“I think God had a plan for me, Clarence, and he sent that angel to make sure it happened.”
“That why you a preacher?”
Joe laughed and guided the boy toward the door. “In a way.” They left the sanctuary and went into the kitchen. Two fresh challahs lay on the kitchen counter. Clarence eyed the braided loaves. “You hungry?”
Averting his eyes, the boy shook his head.
“That’s too bad,” Joe said smoothly, “because Mrs. Gershon—you know—the old lady with the cane around the corner? She brings them to me every week. But I can’t eat them.”
“You cain’t?”
“I—I have this allergy to wheat, you know? But don’t tell her. I don’t want her to feel bad.” Joe shrugged. “You’d be doing me a favor. Otherwise, I’ll have to throw them away.”
Clarence slipped the loaves under his arm and turned around. As he walked out, Joe noticed he was favoring one foot. The plastic thong on the boy’s sandal had come apart from the base.
***
Joe stood on a ladder washing the windows inside the sanctuary, wondering how much time he had left. He couldn’t pay the bills last month, and it wasn’t going to get any better. It wouldn’t be so bad at the Yeshivah, he reasoned. Maybe he’d even go to Israel on sabbatical.
When Clarence showed up, the boy was wearing new sneakers, and Joe thought the boy looked a little fuller around the middle. Clarence yanked his thumb at the angel window.
“Does an angel got to be white?”
“I don’t think so,” Joe said. “Why?”
The boy smiled. “‘Cuz I think I done seen one.”
“Is that so?” Joe climbed down the ladder.
The boy nodded. “I be pushing my bed over by the window the other night, it bein’ hot n’ all. I couldn’t sleep. So I look-ed out the window and saw some kinda thang bendin’ over the steps outside our building. All dressed in black. I couldn’t see it good ‘cuz it was late and it was real dark. There wasn’t no moon, neither. But I seen it lef’ something on the steps. And then, well, this thang just wasn’t there no more. I sneaked down the stairs—my momma tol’ me ‘boy, don’t you never to open the door to strangers, hear’—but I open it anyways. And there was this big ol’ basket of food. And new shoes, too! Just my size.”
The rabbi smiled. “Sounds like an angel to me.”
“They straight, too.” The boy pirouetted in his new shoes, then looked at Joe. “Hey, preacher. You got any more windows to learn me?”
***
As he passed Seidman’s pawnshop, something made Joe look up from the weeds poking through the sidewalk cracks. When he saw what was lying in the window, he crept closer. Disbelief sent a chill down his back.
He pulled open the door. The shop bulged with shelves of suitcases and leather goods, jewelry, art. A wizened old man with a bristly mustache leaned his elbows on the counter. He was watching a small black and white TV.
“You believe this?” The man straightened up as Joe came in. “A president secretly tapes his conversations for two years? An enemies’ list? What kind of country are we living in?”
Rabbi Joe didn’t answer.
“They’re saying he had five microphones in his desk and two more in lamps by the fireplace. And that’s just one room.” The man shook his head. “Well, one thing’s for sure. Sooner or later we’ll know the truth.” He looked Joe up and down. “So. I’m Seidman. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to see one of those medallions in the window.”
Seidman shuffled over and leaned in. “Which one?”
Joe pointed. He thought he saw disapproval in the pawnbroker’s eyes as he retrieved it and handed it over. Joe studied the piece. It was dull and brown, and a big splotch of tarnish concealed most of the imprint, but if you looked closely, you could see the legs. A chill edged up his spine. It was the same medallion. He was sure of it.
“You a collector?” Seidman stood in front of him, arms folded.
“No.”
“You never know these days. I get people—” He sniffed. “Well, I don’t know why they bother. Monsters.”
But Joe was back thirty years. A summer day. A piece of gold glinting on the ground. A fiery angel framing the door of the shed. It took a moment for the pawnbroker’s words to register. “What did you say?”
“I said, why some people want to collect this drek is beyond me. But they tell me there’s a market for it. And it’s growing.” He shrugged. “Like I said, what kind of a country—”
Joe cut him off. “What are you talking about?”
Seidman frowned. “That.” He pointed to the medallion in Joe’s hand. “Nazi Military memorabilia.”
Joe stared at the pawnbroker, then the medallion.
“That there’s a horseman’s proficiency badge. See the man on the horse? Only Germans of stature got this badge. The elite. High ranking army officers.”
“A German Army officer?”
“Maybe SS, but, come on, how many Nazi thugs could ride a horse?” Seidman said scornfully. “No, this belonged to a real German.”
Joe clutched the medallion. A long-buried image swam past his eyes. The man with the ribbons and badges. Shouting orders through a metal tube. Retreating across the compound, his shoulders hunched. It was shortly after that Joe had seen his angel. Found the medallion. Heard someone shout, “Achtung. Do you want to kill me?”
He brushed a finger across the medal. The image of his angel had sustained him as he worked his way across Europe. The angel had kept him safe as he crossed the ocean. He’d promised to spend his life honoring the God who gave it to him. He’d become a rabbi because of it.
Sure, he might have entertained the notion, during a moment of quiet self-reflection, that his angel was actually a person. A human being. But that didn’t make what happened less of a miracle. His rebbis had said so: Hashem had chosen him. He was proof the Nazis didn’t win. That was all that mattered. And Joe believed them.
Now, he raised a weak hand to his temple. The medallion that had saved his life—his medallion—belonged to the enemy. Was this some cosmic joke? A dirty trick? Were the past thirty years a mistake? A quirk of fate? Did it all come down to a tarnished sportsman’s badge in a pawnshop? A dull ache gathered in the center of his chest.
He was still staring at the medallion when he became aware that Seidman was watching him. Joe looked up. “What did you mean ‘this belonged to a real German’?”
Seidman shrugged. “The German army and the Nazis… you’re talking two different animals.” He fingered his mustache. “Some of them—the soldiers—were even decent men.”
Joe looked out to the street. Two boys with dark skin and wooly hair sassed each other as they trudged past the shop. He watched them turn the corner, jabbing each other’s shoulders as they disappeared from view.
A bit of trash, a foil wrapper, perhaps, swirled in their wake, glinting in the sun as it drifted down to the sidewalk. Joe watched it settle, dull and gray. He tipped his head to the side. As he did, a beam of light leapt up from the sidewalk. He canted his head the other way. The light disappeared. Joe realized he could reclaim the light at will just with a shift of his head. He could make the piece of trash shimmer and sparkle or stay flat and dull.
He turned around. Angry, self-righteous voices spilled out from the television. Joe only half-listened. The choice of faith was his. Not his rebbis’. Not Seidman’s. Not even the men on television. In the end, it didn’t matter who’d been the instrument of his salvation. A German soldier, a Nazi, an angel—it was divine intervention, regardless. He had survived. Wasn’t that the lesson of the windows in the shul? The lesson he was trying to teach Clarence?
He pulled out a handkerchief and started to buff the medallion. As he rubbed it with the soft white cloth, the surface of the metal gradually brightened, and the imprint of the horse grew more distinct.
Seidman cleared his throat.
Joe looked up. The man’s arms were folded across his chest. “
How much?” Joe asked.
Seidman’s scowl reached up to his eyebrows. “For that?”
The rabbi nodded.
The man shrugged. “Twenty bucks.”
Joe pulled out his wallet.
Five minutes later, Joe made his way down the street, the medallion safely tucked in his pocket. He couldn’t remember feeling so light. Even the blistering heat seemed soft. In a world overrun by evil, a man had sought redemption—by saving the life of a child. The cycle of hate had been broken. That man had been his angel.
Joe grinned. He knew another boy who could use the miracle of the medallion. A boy who might—with the right encouragement—reclaim his hope and faith. He couldn’t wait for Clarence to show up at the shul. He had something to give him.
THE END
THE ELLIE FOREMAN SERIES
“Libby Fischer Hellmann has already joined an elite club: Chicago mystery writers who not only inhabit the environment but also give it a unique flavor… her series continues in fine style… (Ellie)… lights up the page with courage and energy.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Not only has Hellmann created a compelling group of believable characters, but the mystery she places them in is likewise plausible and engrossing. Highly recommended, even if you don’t live in Illinois.”
—David Montgomery, Chicago Sun-Times
“Hellmann owes a debt to fellow Chicagoans Sara Paretsky (complex plotting) and Barbara D’Amato (excellent research)—but she’s the brash young thing making this formula new again. I can’t wait for the next book!”
—Robin Agnew, Aunt Agatha’s
“Hellmann has surpassed herself. Well-crafted, intense and exciting, right up to the last page… a must read!”
—Laurel Johnson, Midwest Book Review
“A masterful blend of politics, history, and suspense… sharp humor and vivid language… Ellie is an engaging amateur sleuth.”
—Publishers Weekly, November 4, 2002
“Ellie is a particularly believable protagonist… she’s a pleasure to spend time with. Hellmann once again has made it convincing that this amateur would be involved in the investigation of a crime… and it’s always a pleasure not to have to consciously suspend disbelief.”
—Reviewing the Evidence
More at http://libbyhellmann.com
THE GEORGIA DAVIS SERIES
“Hellmann brings to life the reality of hazing and bullying among teenage girls in a story with enough twists and turns to keep you reading to the end. Highly recommended.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Just what’s needed in a mystery… Depth of characterization sets this new entry apart from a crowded field.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Georgia is a principled, compassionate character, determined to do the right thing, even if it doesn’t follow conventional assumptions…”
—Booklist
“Libby Hellmann can get into the mind of a character, whether the character is a mentally ill man or a teenage girl. PI Georgia Davis, the no-nonsense heart of this tale… finds a darkness I didn’t see coming. This is good stuff, very good stuff.”
—Stuart M. Kaminsky, Grand Master, Mystery Writers of America
“There’s a new no-nonsense female private detective in town: Georgia Davis, a former cop who is tough and smart enough to give even the legendary V.I. Warshawski a run for her money… Hellmann knows how to distill the essence of a character in a few unadorned but dead-right sentences.”
—Dick Adler, Chicago Tribune
“Hellmann’s done her homework here and it shows: the writing is assured, the voices authentic, and the understanding both of criminal investigations and relationships among cops, lawyers and prosecutors come to life with great urgency. Davis’ arrival on the mean streets is long overdue.”
—Sara Paretsky, author of the V.I. Warshawski series
“Libby Fischer Hellmann has indisputably crossed the line into the realm of great crime fiction writers.”
—Crimespree Magazine
CHICAGO BLUES
“This classy anthology of mostly original short stories from 21 renowned Windy City authors blends the blues, crime and Chicago, quite surpassing Akashic’s recent Chicago Noir… This impressive volume has soul, grit and plenty of high notes.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Twenty-one excellent reasons stay out of the Windy City…”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Gritty, excellent.. has my highest recommendation!”
—Midwest Book Review
“An impressive group of stories… an amazing group of authors…”
—Crimespree Magazine
“If you want a sample of the gritty, sticky pavement of crime, of the grasping, panting, unredemptive jazz of big city noir, this one is a winner. A keeper.”
—Carl Brookins of Reviewing the Evidence and Mystery Scene
“A monument in words to this funky, mysterious and eternal American city… a fine collection.”
—Luis Alberto Urrea, The Hummingbird’s Daughter
“Chicago—its neighborhoods, its history and atmosphere, are all wonderfully captured in this terrific short-story anthology… a gem-filled anthology.”
—Oline Cogdill, Mystery Scene
More at http://libbyhellmann.com
Nice Girl Does Noir -- Vol. 2 (Intro by J.A.Konrath) Page 15
