“Please, everyone, sit down,” Mrs. K said. Her apartment is, like mine, divided into a living room (or parlor, if you prefer), a bedroom, and a bathroom. In a corner of the living room is a kitchenette, just a small sink, a fridge, and a microwave oven. There is an electric kettle for making water for tea. The living room is nicely decorated, with a small wooden dining table with four padded wooden chairs on one side and a beige sofa with matching chair on the other, separated by a small glass coffee table. Mrs. K had pulled one of the dining chairs over for the fourth person. Menschyk first sat on the sofa, but when he saw that one of us ladies would have to sit on the wooden chair, he immediately stood up and insisted he be the one to take that chair. Such a polite man is Menschyk, a gentleman from the old school, as they say. I then sat on the sofa with Mrs. K, and Fannie sat on the matching chair.
Mrs. K asked if anyone would like some tea or coffee. Fannie and I declined, but Menschyk said he had been running around so much with his calls that he had missed lunch and would not mind some tea. Fannie then said, “Well, if you’re making tea, Rose, I guess I could use some,” and so in the end Mrs. K made tea for everyone and brought in some chocolate biscuits as well.
When Menschyk had munched a cookie or three and washed it down with his tea, he said to Mrs. K, “Well, Mrs. Kaplan, what did you want to discuss with me?”
“Actually,” she replied, “it is not just I who wants a discussion, but also Fannie, Mrs. Kleinberg, here. Perhaps it is she who should explain.”
She then turned to Fannie and said, “Fannie, dear, please tell Dr. Menschyk what you told me and Ida.”
Fannie looked around, seeming a bissel nervous, but finally she looked at Menschyk and, after glancing over at Mrs. K, told again her story of Vera’s fear of poisoning.
When Fannie had finished the telling, Menschyk asked her, “So are you asking me to say whether or not your sister was poisoned? Mrs. Kleinberg, I can hardly…”
“No, of course not,” Mrs. K said. “All we are asking you, as the one who treated Vera’s sickness and who made the death certificate, is this: Given all that you observed, is it possible that Vera was poisoned? Or can you say with certainty she was not?”
Menschyk did not answer right away. I assume he was trying to remember all of the things he saw and heard surrounding Vera’s death. We all just sat quietly and waited.
After maybe a minute, Menschyk looked up and said, “I’m afraid I can’t give you a definitive answer. I wish I could. First of all, you’ll understand that I cannot reveal anything about Mrs. Gold’s treatment to anyone whom she did not specifically say could be given this information.”
I have heard of this problem, the “Hippo” law or whatever it is called—I am sure it was not named after such an animal, but it is something like that—and in fact once when I had a bad fall and was taken to the emergency room, the doctor refused to tell my niece Sara anything about my condition, even though she is my closest relative living in this area, until I signed a paper with lots of big words saying it was okay. Another job for the lawyers.
“Fortunately, Mrs. Gold did sign an authorization for disclosure to Mrs. Kleinberg, and I don’t think the fact that you two are here”—indicating me and Mrs. K—“with her consent creates any difficulty.”
“So you can tell us?” Mrs. K asked.
“Well, yes, but there isn’t much to tell. You asked me whether it’s possible your sister was poisoned, or can I say with certainty she was not. That depends what you mean by ‘possible’ and ‘certainty.’ In my opinion, as I stated on the death certificate, your sister died of natural causes. Does that mean it was impossible she was poisoned? No, although I would consider it highly unlikely. But there are poisons that mimic the symptoms of a natural death. So I cannot say that your sister’s death—or that of anyone who died under similar circumstances—could not possibly have involved poison. I can only say I see no reason, from what you have told me, to change my original opinion. When a seriously ill woman in her eighties dies with no apparent reason to suspect otherwise, we tend to assume she died of either her illness, old age, or more likely a combination of both.”
“But she seemed to be getting better,” Fannie said. “Doesn’t that alone make her death suspicious?”
Menschyk smiled. “Not really. Sometimes very sick people’s condition improves just before they pass away. It’s not terribly unusual. In any case, only an autopsy could answer your question with certainty.”
“You mean with an autopsy you could say whether she was poisoned?”
“Oh, yes. In fact, Mrs. Kleinberg, an autopsy with toxicology would be the only way at this late stage.”
“And how does one go about getting this autopsy?” Fannie asked.
“Well, if you are serious about pursuing this, it would require the consent of Mrs. Gold’s son. His name is Daniel, I believe?”
“Yes, it is,” said Mrs. K. “So you are saying without Daniel’s consent, even if Fannie—Mrs. Kleinberg—wishes to have such an autopsy, and even with Mrs. Gold having said what she said, there could not be an autopsy?”
“Yes, that’s correct. He is her closest relative and, at least under the laws of this state, the only one in a position to give the necessary consent. Unless, of course, there is a police investigation, and a court orders the autopsy.”
“Well, then,” said Fannie, “that should not be too much of a problem. I shall explain the situation to Daniel and ask him to give his consent. Will you be the one to perform the autopsy?”
“No, that’s not one of the things I generally do. It would be someone like a pathologist. Of course, if it were the police who requested the autopsy, it would be the district medical examiner or one of his associates, and you wouldn’t need the next of kin’s permission. But I don’t think what you have told me qualifies for that kind of—”
“Wait,” Mrs. K said, interrupting Menschyk’s speech, which was becoming a bit long. “It just occurred to me that, because Daniel is extremely frum, he may not be so willing to give his consent.” Frum just means very religious. “He belongs to an Orthodox congregation that interprets Jewish law very strictly.”
“That’s true,” Menschyk said. “I’ve run into that problem in the past, and it will depend just how religious he is, whether he shares Mrs. Kleinberg’s concern, and so forth.”
“I don’t quite understand,” Fannie said. “What would be the problem?”
“The problem would be, Fannie dear, that in general, autopsies are not permitted by Orthodox Jews.”
“I didn’t know that,” Fannie said. “Why the hell not?” She was sounding a little distressed, or maybe she was just upset by the entire discussion, because she does not usually use such language, at least in front of us. She stood up and began to pace up and down.
“Our family’s never been that religious,” she said. “We’ve always been Reform. This sort of nonsense is one reason why.”
I should perhaps explain here that a Reform Jew is more or less at the opposite end of the religious spectrum from Orthodox. While we all read from the same Torah—you know, the five books of Moses in the Tanakh—and say the same prayers, in interpretation we are quite different. Orthodox Jews tend to follow the Torah’s mitzvot, or commandments, much more strictly, and believe me, there are a lot of them to follow. In fact, tradition says there were 613 mitzvot in the Torah as handed down by Moses, including 248 things that you should do and 365 you should not do. Many, of course, are things, like to give to charity and not to commit fraud, that we all try to follow. Others, like keeping kosher in how we eat, are less widely followed by Reform Jews. But some mitzvot, or at least how they are interpreted—including the prohibition against autopsies—only the very religious follow. Suffice it to say, the more orthodox a Jewish person is, the more likely his actions will be subject to some kind of religious rules. Nu, it is the same in most religions, is it not?
But I am going on even worse than Dr. Menschyk. To continue, Mrs. K answered
Fannie’s question: “The reason is, I believe, because of the biblical prohibition against disgracing or disfiguring a body and the requirement of a speedy burial. I’m sure you know that is why Vera was buried so soon after her death.”
“It also has to do with a prohibition against failure to bury the entire body,” Menschyk added. “At least that is what I’ve been told. I remember one time an autopsy was performed on an Orthodox person and certain organs were removed for examination, but they had to be preserved and re-buried with the body after the examination. There are some exceptions, of course, such as to save another person’s life, but I don’t think any such thing applies here.”
It was plain that this discussion was becoming too much for poor Fannie, with all the talk of carving up her sister’s body and all. She sat down again and put her face in her hands. She was not crying, but she clearly was upset and on the verge.
As usual, Mrs. K stepped in to help. She went over and put her hand on Fannie’s shoulder and said, “I’ll tell you what, Fannie. You go ahead and ask Daniel if he will give his consent. Maybe we are worrying for nothing. But if he does not, then I’ll go and talk with him. I probably understand the religious issue a bit better than you, so it will be easier for me to discuss it with him.”
It was interesting to me that Mrs. K now seemed to have taken on Fannie’s position that there should be an autopsy, although personally I still did not think there was much reason for it. I didn’t know whether she actually believed Vera might have been poisoned, of which there certainly was very little evidence, or if she was just taking Fannie’s part and pursuing the question as a favor to a friend who seemed in no position to do the pursuing herself. Mrs. K is like that.
Fannie looked up. “Oh, thank you, Rose. I know Daniel is very fond of you and I’m sure he’ll listen to what you say.”
“I am very fond of him also,” Mrs. K said. “Let us see what he tells you and go from there.”
We thanked Dr. Menschyk for his time and advice—I did not know whether we would be receiving a bill for same—and he and Fannie left the apartment.
“So, Ida, what do you think now?” Mrs. K asked.
“I think that you have stepped into a real puddle of quicksand. And I have a feeling it will not be so easy to step out again.”
I did not add that I could feel my feet sinking in as well.
Chapter 7
After we left Fannie and Dr. Menschyk, Mrs. K told me she had promised to help Mrs. Bissela with a sewing problem she was having, so I headed back to my room by myself. On the way, I came upon an unexpected distraction.
I met in the hallway Moses Klein, whom everybody calls “Motorcycle Moishe.” (“Moishe” is just Moses in Yiddish.) This is because he used to be one of those nogoodniks who wear the black leather jackets and ride around on noisy machines like a pack of hyenas, just making trouble. A vilder mensch, he would have been called, a wild person. Now, this is, of course, many years ago I am speaking of, and Moishe eventually quieted down and became a successful businessman—selling motorcycles, of course, what else? And he did it very well, they say.
Moishe still has this very large motorcycle that he parks in the Home’s garage, although he stopped riding it alone some years ago. Now he only gets on it when his son, Moishe, Jr., whom they call “Little Moishe,” comes to visit and takes him for a ride. (I should point out that his son’s given name actually is Michael: it is customary not to name Jewish children after a living relative, because the Angel of Death coming to take the older relative might take the younger by mistake. Personally I doubt the Angel of Death is that careless, but why take chances?) Little Moishe is not so little, weighing maybe 250 pounds, while his father is weighing maybe half of that and really looking somewhat frail these days. It is something to see, I can tell you, the two of them on that big black machine: Motorcycle Moishe and Little Moishe, both in black leather jackets and black leather pants and with shiny black helmets on their heads—nu, at least they should be safe—roaring away, the father holding on for dear life to the son’s waist, or as much of Little Moishe’s substantial waist as his arms will fit around. And oy, with a noise that could wake the dead.
To tell the truth, every time I see and hear them ride off, I wonder whether they will return in one piece, because riding on one of those big machines looks to me about as safe as jumping off a cliff onto a pile of sharp rocks, shiny black helmet or no shiny black helmet.
Moishe is really a most pleasant man, always polite and with a smile for everyone. He lost his wife, Eva, to whom he was very devoted, about two years ago, and it took him a long time to get over her passing. But lately he has become again what you might call more social and has been trying hard to make new friends.
As I said, Moishe is a nice person, a mensch. He has just one little quirk. Well, maybe it is not so little. He still likes to dress like he is an “Angel from Hell,” or whatever silly name they call themselves, even when he is not riding on his motorcycle. Is it not a bit silly for a man of maybe eighty years to walk around in a black leather jacket with knobbly silver things all over it and boots on his feet like he is in the army? Es past vi a khazer oyringlekh, as my mother would have said: it is like earrings on a pig. Nu, to each his own. At least he does not wear the helmet to dinner.
So here comes Moishe clomping along in his jacket and boots. When he sees me, he smiles like a man who has just been served a nice bowl of chicken soup. He stops and says to me, “Ida, just the person I wanted to see.” I could not imagine why he wanted to see me, but soon I found out.
“Ida,” says Moishe, “I want that you should come with me for a ride sometime on my motorcycle. You would have a good time, and we could get to know each other a little better.”
Oy gevalt! Moishe did not speak many words in those two sentences, but what he did say, it set off several loud alarm bells in my head. First, I am being asked to go for a ride on that terrible machine of his, which I do not even like to be near when it is moving away from me. Second, I am suddenly having a picture in my mind of sitting on that machine wearing one of those black leather jackets and shiny helmets. Can you imagine me, a proper lady of over seventy, in such a costume? Third, since there appear to be only two seats on the machine, he must be suggesting that it is he, and not Little Moishe, his son, who would be sitting on the front seat and driving. And this I am sure he has not done in many years. Fourth, I would have to be wrapping my arms around Moishe’s waist, like he has around his son’s when he rides behind, which would be a most undignified thing for a lady of my age to be doing in public. And of course this leads to the last and most troubling thing about what Moishe is suggesting: that we should by doing this “get to know each other better.” Oy Gotenu!
—
Do not get me wrong. Even at my age, I am not against having what people now refer to as a “relationship” with a man. I have been a widow for many years now, and I am sure my dear husband, David, may he rest in peace, would not mind. In fact, such a thing is not uncommon here at the Home, at least among those of us who are still functioning properly in all the necessary ways, if you know what I mean.
No, the problem was not having a relationship, but only having one with Moishe Klein. He may be a very nice man and pleasant enough to talk to. In fact, I am sure many of the widows at the Home would be most pleased to have such a relationship with him. But between Moishe and myself we have in common about as much as did Golda Meir and the pope. Well, perhaps a little more than that, but you understand. He is, to put it plainly, “not my type.”
So when you put together that a man whom I have no interest in getting to know better is asking me to come and ride with him, on a machine of which I am terrified, while wearing a silly outfit I would not want to be seen in and holding on to him like we are close friends, in order that we might become even closer friends, you can understand why those two short sentences of his sent a shiver right from my kop down my spine to my toes and back again. Oy vey!
—
As I was at a loss to know how to respond to Moishe’s suggestion—I just stood there like a shlemiel—he spoke up again. “So how about it, Ida? What do you say?”
Now, what I should have said was, “Thank you for the invitation, Moishe, but I would rather not. It is nothing personal, but this is not something I would enjoy doing.” That is what I should have said. I am certain that is what Mrs. K would have said. But Mrs. K thinks much more quickly on her feet than I do. The best I could come up with was, “Thank you, Moishe, I will have to think about it.” And far from discouraging Moishe, this answer only gave him the idea I might actually be willing to ride on his motorcycle. He took my hand and squeezed it, said “Excellent,” bowed slightly in the European manner, and then continued down the hall, leaving me to wonder into what kind of pickle I had just gotten myself.
Whatever kind of pickle it was, I was afraid it wouldn’t be a good one.
—
Back in my room, I went over what had just happened and wondered how Mrs. K would have handled the situation with Moishe. Just before dinner, I stopped by her room to ask her.
“I wouldn’t feel too bad about it, Ida,” she said after I had told her about my strange encounter. “While Moishe might be a bit meshugge, he has always seemed like a mensch, really a good person who is maybe a bissel obsessed with his big toy.”
“I agree, but that is not the point, Rose,” I said, “although of course I would be more worried if he were a momzer instead of a mensch. No, it is that he seems to have some kind of ‘relationship’ in mind, and I have no desire at all to relate with him, whatever that might mean. Not to mention the part about riding with him on his machine.”
Mrs. K just laughed. “You are taking this too seriously,” she said. “My guess is that by tomorrow, if not already, Moishe will have forgotten all about his invitation. You’ll see.”
I didn’t see, at least then. But a few days later, when I again passed Moishe in the hallway, he simply smiled and nodded politely and passed by without a word. It seemed Mrs. K was right, as usual, and I had been taking Moishe—and perhaps myself—a little too seriously. I breathed a sigh of relief and went on my way.
A Pain in the Tuchis Page 5
