in the house to help his ex, who was finding it hard to manage alone with all seven kids.”
“What?”
“You’re religious, Bina. Tell me, is that normal, for three yeshiva guys to move in with a religious woman who’s just gotten divorced?”
“Absolutely not! Especially if you’re telling me we are dealing with haredim.” She shook her head. “What else did the ex say?”
“Nothing, really. He just looked stunned by the whole thing, saying that there had to be some mistake, that his lovely, gentle wife was a wonderful mother and would never, ever hurt their children.”
“Did he ask about his children?”
“Many times. He really seemed distraught and anxious to take care of them. Of course, we told him he wasn’t allowed to go anywhere near them until we had more information.”
“Good. Even if he isn’t directly responsible for child abuse, they were his kids, after all. He can’t just think he is going to walk away from all this.”
Morris shrugged. “Okay, right. But he’s not the problem, Bina. Think about it. If the mother wouldn’t hurt a fly, and the father isn’t responsible, then who is?”
She looked down at the papers in front of her. “Have you spoken to the mother?”
He nodded, pulling up a chair and looking into her eyes. “If he was eccentric, then she is certifiable. Dressed like the prophetess Deborah, too busy muttering prayers nonstop to worry about her damaged kids. You grew up in a religious home. What do you make of the ‘holy’ act?”
She shrugged. “Haven’t you and I seen the worst serial rapists and child abusers suddenly put on a skullcap when they have to face a judge? It’s easy enough to wear long sleeves and cover your hair.”
“It never impresses the court, but that doesn’t seem to stop them trying.” He grimaced. “And afterwards, they whine their way into the ‘religious’ wing of any prison, where they spend their days as pious Talmud scholars instead of working. But a woman trying that tack? I haven’t seen it before. Also, she doesn’t appear to be evil or insane, the Andrea Yates, Susan Smith kind of psychopath. And the kids? They are dying to see her and keep asking about her. Even the one in the hospital with the burns hugged her and clung to her. I’ve never seen children treat an abusive parent that way.”
“Actually, it’s not that uncommon, believe it or not. Give me some time to study the material and I’ll let you know what I think.”
“Don’t take too long. This is urgent. But I’m stumped. I figure you’re our best shot, being a woman, religious, a mother—”
“Please, don’t compare me to her,” she said, already dreading diving headfirst into this polluted cesspool. But like someone who has already paid for tickets to a particularly wild and dangerous amusement park ride, she felt she had no choice but to get on.
She read over the preliminary information and the transcripts of the early interviews. From what she could see, Daniella Goodman wasn’t faking. She really was in another world, but no place Bina had ever visited on planet Earth.
What kind of mother watches a child with an irreversible brain injury without crying out for revenge? What kind of mother turns around and blames a husband she hasn’t let near her kids in months? What kind of mother hides the truth, protects the abuser? There had to be someone else involved. After all, the mother had been in the hospital when he
r youngest child had been brought in. Who had put a three-year-old into a coma? And—not that it really mattered—why? Who had done this? And why did Daniella Goodman refuse to cooperate in bringing that person to justice?
And how could they make her?
6
They were excited young newlyweds, getting ready for their new life. Almost immediately, they began gathering together those wedding presents that could not make the trip to Israel with them: all the electrical appliances that ran on the wrong voltage, the fragile crystal, the frivolous tchotchkes that would be expensive to ship and were unsuited to the serious life they planned, a life of family, study, and prayer. A life of simple pleasures.
And just as suddenly, all their plans were suspended.
She was pregnant. Honeymoon pregnancy, the doctor called it cheerfully. Shlomie was thrilled. She was devastated. It meant postponing their Aliyah indefinitely. And she had so wanted to get away, to leave behind her mother’s disappointment, her father’s irritated compassion.
Her grandmother found them an apartment and paid for it. Shlomie got his old job back. And she waited, growing heavier and heavier and more despondent each day as the lethargy of idleness made her sleepy and indifferent.
“Why don’t you come to the store and help me out?” her mother suggested, emphasizing the “me,” making it judgmental and personal rather than an innocent question.
“I don’t know the first thing about jewelry. You know that.”
“You could learn, though, couldn’t you?”
It was better than nothing, Daniella supposed. At least it would get her out of the house and away from the refrigerator. Her weight gain was alarming.
The store, founded in 1911, was immense, with lush, turn-of-the-century fittings that made it a landmark, historic building. Daniella sat behind sparkling glass counters lit by clever overhead lighting, her eyes mesmerized by the flash of well-cut diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. But aside from using Windex on the cases, there was little else she was really qualified to do, she thought listlessly. There was no way her mother would trust her to serve a serious customer shopping for a $20,000 diamond engagement ring. And not without good reason, she admitted to herself.