by Julia Dahl
And so, Rothstein went to his superiors at the Crown Heights Jewish Council with a proposal: allow him to create a public relations and development office. It took some convincing, but after a few weeks of meetings, he was granted permission to call himself the Council’s Community Relations Manager and to spend some of his time forming relationships with reporters and civic leaders in New York City in order to advance the interests of the movement and better protect the population.
But he could only spin the situation in Crown Heights so far. The police needed constant reminding that the taxpaying, law-abiding citizens of the neighborhood were watching when they rolled past corner drug deals and let thefts and assaults and vandalism go virtually uninvestigated. It took two months for the commander of the 77th precinct to agree to meet with him. The relationship was not a warm one, especially now, a year after the riots, when the neighborhood had become an international symbol of ineffective civil authority and citizen unrest. It didn’t seem to matter to Commander Greg Harbrook that it was the blacks—not the Jews—who destroyed entire blocks with fire and baseball bats. Let it burn, seemed to be the precinct motto. Harbrook actually said as much in an emergency meeting with Rothstein and senior Chabad leadership the day after Yankel Rosenbaum was murdered in the street.
“We don’t have enough manpower to control every angry nigger in Brooklyn. And now with Sharpton bringing his people in…” He shook his head. “Let them get it out of their system. It’ll die down eventually.”
Rothstein did what he could to use the riots to build support for community. And in some ways, the experience created a kind of lore around the Lubavitchers of Crown Heights. The Jews on the Upper West Side had fled to Westchester in the sixties, and as the blacks moved into Brownsville and East New York, those Jews moved to Long Island. But not even a virtual civil war could uproot the men and women of the Chabad movement. Donations began to pour in from as far away as Russia and as close as Prospect Park West.
Isaiah Grunwald was one of those donors. Rothstein knew many of the men who owned buildings in the neighborhood, but Isaiah was not particularly active in the community, so when the stocky Israeli appeared in Rothstein’s office in the fall of 1991, Rothstein didn’t recognize him. Isaiah handed him an envelope and said that he could count on the same donation each quarter. Naftali opened the envelope and saw a check for five thousand dollars.
“You know that my wife and I have not been blessed with children,” said Isaiah.
Naftali nodded. It was a great sorrow for a Lubavitcher couple to be childless, but some were, of course. Naftali did not know Isaiah’s wife, and he wondered if she, like other chassidish women who were barren, felt out of place in the community. It occurred to him that it would be a mitzvah to use some of Isaiah’s donation to create a group for those couples. A monthly meeting space, perhaps, to share and comfort. He made a mental note to ask his superiors about the idea.
“We cannot raise Jewish children of our own,” continued Isaiah. “We would like to help the community educate and care for the students who come here to learn.”
Isaiah did not stay long. Unlike many donors giving far less than he was, Isaiah did not appear to want Rothstein to flatter him, or to arrange a special seat in shul or a one-on-one meeting with the elderly Rebbe. In fact, while the checks came each quarter, Naftali did not see Isaiah until nearly a year later, a few weeks after the Davis murders. Rothstein was in his office working on his monthly newsletter when Isaiah appeared in the doorway.
“Good Shabbos,” said Rothstein, inviting the man inside.
“Good Shabbos,” said Isaiah.
The two men asked after each other’s families and made small talk of the upcoming trial of Yankel Rosenbaum’s murderer, the Rebbe’s health, the weather. There was nodding, and then Isaiah lay an envelope on Rothstein’s desk.
“Hashem has blessed me with a particularly profitable year. This gift is in addition to my quarterly contribution.” He gestured to the envelope, encouraging Rothstein to open it. Inside was a check for ten thousand dollars.
“This is very generous,” said Rothstein, clearing his throat in a bumbling attempt to mask a wide grin. Rothstein had recently approached the Council’s leadership for a raise. His wife was pregnant with their sixth child, and in May his father-in-law lost his entire retirement in a bad land investment in New Jersey, forcing Rothstein to step in to make mortgage payments so his wife’s parents didn’t lose their home. Leadership promised to take his request into consideration at the monthly financial meeting, scheduled for next Tuesday. A surprise ten-thousand-dollar addition to the quarterly balance sheet, thought Rothstein, might just make the difference.
“I wonder if you might be able to assist me with something,” said Isaiah.
“Anything.”
“One of my tenants has come to me for assistance. His brother was murdered in July. Shot to death in his home on Troy Avenue, along with his wife and daughter.”
“Yes!” exclaimed Rothstein. “I remember the case. A horrible, horrible tragedy.”
“Unthinkable. My tenant’s only consolation has been that the murderer—the man’s own son, if you can believe it—confessed.”
Rothstein nodded.
“But now, it seems, the murderer has changed his mind. He is pleading not guilty.”
“No!”
“Yes. And my tenant is concerned that the prosecutor might be lenient because he is still a teenager. They are not wealthy people, but they have scraped together enough money to hire a private attorney to ensure that the family’s interests are represented.
“I know that you have developed a relationship with police, and I am hoping that perhaps you might be able to help the family obtain the documents the police have on the case. I believe there was an eyewitness, for example.”
Rothstein nodded his head. “It is very generous of you to help this family,” he said. “As it turns out, I am friendly with one of the officers involved. Let me see what I can do.”
Isaiah stood up. “I knew I had come to the right man.” He reached forward and squeezed Rothstein’s hand. Rothstein saw that Isaiah was missing the tip of his right index finger. He had heard that Isaiah fought in the Six Day War, and although he was certainly not one to fetishize violence, at that moment he felt a surge of respect for his donor. There were many in the community who disliked Isaiah Grunwald. They felt he was insufficiently pious, and there was talk about his business practices. The Rebbe instructed his followers who were able to help establish housing for Jewish families: apartments with more than three bedrooms, two sinks for kosher cooking; buildings with outdoor space suitable for building a sukkah. Isaiah Grunwald had done this, and then, people said, he got greedy, and bought crumbling buildings in other areas, looking for a quick profit. But who was Rothstein to say? And while some would have seen Isaiah extending himself for a black family as suspect behavior, Rothstein, who believed that peace with their goyish neighbors was in the best interest of the community, admired it.
“I will look forward to hearing from you,” said Isaiah.
Rothstein wasted no time. Shabbos did not begin for another two hours, so he donned his hat and jacket, set the newsletter aside for Monday, placed Isaiah’s check into his locked desk drawer, and set out for the 77th precinct. September was a beautiful time of year in Brooklyn, and Rothstein, feeling particularly optimistic, decided to take a chance and walk up Utica instead of hailing a taxi. The yeshiva students were all outside, too, holding their binders and books, laughing, smoking cigarettes on the benches along Eastern Parkway. Rothstein envied the young men, and some days the envy soured him. But today, with ten thousand dollars in his desk drawer and a mission to assist a grieving family, he felt as if the work he was doing was helping to strengthen this place he loved. Perhaps, he thought, people like Isaiah and himself, people some might call too modern, too involved with those outside the community, perhaps they were playing an essential role in protecting the Jewish community, in
allowing it to thrive in this hostile place. Perhaps the fact that he cut his studies short was a blessing for the community, even if it felt like a burden to him. He would do well to adjust his attitude toward that part of his past, he thought. He looked forward to expressing this new idea to his wife at dinner.
He smiled and nearly skipped across Albany, noticing but not despairing in the overturned garbage can and broken beer bottles at the corner. The black people on the street watched him, but he did not feel afraid. If someone threatened him, he imagined himself saying, I am on an errand to help your brother! We are neighbors, all of us! In the imaginary encounter the imaginary black man shook his hand and patted him on the back, sending him on his way.
He arrived at the precinct at shift change. Uniformed officers, some with handcuffed men in tow, filled the two front rooms. Rothstein caught the desk sergeant’s eye and the cop waved him past. What a fortunate man he was, to be known and respected here. He found Saul Katz at a corner desk, poking at a typewriter with two fingers. He looked weary, his shoulders hunched over, and Rothstein noticed that Saul’s head was bare, his kippah laying atop a stack of folders.
“Good Shabbos,” said Rothstein.
Saul looked up and returned the greeting, then turned his attention to his typewriter.
“You will have to excuse me,” he said. “My shift commander wants this report…”
“Absolutely!” said Rothstein. “I see it is a bad time. I have a question but it can wait.” He patted his breast pocket where he kept his copy of the Tehillim, the Book of Psalms. “I will busy myself until you are available.”
“It shouldn’t be long,” said Saul. “Thirty minutes.”
“We have plenty of time before sundown,” said Rothstein. And then: “Saul! Do you have plans for Shabbos dinner?”
“Naftali…”
“Yes, yes, I know, you are busy. But please, would you join us? It would be an honor.”
“Fine,” said Saul. “Now…”
“Say no more!” Rothstein made a gesture like he was zipping his lips. He wrote his address on a slip of paper. “Can you make it by nine thirty? I will meet you after shul.”
* * *
Naftali’s wife had prepared a roast chicken for dinner and was delighted when Saul appeared in her dining room.
“Wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Someone to appreciate my cooking!”
“Your husband is not enough?” gasped Naftali playfully.
Zelda waved him off. “My husband will eat anything,” she said, beaming at Saul. “He is not at all discerning. I could serve boiled fish every night and he would be pleased. It is no fun to cook for him.”
“It smells delicious,” said Saul.
Zelda ushered the men into the tiny dining area, where the table was set neatly with tall white candles burning in silver candlesticks, paper plates, paper napkins, and plastic utensils. When their fifth child was born, Zelda announced that she was finished washing three meals worth of dishes for seven people. Cookware and serving plates and the baby’s bottles were enough. Naftali knew enough not to argue—even if, as the Rebbe instructed, he occasionally rolled up his sleeves to help her at the sink. The dining chairs were upholstered in pink and yellow fabric, and covered in plastic; the table was overlaid with a mauve oilcloth. Like many chassidish families in Crown Heights, the Rothsteins were poor. Furniture and clothing was second- or third-hand, meals were simple, utilities carefully conserved, brand names unheard of. But, as Naftali motioned for his guest to sit next to him, Saul could see that their poverty was material, not spiritual. The apartment was cluttered, but there were tracks in the carpet from a recent vacuuming. Zelda yelled for the children, and all five came running: three boys and two girls, ages three to fourteen. One of the girls brought the challah to the table, then returned to the kitchen to bring a plate of salmon and crackers. Another brought a bowl with salad, and finally Zelda appeared with the chicken. Over dinner, Zelda quizzed the children about what they had learned in school. It was the second week back, and there were many stories about new teachers and new rules and new students. Saul filled his plate twice—he could scarcely remember the last time he ate a homemade meal—and marveled at the lively discussion. When Zelda told the children their guest was a police officer, the kids went wild, asking if he got to arrest people, asking if they made him shave off his beard, asking if they could see his gun.
“Why aren’t you with your family for Shabbos?” asked the eldest boy.
“Mendel!” shushed Zelda.
“It’s fine,” said Saul, smiling at Zelda. “I was working late. Your tatty came to see me and told me how wonderful your mommy’s cooking was. I simply had to eat some myself!”
The boy furrowed his brow. He was not satisfied by Saul’s response, but did not press him further. Saul took a sip of wine and saw Naftali and Zelda exchange a smile. How he envied them. Why had he been cursed with such doubts? Such discontent? Such blasted contrariness? Look, he said to himself, look what you could have had. And yet he knew he and Fraidy would never have been like Zelda and Naftali. When she gave birth to Binyamin, Fraidy had nearly died, and the doctors had to do an emergency surgery to remove her uterus. The shock of it stunned them both, and neither had the emotional tools to comfort the other. They sought help from their rabbi, who suggested prayer, of course, but they simply could not come together. And so each sought solace separately. Fraidy turned to her sisters, bringing Binyamin to meals and playtime with his cousins, sometimes staying for days in New Jersey, obsessed with the idea that he should become as close to them as he would to the brothers and sisters he would never have. Saul, working then at her father’s hardware store in Borough Park, turned to his radio, finding meaning and moments of joy in the music, but also the voices of the men and women who read the advertisements. Their excited sales pitches occasionally carried him off into another world. A world where a new mattress or a trip to Atlantic City could change everything. He tried to tell Fraidy the way the radio made him feel. How the news reminded him that they were not alone in their suffering, and how the music reminded him that there was still beauty in Hashem’s world. But she would not listen. The radio was forbidden. That—not her husband’s misery, his loneliness, his bumbling attempts to soothe himself—was what she cared about. She was a small-minded woman. And he began to hate her.
After dinner, Zelda and the girls cleared the table and cleaned the kitchen while the boys disappeared into a bedroom. Saul asked Naftali what he had wanted to speak about when he came to the precinct that evening.
“I was hoping you might be able to help me obtain what I believe are public documents,” he said. “Do you remember the family that was murdered on Troy Avenue in July? Mother, father, and a little girl.”
“Yes,” said Saul. Truthfully, he hadn’t thought about the Davis case in a while. After working with Olivetti, he was moved to the newly created sex crimes unit. Homicide had been difficult, but he would have gladly returned to it after just a week on this new rotation. The depravity he encountered each day seemed to know no bounds. He had seen children—babies—literally torn apart, ripped open by ravenous monsters masquerading as human beings. Dead bodies could not recount the moment their killer pulled the knife or the gun, could not describe the fear, or the feeling of the hammer on their skull, the bullet in their gut. But these living victims, with their still-bleeding wounds and their shame, they burdened his soul and tested his sanity in ways he could never have anticipated. Each day seemed to bring an attack more vicious than the last, a victim more stunned and debilitated. Saul knew, looking at the women lying in their hospital beds, that the justice he was there to help mete out was not likely to comfort them. Many refused to cooperate with the official investigation. Their attackers were often friends or family members, and even if a jury convicted—which was rare—they would never, truly, be free of them. By the time he appeared at their bedside, or in their home, the victims were so fundamentally altered by what had happened to them t
hat Saul felt he was no better than a newspaper reporter, picking at their pain in the name of “the job.”
“The son confessed,” said Saul, “if I remember correctly.”
“Yes,” said Naftali. “But he has decided to plead not guilty and take the case to trial. One of my most generous donors is a landlord, and apparently one of his tenants was related to the victims. The family, as you can imagine, is distraught. They have hired an attorney to represent their interests but have been unable to arrange a meeting with the prosecutor. They are concerned the murderer may be treated lightly because of his young age.” Naftali made up the part about not being able to meet with the prosecutor. He was on a roll. “They are hoping to get a copy of the case file to make sure that everything is being done properly—all the i’s dotted and t’s crossed.”
It seemed like a reasonable request, and as Zelda brought slices of homemade cinnamon babka to the table, Saul said he’d be happy to make a photocopy of the file.
“Why don’t you come by Monday,” he said to Naftali.
The next Monday afternoon, Naftali collected the file from Saul, and that evening Isaiah Grunwald collected it from Naftali.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Wednesday morning Judge Sanchez is at the records office before me, arguing with the clerk, a young Latino man with a sliver of a beard shaved across his jaw.
“Let me talk to your boss,” she says.
“She’s not going to tell you anything different,” says the man. “Everything before 1995 was in storage in Red Hook and got destroyed in Sandy.”
“Well, that’s remarkable, since we’ve already been told this particular file was destroyed in a fire in 2001.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” he says.
