Hill of Secrets: An Israeli Jewish mystery novel

by Michal Hartstein

  I passed through the lobby, which was filled with guests who had come to celebrate Shavuot in Jerusalem. All of the guests, without exception, were religious, most of the of the knit skullcap variety. The Haredi Jews, who stay in hotels on the three high holidays (Sukkot, Passover and Shavuot), aren't the average Haredim. Most Haredim live more or less around the line of poverty and can’t afford a long weekend in a five-star hotel in Jerusalem.

  The few that came to these hotels were usually wealthy pilgrims from the United States. For the knit skullcaps it's a social event, which is meant to categorize you socioeconomically. Those staying at the King David Hotel were the elite, the cream of the crop. All the rest stayed in the other hotels around the walls of the old city in the direction of the Armenian quarter.

  My parents booked us rooms at the Inbal Hotel, which was an excellent hotel near Gan Hapaamon. It was also horrendously expensive (but not as expensive as the King David Hotel), a price many pay in order to be part of the social elite of the Religious Zionist community. In short, if you weren’t there, you didn't really exist.

  In the past, my parents insisted a bit more on coming to these social events in Jerusalem on Shavuot. It was when we were still very young and it was important to my parents that we were well known in society. Just like in Jane Austen novels, in the Religious Zionist public there was a need to present the girls who have come of age to the "High Society." A substantial part of the hotel guests were families whose kids were over eighteen, and this was an effective and elegant way of fixing up young people.

  Even if you didn't leave with a date or a phone number, it was always possible that someone had spotted you and could tell someone else who was looking for a match. When you explain this whole operation to a secular person (say, Yinon), they're pretty shocked.

  The Religious Zionist public was perceived by the secular public as open and liberal, and the fact that most couplings came to be made by way of matchmaking astounds them. The word Shidduch (matchmaking) was associated with the Haredi world, where a guy is matched with a girl and after three dates in a coffee shop, a wedding hall is booked. For the knit skullcaps, Shidduch is the most effective way to meet a partner. No has an expectation that the couple will get engaged after three meetings.

  Just like in the secular world, the knit skullcaps also go on dates and get to know the partner before they make fatal decisions. If the Haredim need two or three dates to decide, among the knit skullcaps there's a whole range of customs surrounding this, from those who observe Negiyah [abstaining from touching the opposite sex until marriage] and will meet only in public places (so as to avoid being alone together—Yichud) to "Religious lite" who, in some cases, may marry not as virgins.

  The need for Shidduch stems from the simple fact that those wearing knit skullcaps are completely integrated in the secular social life. They don't work and study only within the community, hence the difficulty of meeting a religious partner in everyday life.

  In short, a long weekend in Jerusalem was a great way to see and be seen. The modest and humble daughters of Israel arrive wearing their finest attire and tear up the lobbies of all the hotels in the area. When I walked through the lobby on my way to the swimming pool, I was glad I wasn't there anymore, inside that boiling pot. Not that I ever really belonged.

  The hotel pool was relatively empty for such a weekend, which usually houses many knit skullcaps. The knit skullcaps could be divided into several movements of pool goers: those who won’t go to a mixed gender pool on Shabbat or holiday, those who won't go only on Shabbat, those who’d go on Shabbat, but not in a hotel where so many religious people are staying and of course the "Religious lite" gang, who are only slightly different than completely secular people. My parents belong to the third group: whenever we went to Eilat for a family vacation, they had no problem with us going to the pool even on Shabbat, but when we went to Jerusalem for Shabbat, when it was clear that everyone around us would be religious, my mother didn't even pack my swimsuit.

  Once, on Shavuot, when I was sixteen, I really wanted to sunbathe and I was annoyed with my mother because she took away the bathing suit I had stowed deep in my bag. While my parents were sitting, chatting with their friends and Shira was doing what was expected of her, I decided that in the absence of a bathing suit, a bra and underpants were the solution. I thought (and I still think) that there's no real difference between a bikini and a matching bra and panties set and I proceeded to tan on the balcony adjoining our room. Ayala and Evyatar, who were then ten and twelve years old, were horrified to find me lying on the balcony, reading, in my underwear.

  "Aren’t you ashamed?" Ayala cried out.

  "Of what?"

  "Lying like that!" she said, pointing at me.

  "What's the problem?"

  "You're outside! Dressed in a bra and panties!"

  "Who's looking?"

  "They are!" Evyatar whispered and pointed to a group of boys who were enjoying their view of my balcony.

  Ayala ran inside and returned with a heavy wool blanket that she threw over me. I flung the blanket of in anger.

  "Are you insane?"

  "No," she said. "You are!"

  "Aren't you embarrassed that the boys saw you in your underwear?" Evyatar asked.

  "They didn't see anything they haven't seen on the beach or at the swimming pool right below us."

  I made my two little siblings swear they wouldn't say anything to my parents. It cost me quite a bit, but it was worth saving the lecture I would have received. Of course, I told Shira and she relished the story.

  "You crazy bitch," she laughed. "All the girls walk around the lobby dressed and made up to the nines, and you take your clothes off and get all the boys!"

  When I returned to my lonely room, I saw that my mother had tried to reach me on my cell phone approximately ten times.

  "Did something happen?" I asked her in an impatient tone when she picked up the phone, half asleep.

  "Where have you been?" My mother is the world champion, or at least the Polish champion of answering a question with a question.

  "In the pool."

  "Are you insane? You could catch cold. This is Jerusalem, not Tel- Aviv! It isn't summer yet."

  "The pool is heated… "I tried to calm her down, knowing that the chance she would, when it had to do with me, was slim.

  "Are you in your room right now?"

  "Yes," I answered.

  "I'm coming." She hung up and was in my room a few seconds later.

  "Show me what you brought," she commanded.

  "What?"

  "Come on…” she also had an impatient tone. "Show me what clothes you brought."

  "Mom, I'm not looking for a husband,” I calmed her.

  "Very funny." She didn't laugh. "First of all, you never know," (she's got that right) "but I want to know that you came with normal clothes and not something we'd be ashamed to sit next to in the dining room."

  I put my trolley case on the bed, and began taking out the clothes I’d shoved into it in disarray.

  "If you can't pack properly, you can ask me to pack for you," she said and picked up a shirt. "Look, everything's all wrinkled. Why didn't you put it on a hanger as soon as you got in the room?"

  "It's a pajama top." I tugged the shirt from my mother's hands, "besides, nothing’s wrinkled." I scattered the clothes I had brought with me on the bed and my mother examined them carefully.

  "You're not leaving the room wearing that -" she pointed at a shirt with cutoff sleeves, "and that—" she pointed at a flared trousers that I had bought with her two years ago, "—it just doesn't fit you well. Where’s the second suitcase?" she asked and I looked at her in wonder.

  "Don't tell me that's all you brought?" she said, panicked, "There are clothes here for two-three meals, tops. You remember this is full board and there are six meals from tonight until Saturday noon."

  "There are clothes here for two days, maybe even three," I ruled. "I never change outfits three ti
mes a day and I don't intend to begin to this weekend."

  "Hadas'ile…" My mother started speaking slowly and quietly. "If it's hard for you to spend money on yourself because…" she began stuttering, "uh…well…you know, because you're a cop, then tell me and I'll take you clothes shopping."

  "Thank you, mother." I strained all of my facial muscles to produce a smile. "Even when I was working as a lawyer I didn't buy clothes as a hobby. You know very well that shopping’s torture for me and that even if you bought me half the mall I would still only wear maybe two items."

  She shook her head in disagreement, knowing I was a lost cause. "It's such a shame, with a body like yours, to walk around like something from Les Miserables."

  "I'm hardly a Miserable," I said and held up one of the shirts I had brought, a shirt I had purchased three years ago, a purchase which my mother praised me for, which hardly ever happens. "Look what a nice shirt this is." I tried to pry a compliment out of her.

  My mother was on the verge of tears. "Ayala wouldn't wash the floor with that shirt."

  "And what about this shirt?" I pulled out a shirt I really love.

  "I wouldn't even use that shirt as a rag."

  Eventually, I was lead, head down, to my parents' room; my father was sitting on the couch, perusing the holiday and weekend papers.

  "What have you done now?" he asked me with a smile when he saw my mother's grouchy face.

  "Just like I told you would happen," my mother answered for me, "she brought all of her rags just to spite me."

  "Why do you love getting your mother upset?" he looked at me over the rim of his glasses. "You know she just wants you to look good."

  "Really?" I answered angrily. "I thought she was just ashamed to be seen in public with me."

  "Oh, come on," she said and pulled a bag from her favorite boutique out of the closet. "Since you've been avoiding my calls all week…"

  "I'm in the middle of an investigation," I tried to explain and she shushed me.

  "I didn't take the risk," she explained, "and I bought some shirts and a skirt for you at Zehava's."

  I looked over the clothes, nothing I would choose for myself, but I really didn't have the energy to spend the holiday and Shabbat arguing. I decided this weekend would be the short and inexhaustible substitute for the vacation abroad I had planned on taking.

  Chapter 20

  Friday, 5.29.2009. Shavuot Day

  My dream of a vacation completely dissolved when Shira and my dad dragged me at four in the morning to the Birkat Kohanim at the Western Wall. I maintained a grumpy expression the whole way, though, privately, I had to admit it was a special experience.

  "It's just horrible; how could a person do such a thing, kill his own children like that, and that tiny, sweet little baby girl?" I was surprised to hear a female voice that wasn't Shira's, who’d fallen asleep next to me, talk about my case in the quiet little corner we stood in at the edge of the Wall's floor.

  "What does Iris say about all of this?" a nasal voice asked.

  "What can she say?" the first voice sighed. "She's just in shock."

  "Poor thing."

  "She is. Hanni was her best friend—she's just devastated."

  "She couldn't come back from England?"

  "She really wanted to, but still, it's a family wedding."

  Of all the places in the world, the mother of Iris, Hanni's best friend, was sitting next to me on the morning of Shavuot near the Western Wall. In a world where everyone somehow knows everyone, I was not very surprised.

  "But what does she say about that Meir?" the nasal voice returned, "Was he a violent guy?"

  "I don't know; she never talked about him. I met him maybe two or three times and he seemed like a completely normal guy."

  "All serial killers seemed normal once," the nasal voice commented.

  "I really don't know what happened there. Iris is so shocked that she's barely functioning. Luckily they're coming back on Sunday. I could help her a bit."

  "Poor thing."

  "Such a horror. Hanni was such a beautiful and vibrant girl. Iris loved her so much. They were friends since Civil Service."

  "I know…"

  "Iris tells me they had a bit of financial trouble."

  "Well…who doesn't these days?" the nasal voice was commentating again. "My youngest still gets a monthly allowance from us. Young people today can't make ends meet."

  "Yes, but you know…Meir's parents are one of the richest families in Petach Tikva."

  "You don‘t say?" The nasal voice accentuated each syllable.

  "Yes, it's well-known."

  "I didn't know. So what drove him to it?"

  "I have no idea. I'm dying to hear what Iris has to say. She must know something."

  I was also dying to speak with Iris already, and to my joy I understood she was returning from overseas this Sunday. I deliberated whether to reveal myself to the two ladies sitting near me, not noticing I exist. My police badge was deep in my sweater pocket. Should I jump up in front of them, waving my badge? What did I need to ask them? I had Iris's details, and her mother and her nasally friend didn't really interest me. Who would I impress?

  While I pondered this, Iris's mother and her friend were joined by two men who urged them to move quicker. A few minutes later, my father and Yehuda, Ayelet's husband, also emerged from the crowd and we went back to the hotel.

  If Iris's mother knew Hanni and Meir had financial difficulties, Iris was probably an essential witness. Hanni kept up the perfect act for the outside world. None of the neighbors or people in the neighborhood really knew what happened inside Hanni and Meir's house, but all of us put on an act when we're out in society. Shavuot in Jerusalem is basically one big masquerade ball. Everyone comes with one objective, to present themselves and their families as successful, happy, and beautiful. The failures, disappointments, shouting and ugliness are left behind locked doors.

  I wondered if this was only a trait of religious society, or if secular people also had this façade. It was a bit difficult for me to answer, since I didn't have kids and I had no idea how secular families with children behave. I assumed everyone was pretending, but the pretense in religious society was greater. In secular society, there was less pressure surrounding marriage and children, so the need to sweep flaws and problems under the rug was less necessary.

  But to what extent can you leave everything under wraps and closed off? Every person needs to have an escape, a wall where they could unload all of their secrets and unease, and Iris was, apparently, Hanni's wall.

  Saturday, 5.30.2009

  To my surprise, during that day and the Shabbat following it, I didn't meet any more direct or indirect acquaintances. This may have stemmed from the fact that I dedicated a considerable amount of my time to sleeping and watching TV in my room. Shira kept me updated on meal times and I mostly kept annoying my mother.

  "You're allowed to brush your hair before you go down to the lobby," she said sadly, aware of the fact that the battle has already been lost.

  "I did," I replied in despair. "That's my hair. You can only blame God."

  "Ayala has more difficult hair than yours and she always looks neat."

  "I don't intend to cover my hair!" I almost yelled.

  I sat down next to Ayala and hugged her lest she think for one moment that I was belittling her or her hair.

  "Who are we waiting for?" I asked impatiently.

  "Not you for a change!" My dad took a dig at me.

  "We're waiting for Moshe. He took the kids for a short walk in Gan Hapaamon," Shira answered calmly.

  I made myself comfortable on the couch and looked around. I was looking for people I might know. I was hoping to see Iris's mother again. Maybe I could get some more details from her.

  I didn't know if I was even interested in running into someone I knew. In the last two weeks I'd seen so many acquaintances from my past, I felt I was overdosing on nostalgia. I had nothing in common with these childhood
friends—unmarried, childless, not religious or even traditional. When I was still in school with them, and attended Bnei Akivah with them, I didn't feel like I belonged, so now, when my life was so different from theirs, I had even less I common with them. In the movies, reunions offer the chance to show everyone how successful you’ve been and how you’ve conquered the world in the years that have passed.

  In the ideal movie, the geek has become a multimillionaire and the evil captain of the football team turned into a fat bum. I was definitely the geek, the honor student, the slightly ugly loner. Years later, I wasn’t a millionaire and I hadn't undergone comprehensive plastic surgery to transform me into a stretched-out Barbie doll. At a class reunion, I’d be considered a failure in religious society terms: divorced, no children, hardly getting by on a police officer's salary.

  However, that was exactly the point, in my mind. I was an incredible success story, because I was spending my life doing only what was good for me and not what was expected of me by others. How many of my classmates and acquaintances worked in a job that gave them such great satisfaction? How many of them had three or four kids because they really, really wanted them, and not because that's what everyone did?

  I had no intention of saying what I thought to my childhood friends. People don't like hearing the truth, but I also didn't have the energy to deal with the looks of pity I received when people heard I was a single, childless old maid.

  I didn't see anyone I knew around me, or maybe I just didn't recognize them under all of the fancy clothes, dolled up hats, makeup and falsity. Still, it had been fifteen years since we parted ways. I wore the clothes my mother bought for me and still managed to look like a waif. It turned out I managed to pick the shirt that least matched the skirt, which was two sizes too big. It was meant to be a tight skirt, but on me it looked like a shapeless sack. My hair was more disheveled than usual and I was wearing a pair of sandals that have seen better days.