Chapter 8
The day after Fannie, Mrs. K, and I met with Dr. Menschyk (and I had my encounter with Motorcycle Moishe), Mrs. K received a telephone call from Fannie. She said she had spoken with Daniel and asked him if he would consent to an autopsy of his mother. Apparently he flatly refused, saying it was against halacha, or Jewish law. So Mrs. K and Dr. Menschyk had been right in assuming Daniel would not give his consent so easily. Fannie said she did not try to argue with him, probably because she lacked the necessary information, and besides, since Mrs. K had offered to do the arguing for her, why should she bother?
Having made the offer, Mrs. K then had to make good on it and try to convince Daniel to give his consent. So she and I went to see Daniel. We had to visit him at his place of work, since of course he no longer would be coming to the Home to visit his mother, may she rest in peace.
Daniel was one of the senior pharmacists at a local Superior Drug Mart, part of a big chain in the state, only a few miles from the Home. We had telephoned ahead and he said he could see us anytime, as long as he was not in the middle of helping a customer.
“Before we visit Daniel,” Mrs. K said as we waited for a taxi to arrive, “I think we should make a stop at Congregation Beth Shalom, which is the shul where Daniel worships.” Beth Shalom means “house of peace.” Shul is just Yiddish for “school,” and for Orthodox Jews calling it a school emphasizes that the synagogue is primarily a place to learn. So I was wondering what it was Mrs. K was wanting to learn at Daniel’s shul.
“I am thinking,” she said when I asked, “that perhaps if we talk with his rabbi and can get the rabbi’s approval, it will help to convince Daniel.”
“And who is the rabbi at Beth Shalom? I know that Rabbi Goldstein, who was there for many years, retired recently, but I do not know who replaced him.”
“I’m pretty sure he was replaced by a rabbi named Brown, or Brownstein, something like that. Unfortunately, I’ve never met him and have no idea how flexible he is on matters like this. As you know, there is a lot of—what would you call it?—a lot of wiggle room with regard to interpretations of the Torah. So we shall see.”
The taxi dropped us off in front of a plain white building with “Congregation Beth Shalom” written across the entrance in big gold letters. We were fortunate that Rabbi Braunstein (Mrs. K had been close) was available to consult with us. We were ushered into his office by the receptionist. Rabbi Braunstein turned out to be a tall, slender man of maybe thirty-five or forty years, quite young compared to their former rabbi. We introduced ourselves, and when the rabbi asked what he could do for us, Mrs. K got right to the point.
“A good friend of ours, Daniel Gold, is one of your congregants.” The rabbi nodded. “As you may know, his mother passed away recently. Her sister, Daniel’s aunt, suspects there may have been…uh…what you might call foul play involved.”
“You mean someone might have deliberately killed her?” the rabbi asked. He seemed somewhat surprised, as one would expect.
“Well, that is what his aunt suspects, yes.” Mrs. K recounted briefly what Fannie had told us. The rabbi’s jaw dropped a considerable distance as she was recounting.
“This sounds like it could be a serious matter,” the rabbi said. “Has anyone gone to the police about it?”
“No, not yet,” Mrs. K said. “It seemed best to first find out whether there was anything to go to them about. And to be honest, I doubt what we have told you would be enough for the police to start an investigation. So we thought first we should learn precisely what Daniel’s mother died of, and for that there must be an autopsy.”
Rabbi Braunstein rubbed his chin and looked thoughtful.
“Yes, I see,” he said. “And I take it you’re aware of the prohibition against autopsies and have come to me to get my opinion, or maybe to get my blessing, so to speak. Is that right?”
This Rabbi Braunstein is pretty quick on the take-up, I thought. And he comes right to the point.
“Well, yes, that’s right,” Mrs. K said. “Do you think the circumstances warrant an exception from the usual prohibition?”
The rabbi did not answer right away, but he seemed to be turning this over in his mind. After a minute or two he shook his head a little and said, “This seems like something of a borderline case to me. That is, on the one hand, a murder investigation by the police is definitely a reason to relax the prohibition against autopsies, and in fact I doubt an objection on religious grounds would get very far if taken to court under such circumstances. But a murder investigation, so to speak, by a private person, even a close relative of the deceased, that’s another thing entirely. I hate to say this, ladies, but it seems to me that it is one of those situations in which a person—Daniel in this case—would be justified in withholding his consent.”
This, of course, was not what we wanted to hear. But Mrs. K is not one to take “no” for an answer when it is “yes” she wants to hear.
“I understand,” she said. “But suppose we ask the question from the other side. Is this maybe an in-between situation in which Daniel would also be justified in giving his consent? Is it maybe so in-between that either way would not be violating halacha?”
Again, the rabbi took his time thinking. When he answered he clearly was choosing his words carefully.
“Hmm, I suppose you have a point there, Mrs. Kaplan. I did say it was a borderline case, and as such I do think Daniel could be…could be justified in deciding either way, although on balance I still have to come down more on the side of no autopsy.” He paused before continuing, “Now, if you’d like me to do some research and see if this question has been decided before…”
Mrs. K rose and said quickly, “No, I do not think that will be necessary, but I thank you very much for offering….”
“Or,” he interrupted, “we could gather some members of the community and convene a beit din, and it could decide the matter….”
“No, no, I would not think of making such a big deal of this. And there really is not time to go through such a process.” A beit din (which means “house of judgment”) is a Jewish court. It goes back to Biblical times, and today in America it usually is used only to settle a dispute within the Jewish community. Three members of the community are selected to sit in judgment. Clearly Mrs. K felt she had gotten as good an answer already as she was liable to get and did not want to take a chance on what some strangers might decide.
We both thanked Rabbi Braunstein for his time and his advice. He seemed a bissel amused by our hasty exit, and I am sure he understood exactly why Mrs. K was content to take what she had and run. Like I said, he is a sharp one, that Braunstein, and he does not miss much.
The receptionist called for us another taxi, and while we waited for it outside, Mrs. K said, “So, Ida. What did you think of Rabbi Braunstein?”
“That man has saichel,” I said. “Common sense. He knew what you needed to hear, but he also knew what he had to say. He walked this tightrope very well, I thought.”
“So did I,” replied Mrs. K. “It is a wise man who knows when to speak, when not to speak, and also when to do both at the same time.”
—
We continued by taxi to Daniel’s place of work, the Superior Drug Mart on Twelfth Street. It is a big place, with a parking lot for maybe a hundred cars all around it, like a black moat with white stripes and a few colored boats floating here and there. As soon as we got near the glass doors that said “Entrance,” they swooshed open, with a sound like a large person taking a deep breath, and we walked in. They call it a “drugstore,” but in most of it they sell no drugs, but everything else from toys to televisions. Only a small part in the back is for buying drugs. When I was younger, the only drugstore we went to had an orange and blue sign on the outside that said “Rexall,” and inside the only things they sold other than actual drugs were maybe corn plasters and Epsom salts. Maybe also some Juicy Fruit gum and Life Savers.
The pharmacy part of the store was against t
he back wall, and we made our way there, passing by many things—like bags of salted snacks and sweet drinks, even liquor—that, if a person ate or used a lot of them, would make it much more likely they would need to buy medicines at the pharmacy. Maybe that is why these “drugstores” sell them!
Daniel was busy with preparing some potion or other for a customer, so we sat down on the chairs set aside for people waiting for their prescriptions. The one I was sitting on had a little plastic switch on it. It was turned off, but I wondered what it was for, so I pushed it to “on.” Immediately my seat—and I do mean both the chair and my tuchis—began to vibrate. It was most embarrassing, especially because I gave a little shriek—only a little one, but enough for Mrs. K to look over and see me squirming and shaking like I had shpilkes, pins and needles—you know, ants in the pants. She looked alarmed.
“Ida, is something the matter? What is wrong?”
“No, nothing is wrong, it is just…,” I managed to say, although my voice went up and down every time I did. I was fumbling for the switch to turn the vibrations off, but I could not find it.
Fortunately, Mrs. K figured out what was happening and she reached over and turned off the machine. What a relief! I am surprised they are allowed to sell these machines, much less inflict them on unsuspecting customers. I quickly moved to the next chair.
After a few more minutes—during which I recovered my dignity and we had a chance to examine closely several magazines and a special on toilet paper—Daniel came out from behind the counter and greeted us.
“Hello, Rose, Ida.” He gave us each a little hug. “It’s nice to see you again. I’ve missed our little chats when I was at the Home. So what can I do for you? Fill a prescription?” He sat down next to us, in the chair with the tricky switch. I’m sure he knew enough not to press it, though.
Mrs. K first said how sorry we were about his mother’s passing, although of course we had said this already at the funeral. He thanked us and asked after our health, which for a pharmacist might be a business as well as a personal question. We assured him we were in good health, except for my bursitis and a few minor aches and pains. I’m not sure he really wanted to know.
“So, Daniel, how is it to work in this big, fancy store?”
Daniel rolled his eyes and said, his voice lowered a bit, “To be honest, Rose, it’s not like when I was working at Midtown Pharmacy.” This was a small, family-owned drugstore where Daniel worked before they closed—they could not compete with the big chain—and he moved to Superior Drug Mart.
“No? Is that because it is such a large place?”
“Well, it’s that, but also it’s the whole experience. When I was at Midtown, I knew everyone and everyone knew me. I mean, the people I worked with had been there for many years, like I had, and most of the customers were from that neighborhood and I knew them by name. It was like we were all family, and I was in the position of helping them to get well.”
“And it is not like that here?”
Glancing around first, Daniel said, “I’m afraid not. First of all, we serve a much bigger area, not just a neighborhood, so a lot of the people we see have never been in before, or they go to whatever branch is handy when they need a prescription filled. They might come in here once or twice a year. And even with people who come in regularly, we’re under pressure to get prescriptions out as fast as possible, so for the most part they hire clerks to deal with the public—to take in the prescriptions and deliver them when they’re filled—and about the only time we pharmacists talk with customers is when we’re called out to make sure that someone taking a medicine for the first time knows what it is and how to take it. There’s not much time or opportunity to really become acquainted, or talk with them if we already know them.”
“But here you are talking nicely with us, are you not?”
“Of course, but I’ve had to make this my coffee break; otherwise I couldn’t take so much time with one customer.”
“I see,” Mrs. K said. She sounded a little concerned, as a mother might be if her son was having difficulty at work. “So if you are not happy, are you planning to continue working here?”
Daniel lowered his voice further and said to us, “As a matter of fact, I’m not. Can I tell you something in confidence?”
“Certainly,” Mrs. K said.
“Well, I guess it’s sort of an ‘every cloud has a silver lining’ thing. While my mother’s passing was a very sad thing, it was not really unexpected given her age and her illness. She died peacefully, and what more can you ask? When it’s a person’s time, it’s their time; it is all in the hands of Hashem.” (Hashem just means “the name,” and it is how many religious Jews refer to God.) “And as a result, I’m expecting to receive an inheritance that should allow me to quit this job and do whatever I want. It’s not the way you want to become wealthy, of course, but it will be a great help to me. And that’s what my mother wanted.”
“And how do you know this inheritance is coming to you?”
“Well, it’s not official yet, but to be honest, I did help my mother to draw up her will. She didn’t trust anyone else, even her lawyer. So I know there was a large gift to me. She wanted her estate divided half to me and the other half split between Fred Herrington and the Home. But I probably shouldn’t be telling you this until the will is official. And to be honest, I haven’t yet seen the will—I never had a copy. I think the police have it, but if so, it should be in her lawyer’s hands anytime now.”
“And who is this Fred Herrington, that he should be getting a quarter of the estate?” I asked.
Daniel looked surprised. “I’m sorry, I assumed you knew. After my dad died, maybe a year later my mother met this fellow Fred Herrington. He was somewhat younger than her, but they seemed to hit it off. They ended up living together for about four years, including the time when my mother made the will I’m telling you about. I don’t think they ever actually married.”
Mrs. K clicked her tongue. “Who knew?”
Mrs. K and I certainly did not. I doubt even Mrs. Bissela did.
“How did you feel about this, as Vera’s son?” Mrs. K asked.
“Well, I guess I had mixed feelings. On the one hand, he seemed to make my mother happy, which was often a pretty good trick, and I appreciated that. On the other, I couldn’t help worrying that he was just after her money.”
“Did you suggest this when your mother said she wanted him in her will?”
Daniel laughed. “I did kind of hint at it, maybe a bit more than hint, but if you knew my mother, you know that when she decided to do something, you didn’t easily talk her out of it. In fact, if you tried, she just might get even more determined.”
I could believe that.
“So what happened to Mr. Herrington?”
“Actually, I’m not sure. At that time my mother wasn’t living very close to me and I only saw her occasionally, and Herrington and I didn’t really get along that well. Then he kind of disappeared from the scene, and when I asked my mother about it, she never gave me a straight answer. I assume they had a falling-out of some kind and he just left. I know my mother wasn’t the easiest person to live with, and as I recall he was kind of a milquetoast, sort of meek and timid. Or maybe she kicked him out for some reason. Anyway, soon after that she moved to the Home.”
“And did she change her will after she moved?”
Daniel thought about this. “I really don’t know. She never asked me to help her with it again. I just assume ol’ Fred is still due to get that money. But if so, there’s plenty to go around.”
“This will, you did not sign it as a witness, did you?” Mrs. K asked, sounding a bit alarmed. “I know that would mean you could not take the money.”
Daniel laughed. “No, no. I knew that. No, my mother and I discussed what she wanted, and then we had a lawyer actually draw up the will and he signed it as a witness, together with a couple of secretaries in his office. So that’s how I know what it said. But I’m running
out of time on my break here, and I assume you wanted to see me about more than how I like my job. What was it?”
This was going to be awkward for us, as you can imagine. Here Daniel is making known how his mother’s death, while of course heartbreaking, was perfectly natural, and it is even a financial benefit to him and his family. And now we must tell him it is maybe not so simple.
Mrs. K cleared her throat and plunged in. “I believe your aunt Frances already may have asked you, but there seems to be some question from exactly what your mother died. So Frances would like that there should be an autopsy.” She obviously did not want to upset him with a suggestion about Vera being murdered, if it was not absolutely necessary.
Daniel looked slightly distressed by the question and did not answer right away. But after a few seconds, he said, “As you probably know, Rose, it’s against Jewish law to perform an autopsy. So like I told Aunt Frances, I would not be able to agree to that. I’m sorry.”
Unfortunately, we then had to give Daniel more details as to why we were asking. Mrs. K told him what Fannie had said, in a much abbreviated version, of course.
If Daniel looked slightly distressed before, he turned very pale at hearing this new information. And who could blame him?
It took him a minute before he recovered a bit and asked, “Did you…did you say that you…that Aunt Frances and you…think my mother was…was murdered?” He put his hand on his forehead, as if trying to understand. I can just imagine how I would have felt if someone had told me, after my mother or father had just passed away, that they might have been murdered. Oy vey, I probably would have fainted!
Mrs. K glanced at me sideways, then she patted Daniel’s hand and said to him, “No, Daniel, not exactly. All we are saying is that your mother may have said something to your aunt that makes us all wonder whether such an awful thing is just possible. I personally believe your mother died of perfectly natural causes, and Ida here does also. Of course, what we believe or don’t believe is not important, as we are not your family; but your aunt seems to be…to be uncertain, and she very much wants to have this question put to rest.”
A Pain in the Tuchis Page 6
