by Naomi Ragen
He suddenly looked up, his big, blue innocent eyes growing wider.
“You know, Eli, it’s always okay to talk to doctors about anything; even secrets are okay to tell to doctors. You aren’t going to get into any trouble. I’m like a doctor. I talk to lots of children about things that are bothering them. Even secrets.”
Eli looked up at his uncle, who nodded encouragingly. “Just tell them what you told me, honey.”
“Someone made boom-boom on my head.”
“How?”
“With a hard hand and a big hammer.”
There was a moment of silence as the adults processed this.
“Eli, who made boom-boom to you?”
“The tzaddikim and the Moshiach.”
“Kuni Batlan, Shmaya Hod, Yissaschar Goldschmidt…,” Bina said.
The child looked at her, surprised. “You know the tzaddikim?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “What can you tell me about the tzaddikim?”
“Yissaschar washed me in too cold water and then too hot water because I wouldn’t listen”—it seemed suddenly to pour out of him—“and Kuni and the others burned my foot like a piece of toast. It was a tikkun … and Shmaya took a hammer and he went boom, boom, boom to my head. Like he was pounding a schnitzel.”
She tried not to show she was reeling. She literally saw red. She stood up. Morris patted her back.
“Steady,” he whispered.
She sat down heavily, trying to pull herself together.
“Eli, sweetheart, that was a good story. A real story. Can you tell us more real stories?” Johnny urged.
He shook his head. “Not about the Moshiach.”
There it was again. The Messiah.
“Oh, please. We really want to hear about the Moshiach. It would really help us.”
Eli seemed unsure. “Ima wouldn’t like it.”
“But I just spoke to your ima and she says now it’s all right to tell. She wants you to tell.”
He shook his head again. “But Duvie wouldn’t like it. He says not to.”
Duvie, the eldest child, his big brother. “Why do you think Duvie said that?”
“He’s afraid.”
“Of the Moshiach?”
He nodded. “Duvie’s not a scaredy-cat. Duvie says we’ll go live with him again.”
“You lived with the Moshiach?”
He nodded. “In his little house with him and the tzaddikim and Ima.”
“Eli, who is the Moshiach?”
She saw his whole body go into a spasm. It shook. His uncle held him tighter.
“It’s okay, Eli. No one is going to hurt you anymore. You can talk now. You’re safe now.”
The little boy shook his head. “The Moshiach knows magic. He can fly. You can’t hurt him. He took me into the kabbalah room. He made me do magic.”
“And the magic hurt, right, Eli?” Bina said gently.
He nodded.
“And why do you think he hurt you?”
“Because I was bad. And he and Ima wanted me to be good. He was helping me to be good. With tikkunim.”
She thought of Rabbanit Toledano’s words about the amulets.
“Can you tell me about the tikkunim?”
“To stand up all night and not sleep. To drink arak. To get locked in the suitcase with a kippah in your mouth so you can’t cry. Sometimes, though, I would cry … for Ima. But she didn’t hear.”
Bina’s head began to pound. “Were you the only one the tzaddikim and the Moshiach helped with tikkunim?”
He shook his little head. “They helped all of us. Shmaya helped Menchie. Also the Moshiach helped Menchie.”
Menchie. The baby in the coma … My God! “And who helped you, Eli?”
“Kuni helped me,” he said, “and also the Moshiach helped me.”
“And what is the name of the Moshiach?” she pressed.
The child turned around, burying his head in his uncle’s chest.
“Please, Eli—”
Johnny raised his hand, then stood. “It’s enough for now. Thank you, sweetheart,” he said in English. Hearing his mother tongue, the child peered out at him, relieved.
Morris got up. “Thank you,” he nodded toward Joel, putting his hand out to the child, “and thank you, Mr. Eli. I have something for you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a big lollypop.
The child’s eyes gleamed, but he didn’t reach for it.
“It’s okay. It’s kosher,” he assured the child, who looked to his uncle. Joel nodded approvingly. Only then did the child reach out and take it, cautiously unwrapping it from the cellophane and popping it into his mouth. He held the wrapper in his fist, afraid to release it, afraid to do anything without permission.
“You’ll make a good policeman one day,” Morris told the child, taking the wrapper from him and tousling his hair.
“Will I have a gun to shoot the bad people?”
“Of course.”
A delighted smile spread across his somber face.
“Bye, Eli,” Johnny said. “I’ll come visit you again soon.”
The child smiled. “Next time, bring the elephant.”
“Okay. I’ll try to remember.”
They all laughed, even as their hearts broke for this smart, loving, articulate little boy who somehow, through all the incomprehensible pain and horror he had experienced in his short life, had managed to retain his sense of humor and his ability to trust.
He was awesome, Bina thought. That being so, she had to admit to herself, reluctantly, that someone had brought him up that way. He had certainly once known love and care.
“Mr. Whartman, please call us if you have any other news,” Morris said, helping Bina to her feet.
“I will. And thank you. There’s one other thing. My sister, she’d like to see the other kids. And they are desperate to see her. They hate being in foster care. They hate being separated.”
“We know. We’re working on it. It’s complicated.”
“I’m willing to take them all,” he said.
“That’s really good of you. I’ll look into it,” Johnny promised.
Bina felt wobbly on her feet. “Good-bye, Eli. You are a very, very good boy and I like you very much.”
The little boy turned around, his beautiful clear eyes suddenly shiny with tears, which spilled down his pale cheeks. “I want to see my ima,” he told her.
Bina walked toward the door, stumbling perilously. Morris quickly put out his hand to steady her, helping her outside.
Johnny soon joined them.
“I don’t know how you do it, Mr. Mann. It’s sickening. This whole case. I don’t know if I can even continue, if I have the strength.…”
Morris stared at her. “You are on the Egyptian border and it’s 1967 and they’ve declared war. They are coming to get you. Believe me, you don’t have a choice.”
“But, Morris, it’s not an ordinary situation. Did you hear what the child said?”
He nodded grimly, looking at Johnny. “And I’m sure that’s not the half of it.”
She turned to the psychologist. “Do you think it is connected to some kind of abracadabra, black magic, sick rituals—”
“Now you’re going overboard,” Morris interrupted.
“No, really, Morris—”
“Why? Because the child used the word ‘tikkun’?” he scoffed. “A lot of very normal people have started using that word interchangeably with ‘correction’. Anyhow, kabbalah isn’t black magic.”
“This woman I just went to see, Rabbanit Toledano, she said when Eli was brought to her, he had fifteen amulets around his neck, some of them handwritten, a type she’d never seen before.”
“Really?” Johnny said.
Morris looked suddenly less dismissive.
“What I just can’t get my head around is what did they get out of it, hurting babies like that?”
“That’s the real question, isn’t it?” Johnny nodded, lighting up a cigarette and taking a deep d
rag. His hands shook.
“Tell me, Johnny, do you have kids?”
“Three, who live with their mother. The youngest is about Eli’s age.” His jaw flexed. “I can’t even imagine what I’d do if someone, if…”
“Neither can I,” Bina agreed, thinking of Ronnie, his agile little feet tearing up the grass on the soccer field, and Lilach, who cried from the slightest scratch.
“We need to talk to the oldest boy, to Duvie. He seems to have some control over Eli,” Bina suggested.
“Over all the kids.” Morris frowned. “You weren’t there at that first interview, but Johnny was.”
“I’ve never seen anything that bad.” Johnny threw the half-smoked cigarette to the ground, rubbing it out forcefully with his foot. “The children were screaming; they tried to attack us. They told us we were hurting their mother. They were off-the-wall hysterical. Children who had been traumatized to a degree I’ve never seen before. They refused to give us any information. We’re dealing with some very, very sick sons of bitches,” he said bitterly.
“Eli says the Moshiach can fly,” said Morris.
“And I’m sure he really believes it.” Johnny nodded.
“He’s a child.”
“Listen, Morris, my son, Ronnie, is about his age. Kids tell stories, but they know the difference between reality and fantasy. Either he’s been convinced of these things, or…”
“What?”
“He’s seen them, or thought he did.”
“I’ll tell you one thing. All those kids have seen things none of us can even imagine,” Johnny said grimly. “That’s for sure.”
“What’s at the bottom of it?”
“The Moshiach,” Johnny whispered just under his breath. “They are flat-out scared to death of him.”
“Who or what is that?”
“That, Detective Tzedek,” Morris told her, “is what we need to find out.”
19
Daniella stood in the steam-filled bathroom, crouching over the tub where Shoshana was splashing and singing.
“I’m supposed to be giving you a bath, but instead you’re giving me one!” she told the child with mock sternness. Shoshana crowed with happiness, her little hands flapping furiously as she churned up the bathwater.
“Okay now, Shoshana Goodman! Enough! Soon it will be Shabbos. Ima has to finish preparing.”
“No, Ima. Stay!” she demanded.
Daniella shook her head. Just yesterday she was a baby, and now she was nearly two. She could argue and she had opinions. Daniella smiled, reaching down and pulling out the plug. From her experience, once the water went down the drain, so did the child’s resistance to getting dried off.
She heard the front door open and close. She held up a towel. “Your aba’s home. Come, quick, get dried off.”
She wrapped the fluffy, thick towel around the little girl’s naked, warm body, hugging her close. They were like puppies at this age, she marveled. All joy and motion. Baruch Hashem! Such a blessing to have healthy children. Such a gift from God! Her heart and soul whispered thanks to the power of creation that had given her so much.
On the way to Shoshana’s bedroom, she noticed Shlomie sitting on a kitchen chair. He was bent over, his head in his hands as if in mourning. Her heart sank. What now?
“What happened?” she asked him, trying to contain the child, who was determined to wiggle out of her arms.
He looked up at her, his face a mask of confusion and distress. “I don’t even know … how … to tell you.”
A flash of fear, sharp as a piece of broken glass, cut through her contentment and peace.
“I’ll … I’ve … wait.” She hurried into Shoshana’s bedroom, quickly dressing her in pajamas even as she squirmed restlessly, wanting to play. Daniella didn’t stop, grimly forcing her arms through sleeves, her legs into bottoms, until finally the child burst into tears.
“I’m sorry, so sorry, Shoshana. But Ima can’t play now. She has to talk to Aba.” She lifted the child off the bed, taking down some dolls from the shelves and placing them on the rug. “You play for a while, okay, sweetie?”
She wiped the tears from Shoshana’s face, placing a tissue over her nose. “Blow.”
Then she walked back into the kitchen, sitting down opposite Shlomie at the kitchen table. In the living room, the three boys were playing Legos, while Amalya set up the Sabbath candles. She was almost ten, a lovely, sedate young girl with lustrous dark hair and sparkling blue eyes. She was like a second mother to her younger siblings and a star pupil in Beit Yaakov.
“Ima, I finished setting up the candles. What else should I do?” she said, sticking her head inside the kitchen.
Daniella saw Shlomie turn to his daughter, studying her, his face suddenly tragic. Amalya noticed it, too, her innocent, happy face suddenly somber and questioning.
Daniella quickly intervened. “It’s okay. Aba’s … just sad. He’ll be fine. Help your brothers clean up the Legos and make them take their baths, okay?”
“Yes, Ima,” she said, casting a worried, puzzled look at her father as she walked away. Daniella closed the kitchen door behind her.
“You’re frightening the children. Just tell me already, Shlomie.”
“It’s Reb Amos. He says he’s had a vision. He says … he wants to marry Amalya.”
She had misheard, she thought, her mouth falling open, a frisson of horror passing through her heart. “What?”
“He says this is what the spirits have told him. Otherwise, our family will suffer a terrible tragedy. It’s the only way it can be prevented.”
She felt her heart squeeze in her chest, as if she were having a heart attack. She got up and stumbled to the sink, turning on the faucet and filling a glass with water. She threw back her head, draining the glass, then placed it carefully in the sink. She turned around, pressing her back against the ledge of the counter until it hurt. She looked at her husband.
“She’s not even ten years old.”
He lifted his palms in a gesture of helplessness. “He doesn’t mean right now.”
She exhaled. “Then when?”
He hesitated. “In a few years, when she’s Bat Mitzvah.”
“He wants to marry a twelve-year-old? Is he nuts?”
“He says at that age a girl is most divine in her purity. That God would not have given her body the ability to have children at that age if it were not the perfect time for her to marry.”
“It’s not even legal!”
“He says that the modern world is impure, and that she must be protected from all that impurity at the perfect moment of her own purity, so that she can have children of absolute holiness, born out of immaculate purity. Why would Reb Amos … why would he say such a thing if it weren’t true? If he wasn’t trying to help us?”
She sat down, feeling everything move around her as if she were passing through a tornado. The center of her body was hollow. Why, indeed?
Only a year ago, she would have laughed at her husband and told him to get lost and take his Reb Amos with him. She would have threatened to call the police. She would have felt her two feet on the solid ground and her mind set with steely determination.
But much had happened in a year. Every week, lecture upon lecture, explanation upon explanation describing the mystical influences in the world had soaked into her reason, making her mind as soft and spongy as oversaturated earth on the verge of collapse. More than that, the space around her, once benign and empty, was now filled with the unseen celestial beings who had become part of her reality. She felt their volatile presence watching over her and her family. Anything that happened—a glass accidentally pushed off the counter that fell and shattered, a toe that stubbed on a wall, a child’s illness or recovery—revealed their presence. Everything that happened was now full of meaning, import, consequence. Reb Amos, considered a holy person and a saint by devoted followers who worshiped his every word, practically lived at their home. Everything they now knew about God, about holin
ess, about growing spiritually, they had learned from him. Oddly, instead of this bringing her closer to God, she had never felt more distant.
“What are we going to do?” Shlomie asked her.
“He’s not going to marry our daughter. Certainly not our twelve-year-old daughter!” Daniella said emphatically, her former self breaking through the shell of enchantment, asserting itself.
“But if we refuse, we are risking a terrible tragedy befalling our family. He hinted there would be a death of a very young person.”
Her face went white as her mind retreated, cowering, as she tried to assimilate this information. In saving their daughter, would they be sacrificing another of their children? Oh, the horror of such a choice! She was suddenly confused, her certainty and determination fleeing under her terrible fear.
“Before we do anything, we need to be sure,” she said cautiously.
“Of what, Daniella?”
“That what Reb Amos is telling us is true. That he is truly a saint and what he says truly comes from God.”
“Yes, we must be sure. But how?”
“You have to investigate. Find someone that is on the highest level possible, someone everyone you speak to agrees truly speaks to God. Let him investigate Reb Amos, to see if his words are true, if the source is from behind the curtain,” she said, using the familiar euphemism for contact with the spirit of holiness. In the Holy of Holies in the Temple in Jerusalem, where God dwelled among His earthly creatures, there was such a curtain.
“Yes, yes,” Shlomie said, slowly nodding in agreement, his eyes glazed over in wonder at such a remarkable solution. Before making such a decision, they must be sure.
He continued his classes with Reb Amos. And Reb Amos continued to come to the house, only now Daniella was careful that Amalya was not there at the same time.
“He has spoken to me again. He wants to know our answer,” Shlomie whispered to her a month later.
“Then tell him we are still thinking,” she advised him. “Tell him to wait.”
“He says there is another way.”
She looked up at him, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“He says that he could marry you instead.”
“What? What are you saying?” Revulsion, mixed with fear, choked her. “You’re my husband, Shlomie!”