The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

  I took the offered paper, folded it, and put it in my pocket while I thought about what I wanted to say. “Just one question, Rabbi. Can you tell me how to get to the Yeshiva from here? I know it’s close but…”

  A surprised look was replaced by a quick glance at a clock hanging on the side wall. “There will be no one available to speak with you now. The entire Yeshiva is mourning our loss. Also, it is time for evening prayers.”

  “That’s all right,” I answered. “I just want to look around.” What I wanted was to get out of this house. Fast. I’d sparred enough with the wrathful Rabbi and his gloom and doom. It was something I knew to be contagious.

  On the way back to the car I knelt and fumbled with my securely tied sneaker lace. This time I recognized the cause of my bristling hair. I glanced behind me and watched the curtain in Reb Yonah’s shrouded front room draw shut. It was reassuring to have my senses accurately sniff the real world. A soft internal whisper told me I would need them.

  But once behind the wheel, the interior world captured my attention. Something was gnawing. I’d been all over Simon and rough enough with Reb Yonah to get tattoo numbers shoved in my face. I guessed the one-two punch of Simon’s hopeful belief and Reb Yonah’s bitterness recalled my own Age of Faith. I’d arrived in college unformed, without political leanings. But one day I listened to someone explain the Vietnam war in a way that opened my eyes to a world I instinctively “knew” to be true. Years of demonstrations, billy clubs, and the tragedy of an intractable society failed to eliminate my faith in the possibility of political change, though it shrouded it with a shell of bitter cynicism.

  It took my personal disasters to excoriate the shell and crush what was left of my politics, my belief. Now, sitting alone in my car, I felt the shadow of an old loss.

  I stubbed my smoke and started the engine. Peace wasn’t going to descend with me sitting on the Rabbi’s street, and I sure as hell wasn’t reenlisting with my shrink.

  Two blocks later I had to choose between illegal or parking further away than where I had started from. I thought about my drawer full of red stickers, had an apocalyptic vision of the Denver Boot, but picked illegal anyway. It was my day to tease Authority.

  The inner entrance hall of the Baal Shem Yeshiva was lit with dusty fluorescent tubes hung inside dustier green boxlike holders. The air itself had a dry texture and an arid feel; a sense of antiquity—parchment stretched across an altar in a temple hidden deep within the bowels of a pyramid. Like something out of Indiana Jones. The walls were age-streaked gray, the paint so thoroughly chipped that past generations of institutional colors left an absurdist’s signature to an otherwise somber welcome. I compared Sheinfeld’s opulent Temple to the Yeshiva and imagined that class spiced Reb Yonah’s venom. Inside the Yeshiva it was simple to see who occupied what niche.

  I thought the place would be barricaded but, apart from muffled chanting, I heard or saw no one. I continued down the dingy hallway until I got to a door near the back. I opened it and walked onto a bare square landing. The chanting was louder, the congregation’s Hebrew prayers swirling through the stairwell from down below. Occasionally a clear voice rose above the rest, carried toward the sky on the community’s back. Though the language was indecipherable, there was no mistaking the emotion. These were a hurting group of people.

  I thought about going downstairs but didn’t want to interrupt. Or even get too close. Still, I wasn’t ready to leave. Something about the congregation’s mournful cries reminded me of Chana’s moods. Moods identified by the a cappella music of Gregorian chants ringing throughout our house. Although Jewish, Chana had been able to universalize and integrate everyone’s experience.

  I shook off my memories and walked up the stairs, away from the voices. I climbed until the prayers were barely audible, then walked out into another corridor not much different from the first. And just as deserted. I decided to snoop, walking quietly toward an unmarked, opaque, gray glass door that reminded me of a 1940s office entrance. All it missed was a black stenciled P-H-I-L-L-I-P M-A-R-L-O-W-E.

  I tried the handle and initially thought the room empty. I was wrong. Behind a tall wooden lectern stood a 15 or 16 year old kid in a long black coat, his head buried in a bucket of crossed arms. I waited silently until he lifted his covered skull. Earlocks dangled down the sides of his head despite his having wrapped them around his ears. A torn, aged, white shirt peeked out from his clean but frayed dress coat and, when he looked at me, I could see he’d been crying. I also saw a nose that had, in the boy’s adolescence, grown more quickly than the rest of his face. Like the building itself, he was a fractured throwback to an immigrant time and place. A live version of a sepia photograph—an oversized, forlorn little boy wearing a grown-up suit.

  Cliché or not, a protective feeling whistled through me. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”

  He shook his head. “You didn’t. I heard you walk down the hall.” His words, though spoken in perfect English, contained a hint of East European accent.

  “You have good ears. I was pretty quiet.”

  A twisted smile crossed his face. “Did you sneak into the Yeshiva to take pictures for the newspaper? Can’t you people even leave us alone while we sit shiva? Allow us to mourn our Holy Beloved?”

  I raised my empty hands. “I’m not a reporter.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” Suspicion replaced distaste. “Are you with them? Here to continue your destruction?”

  “Them?”

  “The schkutzim.” His accent grew thicker.

  “The what?”

  “The vermin who killed the Rebbe!” A wild, frightened look suddenly exploded in his eyes. “You’re here to avenge my father!”

  It took a long moment to add it up. Then another moment to consider his mother’s age. There were a lot of years between this kid and his father. “Take it easy, boy. I’m no White Avenger, if that’s who you’re talking about. If your father is Rabbi Yonah, then I’m actually working for him.”

  His face shifted into a puzzled frown. “What do you mean?” he asked suspiciously.

  Despite the open entrance door, it was evident the people here felt under attack. Clearly the boy did. “I work for your father’s lawyer, Simon Roth. I’m Simon’s private investigator.” No matter how many times I identified myself as a PI, it always sounded ridiculous. Probably because Simon originally bought the license through his bureaucratic connections. “Both of us want to help your dad,” I added. “I just came around to get some firsthand accounts.”

  “What do you mean ‘firsthand’?”

  His panic had subsided but not his suspicion. “I want to speak with some people who were celebrating that night. Try to get a picture of what happened. Basic stuff.”

  The boy thought about what I had said before he answered. “This is our mourning period. It’s called shiva. No one will talk with you now. Not for another week.” As if to apologize for the inconvenience, the boy walked across the room then stuck out his hand. “Shalom. My name is Yakov Saperstein.”

  I reached out and grasped his bony paw. “Hi. I’m Matt Jacob.”

  “Jacob? Do bist a yiddescher?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Huh?”

  “You are Jewish?” he asked in English.

  “You’ve stumbled upon the observation of the day,” I replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  I smiled. “Nothing. Just don’t go diving into Yiddish on me. Shalom is about all I can understand.”

  He returned my smile. “Shalom is Hebrew.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t play favorites.” I nodded into the rest of the room. “Do we have to stand in the doorway?”

  He looked flustered then backed in. He stopped, walked to a small, chipped mahogany cabinet, opened a drawer, and returned with a yarmulke. “Would you mind wearing this?” he asked. “This is Reb Dov’s study…”

  At the mention of the dead Rabbi, the boy blanched. “Was his study,” Yakov finished so
ftly.

  After a moment of vague discomfort and a twinge of embarrassment, I perched the skullcap gingerly on my head. It must have looked pretty silly because Yakov, despite his obvious bereavement, struggled to hide a small smile.”You don’t seem too familiar with yarmulkes,” he finally said.

  I tried to pat it down. “I’m not.”

  “You know nothing of Halacha, our Law?” He sounded curious. A pleasurable change after his father’s condemnation.

  “There hasn’t been much Jewish in my life,” I admitted.

  Yakov shook his head then pointed silently to a set of low windows and straight-backed wooden chairs. “So Rabbi Yonah is your dad?” I asked after I settled in as best I could. The chairs were as uncomfortable as they looked.

  The boy’s long arms dangled, fingers close to the floor, as he nodded. “Yakov ben Yonah. Jacob, son of Jonah.”

  I kept noticing the size of his hands and feet and fleetingly wondered whether adolescent girls looked as awkward during their growth spurts. With a start I realized the kid had me thinking about Becky. “I’ve just come from your house,” I said quickly, businesslike.

  “My house?”

  “Yes. I thought it might be useful to speak with your father. He didn’t agree.”

  An uncomfortable grimace crossed the boy’s face before he turned away.

  “You don’t seem surprised,” I said to the back of his head.

  “I’m not surprised. This is a time for mourning, nothing else. There is no greater horror than having one’s Rebbe murdered.” He turned back in my direction. “These atrocities didn’t begin with the pogroms and they won’t stop now. What happened to the Rebbe is a reminder of how little the world changes.” His throat caught and again he looked away. “My father is not easy to talk with at any time. Since my mother died, he has become a man of very few words.”

  “When did she die?” I asked gently. Though we lived in different worlds and had just met, there was a shared closeness. Grief has a way of doing that.

  “About five years ago,” he replied tersely. “Cancer.”

  Given the age difference between Reb Yonah and his son, I placed Yakov’s mother somewhere between the two. About the same age as Chana would have been.

  The room filled with sadness. “The Rabbi’s death brings it up all over again, doesn’t it?”

  Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes as he nodded.

  “You know that happens to everyone, don’t you? One terrible thing yanks on all the rest. Makes everything hurt that much more.” I flashed on Yonah’s concentration camp numbers and added, “For what it’s worth you aren’t alone. Your father almost said the same thing.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, a note of curiosity underneath his grief.

  “Your dad mentioned that what happened to Rabbi Dov reminded him of other painful times in his life.”

  “He said that to you?” Yakov looked astonished.

  “Not in so many words, but he referred to his camp experience so…”

  Yakov stared open-mouthed.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “He never speaks about those times with strangers.” He shrugged then added, “He really doesn’t talk about them with anyone except the Never Agains. Even me.”

  I almost asked him to explain the Never Agains, but instead sat silently while we counted our losses. Neither of us met the other’s eyes until I asked, “Why are you by yourself in Rabbi Dov’s study? Shouldn’t you be downstairs with the rest of the Yeshiva?”

  “I am different from the rest.” There was no pride attached to his statement, just matter of fact. “After my mother passed away, Reb Dov chose me to learn with him. I have been his talmid.” The boy stopped talking, then continued when he realized I didn’t understand. “I was the Rebbe’s private student so I spent all my time with him,” he added. “I have been somewhat separate from the other talmidem. I’m not ready to mourn with anyone else. I’m too confused to davin with the Yeshiva.”

  “Yakov, I don’t do languages, remember?”

  He looked at me with annoyance. “Davin means to pray. How is it that you know nothing?”

  “It just never came my way. Why did the Rebbe choose you?”

  The boy held his head up. “A Rebbe chooses anyone he wants to chronicle his words. I was the person chosen,” he said with simple pride. “My father and Reb Dov are very close.”

  Then his face looked stricken. “Were,” he whispered. “You see why I can’t go downstairs? I still don’t accept that my Rebbe is no longer here.”

  I waited for him to calm down before I asked, “Were you Reb Dov’s only student?”

  “I was special,” he said, his voice trailing off.

  I sat quietly until Yakov continued. “I spent most of my time with the Rebbe and his family. My father is a solitary man.”

  Ripples of loneliness swept into the room, and with them images of a small abandoned boy. For a moment, I didn’t know whether I was seeing Yakov or myself.

  It was time to punt. “I’ve been told there has been a lot of trouble between your community and the White Avengers.”

  “They have given my community a lot of trouble,” he corrected.

  “I know about the other night,” I said hoping to avoid the shootings. “But what happened before?”

  “Where do you want me to begin?” he answered relieved by the question, despite his earlier admonition about the days of mourning. “Should I start with the broken windows? The excrement? The vicious graffiti? Or maybe the beatings at the basketball court?”

  “The students here play ball?” I asked surprised.

  “Of course. We aren’t from another planet.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” I said.

  A small grim frown tugged at the corners of his lips. “Yes you did. You see payis, the caftan, the streimal, the way we look, and believe we know nothing of modern life. You think we don’t belong here.”

  I wasn’t going to ask for a translation. “Well,” I said with a smile, “I don’t think Hasids reflect the avant-garde, but I wouldn’t throw you off the planet. I figure there is room enough for everybody.”

  The boy snorted and made a skinny fist. “There is no room for the schkutzim who murdered my Rebbe. They don’t deserve air to breath or water to drink.”

  “Jesus, boy, you’re too young for that kind of attitude. I’ve been told Reb Dov was a gentle man.”

  Yakov looked upset. “You aren’t allowed to curse in here.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was a curse.”

  “He was a false prophet. Jews should not even mention his name.” Yakov’s doctrine helped distance him from his horror. Horrors.

  “Sorry, I’ll be more careful. I can guess how hard all this is for you. Your Rabbi, your father’s troubles…”

  “What troubles?” he interjected. “I’ve been told there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “That’s absolutely correct,” I rushed to reassure. “But it probably adds to your concern.”

  Although the kid didn’t move, it seemed as if he had crossed the room. “I’m proud of what my father did. That animal deserved to die. He and his group are just the continuation of all the centuries of anti-Semites who have come before.”

  He paused. “You asked if we play basketball. Well, for the past year we haven’t. Why? Because the court is public property and when we went there they would force us to play against them. If we won the game we were beaten up.” He took a deep breath. “Reb Dov finally said we were no longer permitted to use the court unless we were willing to lose. He wanted to give those animals a chance to escape their nature.”

  “You disagreed with his decision?”

  He looked at me with tears forming in his eyes. “My Rebbe is dead by their hands.” Yakov twisted his body in the hard wooden chair and gazed grief-stricken out the window into the sudden dark of early night.

  It wasn’t a good time to push—for either of us. The
kid had nestled into a raw spot somewhere inside me. I scraped my chair along the floor and placed it next to his. We sat quietly for a long while, each staring out of our own separate window while the dark turned into nighttime black.

  I thought about pressing Yakov for details about the Avengers, his Rebbe, his father, the Never Agains. Thought about it, but didn’t. Didn’t do anything other than sit next to the kid until it was time to go. And that time came when I could no longer tolerate the thumping of my chest in the silence of the room. I just wasn’t used to the mix of protectiveness and warmth this gawky kid evoked. It had been a long, long time since I felt paternal.

  It was a relief to walk into my apartment and spot the duffel bag on the kitchen table. Julius had broken in and left the rent. No matter how often I changed the locks, Julie found a way. His ingenuity and his rent never failed to lift my spirits. I rummaged through the bag hoping for a treat stronger than grass or hash, satisfied to find a plastic bottle of Valiums. Something of a surprise since Julius didn’t like me doing downs.

  I rolled a torpedo from the fresh, poured a double Turkey neat, and twirled the television’s remote. To no avail; the usuals didn’t work. I couldn’t lay dead on the couch. I walked from one window of my apartment to another as if there was something important to see. Between excursions I kept a steady drain on the bourbon. I eventually realized that what I was looking for wasn’t outside. But by then it was too late; I was too tired and too high to think. I promised myself I’d work it out after I slept and sobered up.

  But sleep raised the possibility of dreams. In a stumbling attempt to reduce the odds, I pried open the new plastic bottle, washed two down with my bourbon, and went horizontal on the couch. This time the television finally grabbed hold.

  Too finally, I discovered, as the telephone clawed its way through my cotton brain. I slowmotioned for the receiver, suddenly realizing I’d spent the night on the couch. The TV was doing Duane Eddy, and I was at the beginning of a big, dry, headbanger.

  Before I had a chance to resist, my hand cradled the receiver. “You’re home,” Simon growled into my ear.