The Devil in Jerusalem (21 page)

He became a regular, abandoning all his other studies. He'd found what he was looking for.

“Your life is a mission. If you follow your heart, you will be directed to the divine sparks that belong uniquely to your soul, and for which your soul has returned to the world again and again to gather.”

Shlomie was entranced by the poetry of the words, by the intent, by the glorious purpose that was the stated ideal. He tried, clumsily, to transfer this enthusiasm to his wife.

“It's a way to reach God, face-to-face, like Moses!” he told her. “To be pure and good!”

“Yes, but what does it mean, really, Shlomie? What are you supposed to
do
? How are you supposed to live?”

“I haven't figured that part out yet,” he said honestly. “I'm trying to understand. The ideas are very deep. It will take time.”

More and more he attached himself to the learning group, so that he was gone almost every evening.

“You're never home,” she finally complained to him. “I never see you anymore.”

“Why don't you come, too, Daniella? They have classes for women. You're so smart. You'll understand it quicker than me.”

“I can't get out in the evening—you know that.”

“I was thinking of maybe inviting Reb Amos to give his lectures at our house.”

She hesitated. At least she would see her husband more often. More than that, she could stay abreast of the kinds of things he was learning. Now she felt left out.

“It's fine with me, Shlomie. Would he really come?”

“Why not?”

It turned out that Reb Amos was not only willing but eager to come, especially when he heard the address, which was in the most expensive area of the city, Rechavia. Soon enough, he and his students began to visit regularly, eating the elaborate buffet Daniella prepared for them, which she and Amalya served.

Sitting in the kitchen folding laundry, Daniella listened, trying to unravel the meaning of the esoteric phrases that peppered Reb Amos's lectures. Almost against her will, the constant instruction began to seep inside her consciousness. She felt herself less skeptical and more accepting. She told herself that her rational, scientific mind was growing, expanding beyond its narrow confines, just as Amos said it would, the new ideas dwarfing what she had believed before. Slowly, it took over her reality. She hardly noticed.

 

17

“Goodman, you have a visitor.”

Daniella looked up, surprised. So far, not a single person had come to see her in jail. Perhaps … was it? Could it be Him?

She jumped up, adjusting her head covering and smoothing down her skirt as she followed the prison guard to the visiting room.

He was sitting there at the table, his eyes cast down.

“Joel.”

He looked up, their eyes a reflection of each other's, eyes awash in misery. “Daniella.”

She took a step backward, turning to the guard. “Do I have to?”

“Daniella, please. I've come all the way from America. Please sit down,” Joel pleaded.

She hesitated. “Was it Mom? Did she send you?”

For a moment, he considered taking the first cab back to the airport.

“Of course not! What's wrong with you?”

She looked down, ashamed. “I don't know,” she whispered.

“I'm here because your children are suffering. I'm here because they're my nieces and nephews, and I love them. I'm here because you're my sister, and whatever has happened to you or whatever you've done, I love you.”

The resistance holding her body stiff and upright seemed to vanish. She stumbled to the chair, sitting down heavily opposite her brother.

“I'm in terrible trouble, Joel.”

“I know that. The police called me and told me everything.”

“They called you in America?”

He nodded. “I can't tell you the horrible shock of this on the whole family. Dad is ill, really ill. And Mom, well, she's almost catatonic over it. Refuses to attend any social gatherings. Won't even go into the store.”

Daniella twisted her lips into an ironic grin.

“You think this is funny?”

“I think Mom finally got what she deserved after all her attempts to produce the perfect daughter.”

He leaned back, away from her. “I don't think you have the slightest idea what you've done. You need help, a good psychiatrist. But before that, you need a lawyer, the best one around. I have some colleagues who recommended a few here in Jerusalem. I've been to see them. Not all of them are willing to take your case—”

“A lawyer turning down a fat fee? What?”

“I'm a lawyer, Daniella. And I can tell you that no amount of money in the world would induce me to defend a child abuser.”

“I didn't hurt my children! It's all lies!”

“Then why is Menchie in a coma? Why is Eli going into his fifth skin graft operation? Why are the rest of your kids hysterical?” he said in his best prosecuting-attorney voice. He could see that each question landed like a blow on her head. He paused. “Look, I'm not leaving, even if you throw me out. If you don't care anymore about your kids, I do. And Mom and Dad do. I'm coming to Israel with my family. I'm going to take in the kids and care for them. I'm going to get you a lawyer, the best one available. We are going to get through this as a family, with or without your permission, Daniella. I'm not expecting any thanks.”

“Thanks? You want me to thank you for barging into my life when you're not wanted? I have all the help I need. I have God. I have angels. You'll never understand.”

He shrugged. “All you have, Daniella, is a screw loose. I don't know how it happened, and frankly, at this point, I don't give a damn. While you're in la-la land, I'm going to be there for the kids, since you and your ex obviously aren't.”

“You can't take my children from me without my permission.”

“Where do you think your kids are now, Daniella? Who do you imagine is caring for them while you are sitting in jail with whores and drug dealers, and Shlomie has been forbidden to go near them?”

For the very first time, she thought about that, realizing she had no idea. She had somehow magically assumed Shem Tov, Ruth, or the tzaddikim would be caring for them.

“Social workers have divided them up among foster homes. Strangers are caring for them, or trying to. It isn't easy. They are all on the verge of nervous breakdowns. Your wonderful kids…”

She put her hands over her ears, his words unwelcome, confusing, rattling her surety and confidence, in the same way as her cellmates' abuse and name-calling.

He got up to go.

Suddenly, she leaned forward, grabbing a handful of the material of his jacket and clutching it. “Joel,” she said.

He waited, staring at her the way he would a stranger.

“I'm … sorry.”

“Tell that to your kids, Daniella. Tell that to your kids.”

 

18

Bina Tzedek raced through the city streets of Ashdod, speeding down the highway back to Jerusalem. At the entrance to the city, her phone rang again.

“I'm almost there, Morris.”

“Don't come to headquarters. Meet me in Rechavia.” He gave her the address. “Don't ask any questions.”

When she arrived, the door to the building was locked. She pressed the buzzer.

“Who's there?”

“Detective Tzedek.”

Morris buzzed her in. He grabbed her by both shoulders. “Finally!”

She was startled. She'd never seen him like this before. “What's up?”

“The White Witch's brother, Joel, has come in from the States with his family. He's rented an apartment and taken in Eli. The child has told him things—”

“What kind of things?”

He shrugged. “Child Protective Services has sent their senior child interviewer, Johnny Mann. I've worked with him before. He's amazing.”

“So what am I doing here?”

“You're a mom, right? I want your take.”

“How is the child?”

“The hospital released him a few days ago. He needs to rest before undergoing another skin graft. Social services thought it would be good for him to be with the uncle.”

“What's your take on him?” He was, after all, Daniella Goodman's brother. Didn't pathologies run in families?

“Honestly, from my first impression, he seems like a good guy: deeply concerned and anxious to do all he can to help his sister's children, even though they haven't been in touch for years. Yesterday, he called Johnny. Said the kid is starting to open up and talk. He wanted Johnny to record it. He wants whoever did this behind bars as much as we do.”

“What has the child been saying until now?”

“Not much. Some story about a blanket catching fire and his mother and the tzaddikim saving him. You can tell he's been spoon-fed every single word.”

“Will he talk if we're there?”

He shrugged. “We'll see.”

Joel was sitting on the couch with Eli in his lap. Johnny Mann was sitting next to them, joking with the child, who was laughing. Joel got up and extended his hand to Bina and Morris. He wore a T-shirt with the words T
HE
P
URE AND
S
IMPLE
T
RUTH
I
S
R
ARELY
P
URE AND
N
EVER
S
IMPLE
over washed-out jeans that looked like the real thing. On his head he wore a backward Yankees baseball cap, a head covering that gave nothing away about his religious affiliation or lack of it.

“Hi, Eli. What's up?” Bina said, smiling as she crouched down so that her face was level with his.

To her surprise, he smiled back, his sweet young face alive and curious, so different from the half-dead robot she'd seen in the hospital video. “I'm good,” he said, nodding, “with my uncle Joel.” The man's hands tightened around him, pulling him closer. He kissed the child on the top of the head. “He's watching me now.”

“Who was watching you before?”

His little face suddenly clouded over. “The tzaddikim and the Moshiach.”

Bina felt a chill.
The saints and the Messiah.

“You know, Eli, this is the first time Bina has met you. Can you tell her about yourself?” Johnny asked the child in Hebrew with a slight American accent.

The child nodded but didn't speak.

“Tell her your name.”

“Eliahu Goodman, but they call me Eli. He went to heaven in a carriage with horses.”

Morris and Johnny looked at him, puzzled.

“You mean Eliahu the prophet, right?” Bina asked, smiling.

The child nodded, delighted.

Johnny gave her an I-owe-you-one smile.

“And how old are you?” Johnny continued.

“Four years old and almost a half.”

“I see you're wearing blue pajamas today. What would you say to someone who said you were wearing red pajamas?” Johnny continued.

The little boy giggled. “They're stupid!”

Johnny smiled, touching him lightly. “Yes, that's true. And what would you say about a boy who broke his sister's doll and said his sister did it?”

“He's making up stories!”

“Very good! You're such a smart boy. And what if I said there's an elephant sitting on my lap?”

The child laughed louder. “You're telling funny stories!”

“Right! It wouldn't be the truth, would it?”

He shook his head.

“You know the difference between the truth and a lie?”

He nodded, his face suddenly serious.

“Eli, we heard that something happened to you. Can you tell us about it?”

He snuggled closer to his uncle. “I don't know.”

“You don't know or you don't want to talk about it? It's fine if you don't. No one here will be upset if you don't. Did you like it, what happened to you?”

He shook his head violently.

“Eli, how did you get those burns on your legs?”

“It was Menchie. Menchie pushed me into the heater … no … we were playing, running, I fell into it, by accident.…”

“And that boo-boo on your forehead? How did you get that?”

“Menchie put a nail on my head and hit it with a hammer.”

“Eli, you are such a good little boy; everybody knows that.”

The child looked up, as if surprised to hear this.

“But this story you are telling me, honey, it's a funny story, right?” Johnny smiled at him. “And it's okay to tell funny stories. Stories are fun to make up, I know, like the story about the elephant on my lap. But we really need to know the truth about what happened. Can you try to remember?”

The child's chin met his shoulder. “I don't know. I can't remember.”

“Eli, has anyone ever asked you to keep this a secret?”

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.”