by Andrew Kane
Joshua glanced at her, knowing she didn’t have any business in court whatsoever.
Connie picked up her briefcase, and excused herself. “I’ll call you,” she said to Joshua. Then, to Rachel: “Nice meeting you,” as she marched out.
And there they were, alone, after all this time, staring at each other, the space between them feeling like a stone wall. It was a scene Joshua had often dreamed of, though in his dreams he wasn’t paralyzed.
He saw that she hadn’t changed much in the looks department. She still had that succulent, dangerous smile, and all the other details he had so often played over in his mind.
“Hi,” she said, in what seemed as good an opening as any.
“Hi,” he responded, wanting to step closer to her, holding himself from doing so. “Long time.”
“Too long.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
Awkwardness.
“How have you been?” she asked.
“Actually, pretty okay.”
“So I’ve read.”
“You, too?” He pretended more surprise than he actually felt.
“Me, and probably a whole lot of other people.”
“Yeah, should be a real career starter,” he said, eyeing his shabby surroundings.
“Should be.”
More awkwardness.
“So how have you been?” he asked.
She considered the question for a second. “Not as well as you.”
He looked at her curiously. She held up her hand to display the absence of rings.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Life, I suppose.”
“Divorce?”
“Bingo.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
“Then I’m not either.”
She laughed. He smiled.
“Would you,” she said, and then hesitated to wipe a tear. “Would you—hold me?”
He moved toward her slowly and took her in his arms. At first, his touch was tentative, halting. She felt soft and frail, and began to cry on his shoulder. Fighting his own tears, he began to hold her tighter. She lifted her head from his shoulder, and looked into his eyes. He thought about that long, passionate kiss that had always appeared in his dreams, but couldn’t do it. It just didn’t feel right.
She shared his conflict and stepped back. “So this is where you’re going to set up shop,” she said, deflecting the tension.
“I suppose so. The rent’s right, the location’s pretty good.” He looked around and frowned. “The place does need some work.”
“I’ll say.”
He showed her the layout that Connie and he had discussed. She liked the concept, and even offered to help. He accepted, realizing it might have been a good idea to have consulted his new partner first.
They left the building and walked up Nostrand Avenue. She told him about her miscarriages, the problems with Binny, and even about the incident with Paul Sims.
“You really should tell someone, especially your parents; he could be dangerous,” Joshua said.
“I am telling someone—you. I think he’s more stupid than dangerous, and I’m not worried that he’ll try anything again. He knows it’s a lost cause.”
Joshua wondered about that. “Maybe I’ll pay him a little visit, just to let him know that he didn’t get away scot-free.”
“Please don’t!”
“Still worried what people might think about your association with me?”
“Are you going to start with that black and white thing again?”
“Do I need to?”
“If I wanted to keep you a secret, why would I be walking in public with you?”
“Are you really with me? Seems to me there’s almost two feet between us.”
With that, she moved closer and took him by the arm. “How’s this, better?”
“Much!”
They both smiled, but he could feel her discomfort. Although Nostrand Avenue was pretty much an exclusively black part of the neighborhood, one never knew when a Hasid might pop up.
“So why don’t you want me to talk to him?” Joshua asked.
“First, I don’t believe that talking is what you have in mind. Second, I’d just prefer letting it be.”
He didn’t press, but still had the mind to do something. He would respect her wishes, for now.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said.
“So am I.”
CHAPTER 44
He was a staunch loyalist, a blind devotee to his master’s will. As assistant to Rav Schachter, he enjoyed immense prestige and honor, though the things sometimes asked of him portended neither. He rationalized, believing the righteousness of his mandate. Even in moments such as this.
The camera in his hand was an instrument of God, or so he thought, capturing the baneful sinners soon to meet their lawful reckoning. He lurked, and hid, and stalked, until he got what he’d come for: the evidence. And when it was his, a sudden surge of nausea overcame him, as if he despised both his deed and the chieftain who’d ordained it. But only momentarily, until the rationalizations returned, and once again he saw himself doing his part to uproot evil and depravity. For there was nothing else a man of such position could do.
Rabbi Isaac Weissman paced nervously in the hallway, waiting to be summoned to the inner sanctum. He had no idea why his presence had been requested, and had even been inclined to refuse, but for his curiosity.
What could Rav Schachter conceivably want?
He heard footsteps approaching, lifted his head, and saw the assistant coming his way. It was time.
He entered a dark room and beheld what seemed like a large shadow behind the desk. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that the elder was actually turned away from him, looking out the window. A moment passed before Schachter acknowledged his presence.
“Ah, Reb Yitzchak, it has been a long time,” Schachter exclaimed spiritedly, swiveling the chair around to face his visitor.
“Yes, it has.”
Isaac recalled his encounters with Schachter, almost thirty years earlier, when he had first come to America. Isaac had been but a simple Talmud teacher from Poland, and Schachter, who had been trained in the celebrated yeshivas of the holy land, had been touted as one of the great minds of the community. Many had even regarded Schachter as a candidate to one day assume the position of Rebbe, considering that Rav Yosef Yitzchak, the Rebbe at the time, had no sons. Isaac was one of many who had attended Schachter’s lectures, and had enjoyed a peripheral relationship with the scholar. Yet even then, he had sensed something about Schachter that left him uncomfortable.
It had all crystallized after the death of the Rebbe. Instead of Schachter, Yosef Yitzchak’s son-in-law and distant cousin, Menachem Mendel, had been anointed to the throne. Schachter had reacted badly: irate, resentful, and eventually vindictive. Rav Yehudah Feldblum, who had been Schachter’s closest friend and confidant since childhood—also a great scholar in his own right—was forced to break from Schachter because the man’s temperament had become insufferable. A core group of students had followed Feldblum, Isaac among them.
Schachter, not yet bereft of disciples, began to rebuild his ranks. In the years that followed, he became more outspoken on issues dividing the community, and emerged as the leader of a reactionary element within the community. He was appointed to a seat on the Bes Din, and gained much influence. Some even speculated that the Rebbe had granted all this as a consolation.
Feldblum and his followers had remained quiet for the most part. Feldblum was a soft man, more concerned with studying and teaching than politics, and he encouraged his students to behave likewise. But on some issues, as in the case of allowing outsiders into the community, or permitting rabbis to teach the unaffiliated, Feldblum had found himself forced to contradict Schachter publicly.
Over the years, divisiveness gave way to enmity, yet both men managed to maintain their respective positions as close advisors to the Rebbe. Perhaps
, as Isaac had once mused, the Rebbe was able to see what others couldn’t, and thus welcomed contention among his followers.
“I’m glad you could come,” Schachter said. “Sit!”
Isaac complied, as the two men scrutinized one another. Schachter wore a solemn expression, and Isaac was not very good at hiding his own tension. Despite not knowing the purpose of the meeting, Isaac was certain it was going to be unpleasant. But that was okay; he had managed far more formidable obstacles than Schachter could possibly ever conjure up. Or so he thought.
“I’m sorry to have taken you from your busy schedule,” Schachter continued, “but there is a matter that has come to my attention, and I am sure you would want to know about it immediately.”
“And vhat might that be?”
“It concerns your daughter, Rachel.” Schachter waited a beat for Isaac’s reaction. He enjoyed watching his adversaries cringe. “And I want to say, Reb Yitzchak, that this matter came to my attention by sheer accident.”
“Vhat matter is that?”
Schachter lifted a manila envelope from his desk, and said, “In here are some photographs that someone brought me. I can’t tell you who the messenger is, only that he is a fanatic, a crazy bal t’shuva who believes he is doing some sort of mitzvah. I can assure you that I have rebuked him sternly for his behavior, that these pictures will never be seen by anyone other than you and me.”
With that, Schachter leaned forward and offered the envelope to Isaac. “And what do these pictures show?” Isaac asked, hesitating to take the envelope.
“It embarrasses me even to describe it. Here, see for yourself.”
Isaac stared at the envelope for a moment. He was not one given to premonitions, yet was certain that the instant he opened it his life would change forever. He looked askance at Schachter, and opened the envelope.
Schachter watched Isaac remove the pictures and examine them. He allowed the silence for a few minutes, and then said, “I’m sorry, Reb Yizchak, this is truly terrible for you.”
“Vhat do you vant?” Isaac asked, his face crimson, his body trembling.
Schachter feigned innocence. “What do you mean, what do I want?”
“It is obvious that you are showing me these for a reason. Otherwise, you vould have burnt them and forgotten about them, so vhat do you vant?”
“Reb Yitzchak,” Schachter said, “I understand you are upset and, therefore, not thinking clearly, but I can assure you that my intentions are only to shield you from harm. You are correct, I could have burnt these and forgotten about them, but then the situation between your daughter and this man would have continued. Who knows, eventually the pictures might have landed in the hands of someone less discrete than I. I thought it my obligation to inform you, that is it.”
Isaac wasn’t buying, but knew he had no option other than to play along. “I’m sorry,” he said, trying to calm himself. “I am upset.”
“Please, Reb Yitzchak, there is no reason for you to apologize!”
Isaac looked silently at the elder.
“It is devastating when something like this happens,” Schachter said. “Truly devastating! I feel your pain, Reb Yitzchak, as I always feel the pain when any of our children are led astray. That is why I fight so hard to keep our community safe, to keep our children protected from the poisons of the world. We have not always agreed, I know, but now I am sure you will see the value and importance of what I have been trying to teach. Now, that you have personally experienced the anguish that comes from leniency with our ways, you will understand why it is crucial to be stern, to keep our gates closed and corruption from our midst.”
Isaac contained the rage welling within. He wanted to lash out, to grab Schachter, to strike him. But he did nothing, for he knew that if he lost control, he and his family would forever be marked. He sat there, praying for God to help him hold his tongue.
“I’m sorry this had to happen,” Schachter added. “But it is at moments like this when Hashem gives us the opportunity to examine our ways and see that we can truly grow. I am sure you don’t need to hear this now, but when you go home and think about things, I know you will agree with what I am saying.”
“And vhere are the negatives?” Isaac asked, ignoring the sermon.
“Excuse me?” Defensive.
“The negatives, vhere are they?”
“Reb Yitzchak, of course I have instructed the fiend who took these pictures to destroy them. And I can guarantee you that he has done just that.”
Isaac didn’t bother pressing for the identity of the photographer, for he knew who the real devil was. He replaced the pictures in the envelope, and dropped them on Schachter’s desk.
“Don’t you want to take them?” Schachter asked.
“No, I don’t.”
“Then I will burn them.”
“Yes, I’m sure you vill.”
Pictures of his daughter with Joshua flashed through Isaac Weissman’s mind as he walked the street. He understood Schachter’s agenda clearly enough, even though it had been couched in code: Change your alliance, join me, or else! But Rachel with Joshua, he couldn’t begin to fathom that. Where had he gone wrong? What horrid sin had he committed to warrant this? And what was he to do about it?
He walked, and he remembered—painful memories, of which he had more than enough. They came vividly, as they always did, as if they were occurring then and there. A two year old boy on his lap, a Sabbath melody; flames, soldiers; a cattle car, a woman beside him, a boy in his arms; a line, a man with a list, struggle, screaming; darkness.
He tried once again to reach beyond the darkness, to capture those final images of the boy and woman being dragged away. But there was only darkness. And Rachel with Joshua.
He walked on, heading nowhere, faltering, unaware of the world around him, images battering him with unrelenting force: Rachel as a little child on his lap at the Sabbath table, singing, rocking in his arms. He hears her voice and feels the softness of her hair against his cheek. He kisses her head. How she has blossomed, so beautiful, so brilliant, so filled with love and life. And now this.
The darkness returned. He stumbled, leaned against a wall, and didn’t know where he was. All he could see was the darkness; all he could feel was a great hunger, unlike anything he’d ever known. It was a hunger for air, as he gasped and struggled to fill his lungs. But it was not to be.
He felt himself slipping downward, the hunger subsiding as he merged with the darkness. Almost blissful, even comforting, he relinquished the last morsel of suffering connecting him to this world. He was going someplace else, beyond the darkness, where there was light, luminous and redeeming. And the lost faces of a young boy and a woman, waiting.
Hannah and Rachel raced into the emergency room. The phone call had come just ten minutes earlier, and had provided no information aside from the fact that Isaac had been brought in by ambulance. They hurried to the reception desk, gave their names, and were asked to wait while the clerk called for the doctor.
Marcia Schiffman suddenly appeared, her face revealing what her tongue could not utter. Rachel and Hannah looked at each other and knew. Rachel turned toward Schiffman again, praying to be wrong, hoping for any words that would dispel the dreadful reality. But all the doctor could say was, “I’m sorry.”
Rachel’s legs gave way as she collapsed. Schiffman dashed to her side, caught her, and eased her into a chair. Hannah helped, almost forgetting her own despair. Rachel regained consciousness quickly, but was still unable to hold herself up. She fell into the chair, limp, deadened.
Hannah sat down, and put her arm around Rachel, bringing Rachel’s head into her chest. She held Rachel the way she had when Rachel was a child. And Rachel was still her child, frail, in need of comfort and reassurance. She had to be a mother for now, her own grieving would have to wait.
Schiffman stood silently, helpless.
Rachel let out a blaring shriek, her body began to tremble. Hannah held her tightly, trying to sooth
her. Schiffman watched, feeling a tightness in her throat. Her own mother had died when she was four years old, and her life as a doctor had been much too busy for marriage and children. The scene upset her, she needed to escape.
A few seconds later, Schiffman found herself staring into a mirror above a bathroom sink, tears gushing from her eyes. She was certain that Rachel and Hannah hadn’t noticed her slip away, certain that none of the other doctors or nurses had seen her running toward the bathroom. She quickly washed and dried her face. She had to be professional. No time for this sort of thing.
She slipped out of the bathroom and back to the treatment rooms where her patients awaited, figuring Rachel and Hannah wouldn’t notice her absence. She promised herself she would phone them later, maybe even stop by the house to see how they were faring. But in her heart she knew she wouldn’t, she couldn’t. Death was something she still had trouble with, even after all her years in medicine. It was life that concerned her, sustaining it, saving it. Death was always a fact. There was never anything she could do about it, not when she was four, and not now. She needed to get back to work.
The funeral was the next morning. An ominous rainstorm bore heaven’s testimony to Isaac Weissman’s sainthood. Despite the short notice and inclement weather, there was a good turnout. Neighbors and friends of Isaac’s and Hannah’s, many of Rachel’s girlhood friends, students and teachers from the many different yeshivas in the neighborhood, the Elders, and even the Rebbe.
Esther and Stephen stood close to Rachel. Paul Sims, driven by an obligation to honor his former teacher, found an inconspicuous place amid the crowd. He was looking around, expecting his father to appear, but Alfred had arrived late and was hidden somewhere in the back. Also in the back, noticeably separated from the other elders found prominently by the Rebbe’s side, Rav Nachum Schachter stood with his assistant, both men visibly shaken.
Since he’d heard the news of Reb Yitzchak’s death, Schachter’s feelings had vacillated between guilt and vindication, the former seemingly stronger than the latter. Part of him reasoned that every war has its casualties, that every true soldier has blood on his hands. But in his heart of hearts, he knew there could be no excuse for his horrendous deed. He would have to live with it.