by Andrew Kane
Schachter thanked God that Reb Yitzchak had left the photographs behind. He would destroy the pictures and the negatives, and spare the Weissmans any more anguish. There was nothing to be gained from a scandal; what Rachel Weissman did with her life would be left for God to judge.
In truth, however, his motivations were more self-serving. He knew that if the photographs were ever discovered, his former confrere, Rav Feldblum, would most definitely suspect his involvement. And that would be more difficult to live with.
In either case, the connection between Isaac’s death and the pictures would be obliterated. No one would know about Rachel and the black man, except Schachter and his assistant, and Rachel. Just as she had blamed herself for Isaac’s first heart attack, she blamed herself for his death. Reward and punishment, that was the way she had been bred to understand the universe. People get what they deserve, and for her that was the coffin containing her father’s body being lowered into the ground.
It was a simple view of life, and one which she would gladly have discarded if she had been able. But she was stuck with it, the remorse it brought, and the contrition it demanded. Her father was gone, and he had never been so influential in life as he would be in death. There was nothing left to argue, and no one left with whom to argue it. She had always understood, but now she would listen. At last, she would abide by his will, in silence, in agony.
She would never fathom how a man as gentle as he, a man who’d survived the crematoria, could harbor even an ounce of prejudice. She wanted to believe that what she yearned for was not so awful, that eventually her father might have come to accept Joshua. But deep down she knew she was deceiving herself. Her father, as all men, had his limitations.
She hadn’t informed Joshua of her father’s death, and hadn’t wanted him at the funeral. As for why, she didn’t know. And as for what she was going to do about Joshua, she also didn’t know.
Around her, the crowd wept as the men took turns shoveling the earth upon the casket. It was a great mitzvah to bury the dead, but one in which only men partook. The Rebbe began to pray and others joined in. The Hasidic way: praising God during life’s worst calamities, always awaiting a glorious tomorrow. Rachel had given up on that tomorrow long ago.
CHAPTER 45
Joshua had read about Rabbi Weissman’s death in the Times’ obituaries, and tried not to think about why Rachel hadn’t called. He felt angry for having been excluded, and knew it hadn’t been an oversight.
He considered paying respects during the week of shiva, but thought it best not to. Once again, rejected; once again, a victim of his color. He was growing weary of the fight.
A month passed, and still there was no word. During that time he busied himself with getting things in order: office supplies, furniture, advertising, even building a small list of clients from the commerce association’s roster. He visited prospective clients at their businesses, and was always greeted favorably. It was gratifying to see how many people had heard of him, and how willing they were to place their trust in his hands. But it didn’t lessen the pain.
On Connie’s final day with the DA, she and Joshua were scheduled for dinner to celebrate their partnership. He was sitting at his desk, working on a new client’s file, already late for his dinner appointment, when he heard the front door open. He hadn’t gotten around to hiring a receptionist. There wasn’t any money for that just yet. He got up, and walked out to the waiting room to see who was there.
He wasn’t sure if he was surprised, happy, or angry. Rachel just stood there, wordless, looking at him, waiting for a reaction. Without thinking, he walked to her and took her in his arms.
“I’m sorry about your father,” he said.
At first, she just leaned her head on his shoulder. Then she looked at him, and said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t know what to do.”
He told her he understood, though he really didn’t. He waited a beat, trying to contain his frustration. “How’s your mother doing?” he asked.
“She’s handling it, I suppose.”
“And you?”
She shrugged. “Some moments are harder than others.”
“If you ever need to talk…”
“I know.”
He glanced at his watch. He was very late for his date with Connie, but didn’t want to leave. “I hate to say this, but I need to be someplace about fifteen minutes ago.”
“That’s okay,” she answered, obviously disappointed.
“Can you come by tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s good.”
“How about five?”
“That’s fine.”
She waited till he locked up. They said good-bye on the sidewalk outside, shared a stilted embrace, and he watched her walk off, wondering if she would really come back. That was the way things were with her, the way they probably always would be.
The following afternoon he sat in his office, anxiously waiting for five o’clock. Unsuccessfully distracting himself with work, he glanced at the clock every ten minutes. At exactly five on the button, he heard the front door.
He got up to go out and greet her, but Connie, sly fox that she was, had beaten him to it. He had told Connie about Rachel’s visit the night before at dinner, and figured that Connie had planned this all day, had waited for Rachel’s arrival just as he had. It was her opportunity to prove that she could be friendly and hospitable toward Rachel. Joshua stayed in his office, allowing the women their pleasantries, gathering his wits.
He listened for a minute, took a few deep breaths, and stepped out to the reception area. They both turned toward him. “Hi,” he said to Rachel.
“Hi,” she responded.
Connie stood there, silently observing. She was more worried for Joshua than jealous.
“Why don’t you come on into my office,” Joshua said to Rachel. “I just have to clear my desk and we can get going.”
The two women exchanged smiles. It was genuine, they shared something and both knew it. They would need to get used to one another, to work out their respective roles. A woman’s thing.
Rachel followed Joshua into his office and Connie went back into hers. Joshua gathered some papers, put his files away, and straightened up his desk. He hadn’t realized how busy he’d been until he started cleaning. It was a good feeling. He was on his way to success, at least as a lawyer.
It was a nippy afternoon, mid-March. Spring was around the corner, teasing from time to time, but it was still too cool for a long walk. “How about dinner?” she asked.
He was surprised, for they’d never actually broken bread together. He couldn’t imagine what exactly she had in mind. All the local Kosher establishments were bound to be filled with people who might know her, and he didn’t really think she was inviting him to her mother’s home.
“What do you think about going into Manhattan?” she asked. “I know a place there, a vegetarian restaurant where I went once with Esther.”
“Okay, sure. Sounds great.”
He locked up and hailed a cab. He was a big lawyer now, and could afford to splurge. Okay, not so big, but at least smart enough to know that public transportation was too “public.” Which also made him suspect that this vegetarian restaurant was probably some tiny, out of the way dive, suited for bohemians like Esther.
The place was called The Greenery, and was located above a leather shop. There were eight tables in all, only two of which were occupied when they walked in.
“Is this place Kosher?” Joshua asked Rachel, while they waited to be seated.
“It’s vegetarian.”
“But that doesn’t necessarily mean Kosher, does it?”
“It’s Kosher enough.” Dismissive.
He let it go. It was obvious that she was making compromises, and wasn’t completely comfortable about it.
The manager, an overweight woman wearing an earth-toned gypsy dress, showed them to their table, presented their menus, and told them that their waitress would be with th
em shortly. They sat on uncomfortable straw chairs, and perused their menus in silence. There had been a lull between them since Rachel’s last comment.
“I’m sorry, Joshua,” she said, looking over her menu. “This is the best I can do right now.”
“Do you think things will ever be different?”
“I don’t know. All I do know is that I love being with you, spending time with you, talking with you. I can’t stand the thought of not being able to do any of those things, not for a second.”
“And that’s enough for you?”
“No, it’s not enough,” she answered pensively. “But it will have to do.”
She watched for his reaction. She was setting the rules, and hoping he would comply.
“Okay,” he said, “We’ll try it your way.”
CHAPTER 46
Israel Turner looked in the mirror, not for vanity, but for the simple satisfaction of seeing himself. He smiled at his stocky, bearded image. Soft eyes, not a fraction taller than five feet four inches, fifty-four years old, and a miracle. He couldn’t get over the fact that he was alive, and fortunate to celebrate yet another Succoth holiday, the time of year when the Jews praise God for protecting them through their travail and wandering.
To Israel Turner, this was a momentous occasion, for he had endured more than most, and had personally experienced the beneficent hand of the Lord. Together with his wife, he had survived the crematoria of Auschwitz and had come to America. They raised children, and built new lives among the Lubavitch community in Crown Heights. And still, Israel Turner took nothing for granted. Each holiday, each celebration, each opportunity to rejoice with his family was a gift. A miracle.
And tonight was a double celebration, not only the final night of Succoth, but also the Sabbath. A paradoxical combination, a time when one is commanded to both rest and revel simultaneously. But the Hasidim never truly rested, not when it came to serving God. So now, after the festive dinner had been concluded, the community would once again gather at the great synagogue on Eastern Parkway for song and dance, into the wee hours of the morning. It was a way of life that suited Israel Turner perfectly.
The meal had been delightful, as usual. His five year old foster son, Zvi, had enthusiastically joined him and his sons-in-law in the melodies; his baby granddaughter cried and fussed; and the three women took turns soothing her. Notwithstanding the difficulties he had walking—a limp, courtesy of the camp guards—and a scar ridden body, there was so much to be thankful for, so many reasons to praise God.
In his present life, Israel Turner had become an auto mechanic. It was a hard living for an honest, religious man, but it was enough. For him, it was more than enough. If he could put food on the table on an evening such as this, it was simply another miracle.
It was late and he was tired, but he would not submit. He rinsed his face, hoping the cold water would bring a second wind, straightened his tie, and went out to the living room to say goodbye to his wife. She would be remaining at home, baby-sitting, while the others went off to the celebration. He kissed her and his granddaughter, and promised an early return. She knew not to take such a promise seriously.
After exiting his building on Empire Boulevard, he walked past his ground-floor apartment window and saw his wife standing, holding the baby, waving to him. He waved back and proceeded with the others, all of whom were walking slowly so Israel could keep up. He smiled, and told a few jokes along the way, ignoring the strain of the journey. Ever the wit, his friends and neighbors would say, always good for a laugh.
Kingston Avenue was teeming with Hasidim, all heading to the main synagogue. It was a beautiful sight, Israel thought, all these frum Jews living, worshiping, and celebrating together. Reminiscent of his youthful days in Eastern Europe.
He turned the corner onto Eastern Parkway, and was stunned by the crowd outside the synagogue. Each year it grew, devotees migrating from all corners of the earth just to be close to the Rebbe, to celebrate on the holy streets of Crown Heights. He arrived too late to actually get into the synagogue, but the song and dance had spread to the street. It was loud and joyous, and Israel Turner was content just to be there, to witness such jubilation. Another miracle.
He mingled for a while, mixing and kibbitzing with compatriots. His limp made dancing difficult, but singing was another matter. He clapped his hands mightily, and sang at the top of his lungs. Yes, God had protected him, had saved him, had brought him and his loved ones to this moment. God deserved his adulation.
It took some time, but eventually his energy waned. He looked at his wristwatch. He had left home more than two and a half hours earlier. The festivity was still going strong. He hated to leave, but sleep was beckoning.
He would never have thought of asking anyone to accompany him home. He had walked these streets so many nights alone. God was always watching. He said his good-byes and went on his way.
As he sauntered down the Avenue toward Empire Boulevard, the sounds of the celebration faded in the darkness. The street grew barren and quiet, except for the clicking of his shoes upon the pavement and the soft humming of his own melody. He walked on, in oblivion, as if the night were his friend.
Suddenly, behind him, he noticed the sound of someone else. He turned to see who it was, perhaps a neighbor. There was nothing. Curious, but undaunted, he continued, turned the corner and approached his building. When he came to the window of his apartment, he stopped, tapped on the screen, and called to his wife. He didn’t have a key—carrying was expressly forbidden on the Sabbath—and needed her to let him in. She came into the living room and as she approached the window, she saw what would forever alter her existence.
Israel Turner faced his assailant with the same courage he had shown the Nazis so many years before. He was not afraid. God would protect him.
“Please, leave him alone, he has no money,” his wife yelled from the window. She ran to the door, hoping to get outside to help her husband.
Israel tried to talk his attacker down, to explain that Jews don’t carry money on the Sabbath, but the man with the .25 caliber pistol wouldn’t relent. Before his wife had made it to the lobby, she heard what sounded like two gunshots. She told herself it couldn’t be, until she came out and saw for herself.
Lying on the holy streets of Crown Heights was the body of Israel Turner. The miracle was over.
The police broadcasts were transmitted within moments of the shooting. Black man, late teens or early twenties, medium height and weight, wearing a cream colored leatherette jacket and brown pants. Believed to be armed and dangerous.
Seconds later, about three blocks from the shooting scene, a fleeing man answering the description was spotted and apprehended by two patrolmen. The suspect was searched and found to be in possession of a .25 caliber handgun. He was taken into custody, and later charged with the crime when the ballistics report came back identifying his gun as the murder weapon. His name was Larry Pilgrim.
Israel Turner was buried two days later, on Monday September 29, 1975. The service was held at the Agudath Israel Synagogue on Crown Street, followed by a procession of at least five hundred mourners trailing the hearse. They marched past Israel Turner’s home and onward to the Empire Boulevard police station.
The crowd stopped at the station-house for a brief demonstration to express their anger over the lack of adequate police protection. The demonstration was supposed to be solemn and peaceful, in keeping with proper funeral etiquette. It was anything but.
Prominent members of the community took turns speaking from the station-house steps to the mournful crowd. Onlookers, mostly black people from the neighborhood, began to gather. Directly across the street from the station-house, in Junior High School 61, classes were disrupted as children moved from their desks to the windows to see what was happening.
Suddenly, someone shouted, “Heil Hitler!”
Not an ear in the crowd missed it. People turned, looking at one another in shock, looking at the spectators in
rage. Then, another shout: “Hitler was right!”
Some of the mourners, convinced they had identified the agitator, lunged toward a black man and a woman standing beside him. The police observed the commotion, and charged through the crowd to break it up. During the struggle, they managed to rescue the woman and bring her into the school for safety. The man, however, had broken free and fled, but he didn’t get far. Two other officers quickly grabbed him and began escorting him to the station-house. The mourners, however, had another idea.
One of the officers was knocked to the ground while his partner, still standing, was pummeled from all directions. The Hasidim broke through to the black man, and began beating him before reinforcements arrived. The children, watching from the school windows, joined in, hurling more cries of Heil Hitler!
Several of the mourners turned toward the school, looking with disgust, but there was no inclination to go inside. A line had to be drawn.
It was a while before the police took control and the turmoil was quelled. The crowd eventually dispersed, the procession moved on, and the body of Israel Turner was taken to its final resting place. The man and the woman who were apprehended later denied having uttered any anti-Semitic slogans. They were identified as Nelson Martin, 22, and his common-law wife, Yvonne Gonzalez, 17, who was in her fifth month of pregnancy. They were both taken by police to Kings County Hospital where they were examined and released. Neither they, nor any of the mourners, were arrested.
The entire ordeal had lasted but a few minutes; the fallout would linger for decades.
CHAPTER 47
Joshua’s practice quickly grew. Practically every legal problem belonging to any black person within a five mile radius seemed to land on his doorstep, and he took them all. Real estate closings, partnership formations, wills, personal injuries, and occasional penny ante criminal stuff. He wasn’t choosy.