Jack rolled from his side to his back. Where were Mama and Pa sleeping? Did they make any more phone calls? Had anyone found Daisy?
No, if Daisy had been found alive, word would have spread. Someone would have called the Pools, and everyone would have been sent to their own bedroom. But here they all were, sleeping—or not sleeping—in the wrong rooms. Things were still bad.
Jack got up. He picked up the shofar from the rocking chair and sat down, turning the horn over and over in his hands. For thousands of years, the Jews had used the shofar to ring the alarm of war, to panic the enemy in battle, and to herald the coming of peace. Over the eons, not one change had been made to the instrument’s design. The sound Jack made on his shofar earlier tonight was the same sound made by his most ancient ancestors, ancestors who survived hate and cruelty over and over. I come from a people who survive, he told himself. That has to count for something.
Turning toward the window, Jack resolved to stay up and watch for the first hints of daylight to slide over the rooflines. What he’d do then, he had no idea. He only knew he had to do something, and if standing guard for daybreak was all he could manage, then so be it. Maybe he’d close his eyes first, though, just for a few minutes.
When he pried his eyes open, he thought he saw dawn breaking yellow and green low in the sky. It was a paltry smudge of light poking from a single corner of the horizon, as if the sun had sent a timid little substitute in its place. Jack wiped some of the condensation off the window and looked again at the patch of peculiar light gleaming through the glass.
But this wasn’t the sun’s first light. This was the temple. There was no mistaking the green-yellow glow spilling out of the synagogue’s stained windows. There was no other color like it in the world. But why would the shul be lit up this time of night? Was it a fire—did someone set the building on fire? Were they after the rabbi? What should I do?
Jack slid out of the rocking chair, tiptoed across the room and down the hall, and grabbed his shoes out of his bedroom. But as soon as he returned to the hallway he bumped into Harry.
“What?” Jack whispered.
“Huh?” Harry yawned. “Martha just woke up. She wants her doll.”
“Go back to bed and I’ll get the doll. Tell Martha I’ll bring it right now.”
Harry nodded sleepily and stumbled back to his bed of blankets while Jack went on to Martha’s room. His parents were there, one on Martha’s bed and the other on the trundle bed. One of them was snoring. He hurried to the vanity table where Martha kept her toys. No one stirred.
Harry and Martha were sound asleep when he set the rag doll down on the rocker. The shofar caught his eye. He picked it up and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers. He padded down the stairs, stopped himself in time to catch the screen door before it slammed behind him, and then he started running.
The night was such a strange shade of black—dark enough to hide people who might be looking for him but pale enough, it seemed, to utterly expose him. Are those voices? What’s poking my side?—uh, the shofar. He crossed Main Street. Is that someone up ahead? Can people hear the sound of my breathing? He turned onto Hill Street, and the temple came into view.
No flames, no fire truck. Thank God. But the trooper’s police car was there, parked in front.
Edging through the temple doors and into the foyer, Jack could hear voices in the sanctuary. I can’t just walk in. It might not be safe. Where can I hide? To his right there was a small coat closet. A few feet beyond that were the stairs leading up to the classroom. Doesn’t one of the stairs creak? He hesitated, then slipped into the closet and shut the door behind him.
It smelled as musty as it did a decade ago when he used to hide with his Hebrew-school friends and make his mother “find” him. He’d forgotten all about those days. The closet was big and welcoming then. Tonight it was cramped and black and hung with stale air. Worst of all, it muffled the voices in the sanctuary. He opened the door a crack, just enough to hear.
“No, I have not heard anything about a little girl,” the rabbi was saying. “How can I help you?”
“What do you know about Daisy Durham?” asked the unmistakable voice of the cop.
“I’m not familiar with this child. How old is she?”
“Four. Listen, I’ll get right to the point, Father—”
“Rabbi Louis Abrams. And you are…?”
“Victor Brown.”
“You are new,” the rabbi said.
“That’s right. Now, I need to ask, do you have a holiday coming up?”
“Yom Kippur begins with the next sundown.”
“Is it a serious day, a fast day?”
“The most serious day of the year. Our Day of Atonement. But you came about a child. She is missing?”
“Since early afternoon.”
“How could a thing like that happen? Wasn’t anyone with her, so young?”
“We don’t have too many answers just yet. Anyhow, look, I see you’re getting ready for your holiday, and I’m curious about something. Do your holiday customs ever call for, you know, sacrifices?”
“Ah,” said the rabbi in a scholarly tone. “In ancient times, our people did offer their animals—sheep, cattle, goats—at the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. But the Holy Temple was destroyed almost two thousand years ago. No animals have been offered since.”
“Uh huh. Well, what about other kinds of sacrifices? Besides livestock.”
“Other kinds? You mean fruits and vegetables?”
“Like humans.”
“Where did you get such ideas?” the rabbi asked.
The calm in the rabbi’s voice stunned Jack. It sounded like he was almost amused. But of course he’s calm. He doesn’t know about the accusations or the searches or the broken window or the angry crowds. He thinks the trooper is just curious. And stupid.
“I would like to set your sources straight,” the rabbi said pleasantly.
“Yeah, okay, so about the girl—” Victor said.
“Yes, of course. We digress. I am happy to help you however I can.”
“Good. Because I hear you people use the blood of a child for your holiday here. And with Daisy Durham missing, I have to wonder.”
There was silence as the rabbi put together the threads of conversation—missing child, religious practices, animal sacrifices. Finally, in a much too quiet voice, he asked, “Are you accusing us of murder?” And then, releasing the muzzle on his anger, he roared, “How dare you invade our temple for this mockery?”
Jack dropped his head against the closet wall.
“Now, Father, let’s try to keep calm,” Victor said. “It’s my duty to conduct a thorough investigation. So just answer the question: do you make human offerings?”
“Nothing could be more unthinkable! We do not murder.”
“But do you use blood to—”
“Blood? Never! We even remove the blood from our meat. It takes salt and time, but we do it because the Bible—your Bible and mine—tells us to ‘be steadfast in not eating the blood, for the blood is the life, and thou shalt not eat the life with the flesh.’ We would rather go hungry than consume blood.”
“Well then,” Victor said, “why did—”
“Blood accusations,” the rabbi broke in. “I should not be surprised in Troky, my Lithuanian home. I should not be surprised in much of the world. But in America? America is supposed to be a refuge from such madness. I would not have believed it possible here.”
The rabbi drew a heavy breath and continued, “Sir, let me tell you why we wear canvas sneakers on Yom Kippur instead of our usual shoes. Because our shoes are made of leather. An animal had to die to fashion them. Yom Kippur is a day of special grace and compassion. You defile it with your accusations, and you disserve this little girl.”
“Think what you like, Father. I’m still going to—” But Victor never got a chance to finish his sentence.
“Get him! Move it, move it!” The voices burst through the temple doors. “Show yourself,
Abrams! It’s all over now! Where’ve you got her? ABRAMS!” they yelled as they charged across the entrance.
The mob crowded into the sanctuary and started bellowing at both the rabbi and the trooper. “Give us the girl!”
“Make the murderer hand over the child!” “You’ll burn for this!” “Take him in or we’ll take him for you!” “Pig!” “Hang the damned butcher!”
Rabbi Abrams spoke before the trooper did. “Shame on you all!” he thundered. “You should be out searching for the lost child, or at home with your own families at such an hour. Leave! Do you hear me? Leave this holy place!”
A boy growled something as he approached the rabbi, but one of the men called him back. “He’s pitch black on the inside, son. Keep your distance.”
Another boy said something to the first one. His voice sounded a little like George Lingstrom’s. Then the shouting began again.
Emaline, Lydie and Mrs. Durham sat in the kitchen with three untouched Coca-Cola bottles on the table. The radio was still playing from earlier in the night, and the local announcer was reading from The World Almanac. “Listeners, we’ve reached the wee hour of four o’clock, so I’ll close tonight’s broadcast with one last fascinating fact…” Emaline got up and jiggled the tuner. She found the Potsdam station and sat back down. “…a chicken in every pot and a car in every garage,” Herbert Hoover was promising.
“Think he’ll be our next President?” Lydie asked.
“Well, if he is,” Emaline answered absently, “I guess we’ll all be getting free automobiles and chicken dinners, won’t we?”
After Hoover’s campaign plug came a staticky rendition of “Button Up Your Overcoat,” followed by the day’s news. The Yankees clinched the pennant today. A machine called an iron lung made its debut at Boston Children’s Hospital; a girl who’d stopped breathing recovered within seconds of being placed in the chamber. Volunteers rescued nine more survivors—three of them children—from last week’s hurricane in Florida. The first successful helicopter flight over the English Channel happened this afternoon. Then a new Al Jolson song came on.
Emaline glanced at her mother, who was staring out the window, and then she stood up.
“Going to try to sleep?” Mrs. Durham asked.
“No, I just—I have to get something upstairs. I’ll be back.” She was gone for only a minute. “All right, Ma,” she said when she returned, holding a small paper bag. “I made something for your birthday, but I think you should have it now. Here, it’s for good luck.” She set the bag in front of her mother and sat down beside her.
“For me? For my…? Oughtn’t we wait?”
“No, Ma. Do it now. Go on.”
Mrs. Durham picked up the paper bag, uncurled the folded top, and withdrew a handmade bracelet strung with red beads. She ran her fingers over the polished pieces of glass as if they were her rosary. Red was Daisy’s favorite color, the color of her Raggedy Ann doll’s hair, the color of her woolen scarf—the one she didn’t bring with her when she left the house today. Red was the color of her dead husband’s hunting jacket. The color of the poppies that grew wild on the edge of Paradise Woods. The color of blood.
“It’s beautiful,” she said at last. “So elegant.”
“And the thing is, it’s good luck—look.” Emaline reached over and flipped around the largest bead. On its back, she’d glued a golden speck. “It’s a mustard seed. We learned about it in Sunday school. ‘If you have faith as a grain of mustard seed—’ ”
“ ‘—nothing shall be impossible unto you,’ ” Mrs. Durham finished. “The Book of Matthew?”
“That’s right. Now put it on.”
So she did. She’d do anything for some good luck.
The vicious cries stabbed Jack’s ears. “Get’im, fellows!” someone yelled. Another man called out, “They’re bloodthirsty perverts, all of’em!” Then the others shouted all at once.
Jack stepped out of the closet, moving almost without thinking. Hugging the wall, he inched toward the sanctuary and reached his hand around the doorframe. When he found the switch plate, he flipped it off and every light went out.
The temple blackened, and the shouts exploded into a hellish uproar. Jack pulled the shofar from his waistband and sounded a long, piercing blast into the darkness—one long, urgent note that said, Now it’s your turn to be afraid.
Blinded men and boys were pushing, shoving, swearing. Run, Rabbi Abrams, Jack silently pleaded. Hide. Do something, anything. Now!
There was nothing more Jack could do. The darkness would either protect the rabbi or it wouldn’t. He crept back into the closet, angry tears stinging his cheeks, feeling as small as a five-year-old hiding in the coat closet after Hebrew school—and much more helpless.
“Everyone hold it!” Victor hollered above the bedlam, flashlight in hand. “Everybody out, now! Out!”
“Go on,” Victor ordered again. “Get yourselves home, all of you.” He lit a path through the sanctuary and across the foyer, and the crowd filed out slowly. Like kids being dragged out of a carnival before all the fun is over. As the last straggler exited, the trooper stood in the doorway and announced, “I’m issuing a curfew till daybreak. That’s for all of you. Until the sun’s up, clear?”
“But I got animals to feed,” one man said.
“And I gotta be at the plant at six,” another added.
Victor shrugged. “You shoulda been asleep long ago, then. The curfew stands.”
More grumbling. The gang didn’t disperse until Victor threatened to extend the curfew until 8 a.m.
The temple door slammed shut, and the flashlight beam swept past Jack again. Then the trooper found the light switch. “Hey, where’d you go?” he asked from the back of the sanctuary.
Nothing.
“Mr. Abrams, they’re gone.”
Silence. Then the sound of something being pushed against carpeting. “I am here,” came the rabbi’s voice. “I took cover behind my lectern.”
“Lookit, just let me take a look around, and I’ll give you a ride home after.”
“Please be quick about it,” the rabbi said.
He thinks it’s all over. Rabbi Abrams thinks this is the beginning and the end of the whole ordeal. Jack wanted to run to him and blurt out the whole story, but he had to get out of the temple before Victor got to the closet. So, while the trooper poked around the Torah scrolls and peered under the benches, he slipped outside and hoped he’d make it home before anyone realized he was gone.
It was 4:30 a.m. when the knock came. Emaline, Lydie and Mrs. Durham had retreated to the living room, where they nestled under the quilts and sank into the bottomless sofa cushions. They weren’t asleep, but the harsh thump of knuckles against wood seemed to wake them just the same, and they jumped up in a tangle of blankets and dread. Anyone coming at this hour had to be bringing news.
They weren’t sure they wanted to know what it was, and they hesitated. The knock came again, harder this time.
Emaline went to the door and opened it slowly. She fully expected to see the trooper, but it was George Lingstrom who stood there instead, flushed, vaguely smiling, with his not quite blond, not quite brown hair shielding his blue eyes.
“George?” Emaline said. “Why George, I thought—come in.”
“I saw your light on, so I figured you were up,” he said. When Emaline didn’t reply, he continued, “I hope that’s okay.”
“Yes, yes, we’ve been up all night,” Emaline said. “Do you have news, George? Do you have anything to tell us?” She didn’t invite him to sit down. She didn’t think of it. George must have something important to say, she figured, or why would he be here at this hour?
George brushed back his hair. “I guess I really just wanted to stop by. See how you’re doing. Find out what I can do.”
“Well, you might as well come in and sit down,” Mrs. Durham said, motioning him to the love seat.
Emaline returned to her spot between her mother and Lydie. “Honestly, Geor
ge, if you really want to help, you could go to the woods and search for Daisy.”
George sat up straighter. He seemed confused. “The woods? But…” He glanced at Lydie and Mrs. Durham. “The woods?”
“Yes, George, the woods,” Emaline said. “That’s where Daisy got lost. In the woods right in back of the house. You didn’t know?”
George’s lips wavered, as if he couldn’t decide whether to smile or frown. “You said lost, but you mean…you mean kidnapped, right?”
This made Mrs. Durham’s eyes fill, and she covered them with her hand. Lydie was about to say something, but Emaline spoke first. “What are you talking about, George?”
“The Jews, Emaline. Jack Pool. Everyone knows it—I figured you did too. Jack snatched her so they could…could…”
“Could what?” Emaline asked.
“Maybe I shouldn’t say.”
Mrs. Durham lowered her hand. “Don’t listen to him,” she whispered.
“No, I want to hear it. You think Jack took her so they could what?”
George looked to Mrs. Durham for help, but she offered none. “So they could bake her blood in their holiday bread.”
Emaline’s mouth fell open. “Jack? People think Jack…?”
“A bunch of us went to their church a while ago,” George rushed on. “We were trying to get their preacher. You know, get him to tell us where they’ve got Daisy. But, well, it didn’t go the way we planned.”
“What was your plan?” she asked.
“Well, I was gonna…we were…”
“You were going to hurt him.”
“Not necessarily. Not if he’fessed up right away. Not if Daisy was still all right.”
Emaline stood up. “Please go home.”
“Em—”
“I’ll see you out,” she said, heading to the door, but George didn’t get up. “Please,” Emaline said. Her voice was determined even as it quavered.
Finally, George got up and went to the door, his face a grey shade of disappointment. “I was only trying to lend a hand. I thought I was helping you.”
“Just go,” she said faintly.
The Blood Lie Page 7