Hill of Secrets: An Israeli Jewish mystery novel

by Michal Hartstein

  His wife's head was adorned by a blue fabric head wrap which was tightly wound around her head, so none of her hair was showing. She wore a loose dress that matched her head wrap, of the kind that worn by secular girls who had come back from travelling the Far East, but she was also wearing a white shirt underneath it with sleeves down to her elbows. They were both wearing Source sandals, which I assume they also used for more challenging hikes than going down to the playground on Saturday morning.

  There's a higher chance of coming across this kind of couple in community settlements, mostly more remote settlements and settlements deep inside the occupied territories. The infamous Hilltop Youth gives them a bad name, because most of them do have nationalistic right wing tendencies, but most of them, if not all, are law abiding citizens, who pay taxes and serve in the army, have high environmental awareness and connect to nature and anything natural, which is why they escaped the cities.

  Most of the people in the playground were Religious Zionist, Modern Orthodox and Religious-lite. The external differences between them are familiar mainly to those who know these terms. They all wear knitted skullcaps, all the men (almost) were wearing white button-down shirts and tailored pants and all of the women wore dresses intended mainly for Shabbat or celebrations. No one wears jeans on Shabbat, though there's no prohibition to in the Halacha. T-shirts are worn only if they're really beautiful and embellished.

  The differences between their world views, most of them to do with lifestyle and amount of deeds to commit, were reflected in small nuances like the size of the skull cap and its color, the length of the sleeve or skirt and the type of head wrap (the vast majority of the neighborhood's women didn't cover their hair, but even a religious-lite woman wouldn't dare enter a synagogue with a bare head).

  I was out of place in the playground in my jeans and my tight T-shirt. There were a good number of secular families in the neighborhood, but they probably chose to get out of the neighborhood on Saturdays or at least not to visit the playground during the hours when the religious public "overtook" it. I stared at the passersby and they ignored me, or pretended to. Just like in high school, I was of no interest to anyone here, as usual, finding it hard to fit in, except now I had no desire to be a part of the crowd. These people, who I once was a part of, intrigued me. On the one hand, they were completely integrated in the life of secular society. Everybody worked as doctors, as lawyers, as engineers and such and went out to the movies and (Kosher) restaurants in the main recreation centers, but on the other hand, they lived in a community that is mostly expressed on Sabbaths and holidays.

  Since they're immobile on Shabbat and holidays, they meet at the synagogue or the neighborhood playground and have no way to escape being part of the community, unless they choose to shut themselves in their house every Sabbath. Because everyone knows one another, there's social pressure to at least appear to be a united and perfect family unit. The children and parents are all dressed in Shabbat clothes and look nice. I hadn't had "Shabbat clothes" for years. I had two or three dresses that were a bit fancier, but not particularly modest, so they couldn't be considered "Shabbat clothes". A second glance at some of the women made it clear to me that I was a bit hard on myself in regards to modesty. Many women, of the Religious-lite variety, wore the shortest skirts. They sat in groups on the benches and let the men watch the kids.

  I remembered the visit I made to the library earlier that week: during the week it seemed that the mothers carried most of the parenting load and on the Sabbath the dads took the reins. The couple next to me wasn't playing or talking to anyone. The other people who sat at some distance from where I was sitting talked heatedly among themselves, I assumed about the Danilowitz family. It had only been five days since Meir shot his family and killed himself, it was too hot and powerful a story. I wished I was sitting closer to them, maybe I could have heard things that they wouldn't tell me when interrogated. On the other hand, I knew that if they were to discover who I was, the conversations would not be free in my presence.

  Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that a couple with a stroller had stopped by the couple of "Spiritualists" next to me. The man was embracing the young man warmly. I looked at the couple again and recognized them. They were Anat, my Convent friend, and Motti, her husband, who were apparently attached to their latest offspring.

  "Anat?" I half called, half asked.

  Anat turned her head in my direction and happily called out, "Gunger!" She approached me and I got up from the bench in her honor and we hugged happily.

  "What are you doing here? Don't tell me you're working on the investigation right now…" I realized that she had already spoken to Tamar.

  "No, not at all," I smiled. "I'm looking for my sister's husband and my nephews."

  "I think I saw them in the playground near my house."

  "How do you know them?"

  "This is Givaat Shmuel," she laughed. "Everyone knows everyone."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "We're on our way to the second weekend family meal, at Tamar's."

  Motti approached me, pushing a stroller with a toddler of about two or three years inside it.

  "Shabbat Shalom." He smiled at me. I hadn't seen him in years and he'd aged considerably. His hair had thinned and grayed and tiny wrinkles carved his face near his eyes. He was always a kind and quiet guy. Anat was one of the first in our grade to get married. We were only twenty years old and a year later she was already a mother. Back then, the Convent gang, who were all single except for Anat, went on meeting, and Reut, Anat's eldest daughter, belonged to all of us - our pet baby.

  "Shabbat Shalom." I looked at the toddler, who was incredibly cute, but couldn't have been our Reuti. "Where's Reut? And the rest of the kids?" I had no idea how many children Motti and Anat had produced since Reut, and I didn't want to make a faux pas.

  "Reut is off at the Bat Mitzva Shabbat of her best friend in Nir Etzyion. Elad and Eyal went straight there after synagogue with Haggai and Neriya."

  By the way I was looking at her, she understood that I had no idea who she was talking about and added, "Elad and Eyal, my boys, are in the same classes as Haggai and Neriya, Tamar's boys. And this is Smadari, our little one." She bent down and wet-wiped the girl's face, which was covered with chocolate.

  "How old is she now?" I asked, as if I remembered that she had four kids.

  "Two-and-a-half." She straightened up and examined my svelte figure, as if searching for stretch marks. "I assume you're still into the ‘no kids’ thing?"

  "Still into it." I smiled a satisfied smile. Anat could never understand me, but has since given up trying.

  "I was sorry to hear you and Yinon broke up."

  "Yeah, so was I."

  I knew she had a lot to say to me, especially about the reason for my separation, but Motti and Avner interrupted us. Tamar and Yoni were waiting for them and they were anxious to go.

  "Maybe you could join us?" Anit offered.

  "My sister’s waiting for me."

  "So go up and tell her."

  "Some other time," I evaded and, to my relief, Motti and Avner were too much in a hurry to try and prevent Anat from insisting.

  After the group walked away, I spotted Noam, Shira's other son, running towards me. In the distance behind him, Moshe was slowly walking, holding Eran.

  "Aunt Hadas!" he yelled joyfully and hugged me. "Did you come to visit us again?"

  "Yes," I smiled and he sat by me and updated me on all of his latest news and especially about the big fight he just had with Udi Reichman and Yuvi Blich.

  Within a few minutes Moshe sat down at my side, dripping with sweat. He put Eran down and announced to him that he would walk the rest of the way alone.

  "Shira insists that he doesn't sit in a stroller anymore," he explained to me, "but what can I do when he’s so he's lazy?" I had no doubt that if Shira thought Eran should walk, then Eran should walk.

  "Where's Nurit?" I asked after my eldest n
iece.

  "She's at her friend's house next door."

  "How the time flies," I said and Moshe smiled.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Waiting for you."

  "Been waiting long?"

  "No, it's okay, I ran into Anat Kaufman."

  "Who?"

  "Oh, sorry, Anat Malitz."

  "I saw her."

  "I know, she told me."

  "How do you know her?"

  "We went to school together."

  "Nice, I see half your branch moved here," he sighed, got up and called Eran and Noam.

  Twenty meters later he was carrying Eran again and we all went up to their house.

  *

  "Shira, could you maybe sit down for a second?" I scolded Shira, who was running around the table, laden with food.

  "Here, here, I'm sitting!" she said, sat by Eran and helped him eat the fish that Moshe cut into tiny pieces for him.

  "Apparently, you were right."

  "Of course I was right," she smiled. "May I know what about?"

  "There really is a four-child trend."

  She laughed and my mother, herself a mother of four, asked what we were talking about.

  "Shira told me this week that there's a new trend of having four children."

  "Then, you're four children off-trend." My dad couldn't help himself.

  I gave him a fake smile and went on. "This week I ran into three friends from high school and they all have four children or three with a fourth on the way."

  "Who did you meet?"

  "Just now I met Anat Kaufman and she has four kids, on Wednesday I met Tamar Golan and she's pregnant with her fourth and yesterday I saw Yuval Eidelman and his wife is in her fourth pregnancy."

  "Yuval Eidelman went to school with you?" Shira asked.

  "No, he was in the branch with me."

  "Really?" Shira was surprised. "I didn't know."

  "Do you know him?"

  "A little bit, from synagogue. I’m not particularly fond of him."

  "Why?"

  "He's full of hot air," she said and I laughed.

  "Can you explain to me what the ‘four child trend’ is?" My mother interrupted us.

  "I explained to Hadas this week," Shira took the reins, "that lately there's been a sort of trend to have four children. Once it was three and now it's four. It's sort of a status symbol."

  "So that's why you're not having another child? Because everybody else does?" my mother inquired.

  "I will have a child only when I want another child and it’s very possible that I won't want another child. I feel, and I might be wrong," she paused, even though it was clear to all of us that Shira was hardly ever wrong, “that there's some sort of peer pressure to have four kids, as if four kids say something about how good a parent you are, as if the fact that whoever has more kids is a better, more dedicated parent, or maybe it shows something about how well-off they are."

  "I think you're overreacting," my mother stopped her. "We had four children because it's what we always wanted."

  "And, really, when we were kids, the fashion was three kids, which, in my opinion, is one kid more than most parents are able to raise properly. You and dad didn't have a fourth child because that's what everyone was doing, but because it's what you wanted."

  "So you think anyone who has four kids is actually unfit to do so because having a fourth child, because of social pressure, is an injustice towards the child?"

  "No need to get carried away. Even among those people who had a fourth child for bad reasons, most are good, fit parents."

  "Then, what are you saying?"

  "Look, mother, maybe I'm making generalizations, but I'm a mother and I also work with children and I see children and parents every day and I see very few parents who really have parenting in their soul. Most are good parents, but I'm not convinced that they would have had children if it weren't so customary in this country."

  "So our Hadas is actually right, all along, by refusing to become a mother?" My mother was stunned by Shira.

  "I admire Hadas." Shira amazed me. "Unlike so many others, she really thought about what it means to be a parent before getting into it and realizing that it wasn't for her. I wish more parents thought that way."

  "Like Meir Danilowitz, for instance." Moshe threw in his two cents’ worth.

  "For instance," Shira agreed with him, "I can't understand a person that shoots his own children, no matter for what reason. The fact that he killed himself afterwards doesn't change the simple and regrettable fact that this man should not have been a father." There was silence all around the table. Shira broke it by turning to me. "Hadasi, what do you think, you chose not to have children and you're investigating this case. Do you think Meir should have had children?"

  I was silent. I thought over what I was allowed and not allowed to say, even though I had no doubt that any one of those at the table wouldn't get me in trouble.

  "Shira, you shouldn’t put her on the spot like that - she can't talk about it." My father scolded Shira.

  "It's okay, Dad," I assuaged him. "I can talk as long as I don't reveal any confidential details."

  "So, what do you think?" My mother was curious.

  "Objectively, there's no doubt that an act like Meir's is a testament to the fact that the man shouldn't have had children, if he really did this, but since I'm investigating the case, I have a feeling that maybe Hanni shouldn't have had children either."

  "Where do you get that from?" My mother was surprised. Shira's gaze told me I had said exactly what she was thinking.

  "Almost everyone I talk to tells me about a woman whose kids were hardly the center of her universe."

  "How do you come to that conclusion?" My mother was intrigued.

  "For example, I understood that her children were enrolled in afternoon daycare even though she wasn't working."

  "And that means she was a bad mother?" Shira cried out. "I hate that judgmental attitude! I can imagine Renana told you that." I didn't confirm her suspicion, though Shira was dead right.

  "I really don't understand why someone who doesn’t work needs to put her kids in afternoon daycare," my mother thought out loud.

  "May I remind you that my kids are also in daycare," Shira was angry, "so maybe I'm also an unfit mother?" We all shuddered at the thought.

  "But you work." My mother immediately defended her.

  "I don't work every day and often not at noon. I just use that time to take care of all sorts of errands and tasks and also, God forbid, to rest sometimes."

  "But Hanni didn't work at all." I tried to make my point.

  "How do you know what she did every day? Maybe she was writing a book, maybe she studied something, or maybe she volunteered somewhere?"

  I doubted Hanni did volunteer work, but Shira's words embarrassed me. I always tried to not be too judgmental and I felt like I’d judged Hanni without really knowing her.

  "Don't get me wrong," Shira addressed me. "I also sensed that Hanni wasn't exactly mother of the year, but it really annoys me that mothers are judged on the amount of time they spend with their children rather than the quality of those minutes."

  "Quantity leads to quality," my mother noted. "Personally, I don't understand why all these ‘career women’ have kids." My mother emphasized "career women" with small finger gestures. "Being a mother is seeing the kids a little over half an hour in the evening and on weekends."

  "Afternoon daycare is only until four. Mothers who use it still have at least three or four hours of quality time every day," Shira explained. "And you know what? It's enough for a child to have even one hour of real quality time with his mother rather than seven hours where the mother’s only watching from the sidelines."

  "I disagree with you." My mother rarely disputed what Shira said. "I may be primitive, but in my opinion a mother should be with her child as much as possible. A woman who can't raise her child shouldn't have children at all."

  Suddenly e
veryone was looking at me.

  "I don't not want children because I don't have time," I replied to all of the curious glances, "I love my job very much, but I'm not exactly a career woman… I don't have any aspirations to conquer the world. I have to say that, personally, I don't really understand parents who let other people raise their children." I looked at my mother and added, "And when I say parents, I mean the 'father' as well." Now it was my turn to mark the word "parents" with imaginary speech marks. "But if there are people who really want children, even though they don't really raise them, I won't judge them for it. I don't want children because I don't want children. I can find the time, but I don't want to. I'm sure that even the busiest parent in the world has endless worries about their child. And that's exactly what I want to avoid.

  Though raising the child doesn't sound like the most attractive thing in the world to me, it's also not something that would be very difficult for me to do. The difficulty’s on an emotional level—being responsible for another human being, being their whole world. It's a very heavy responsibility and I'm not sure it's right for me."

  Shira looked at me with gleaming eyes. "Wow, Hadasi, you just said it perfectly. That's the exact difference between a good parent and a not as good parent: we sometimes mistake the external elements with what's really important, what we have in our heart. A good parent can see his child for half an hour each day, but makes the child is his whole world."

  *

  After I’d relaxed after the meal and especially after the conversation we had, I returned to my humble apartment in southern Tel-Aviv. I was an urban type, and ever since I could remember, I knew I wanted to live in Tel-Aviv. I was not exactly the Kibbutznik that moved to the big city. I only moved from Ramat-Gan to Tel-Aviv. Ramat-Gan is a great city, but it doesn't have Tel-Aviv's pulse. Shortly before I graduated from university, I moved in with Yinon, much to my parents' disdain, in an old, quiet two-bedroom apartment not far from Gan Meir in Tel-Aviv. Almost two years later, the homeowner died and his heirs were in a rush to sell it.