by Will Thomas
He led us into a large, sunlit room full of tables. Hebrew children lined each one, elbow to elbow, eating quickly and quietly. Remarkably quietly, considering that there were more than a hundred pupils in the room. The children looked rather thin, as a rule, but none was barefoot, and all seemed very clean. I’d pictured a kind of Dickensian boarding school before I arrived, but I was very wrong. The food, though unrecognizable to me, smelled wholesome, and there was a lot of it. Meat patties of some sort, rolls, cauliflower, and even a cherry tart.
“Why are they eating so early in the day?” I asked. It was just barely nine.
“Your Christ, I believe, performed a miracle by feeding the four thousand. We must perform that miracle every day, and out of just one tiny kitchen. Unfortunately, this is the only meal some of them will have today. Their parents will save the few scraps they can collect for the other children in the family. Small wonder they try to claim their four-year-old is five, in order to get him on the roll. Now, if you will step this way, we will view the gymnasium, the bane of my existence.”
We passed down another corridor into the gymnasium. The room appeared to be very organized; three or four classes were going on simultaneously. Students in outfits not unlike sailor suits were tumbling on the mats in one area, tossing a medicine ball around a circle in another, and lined up to use the hanging rings on a third. The teacher, I noticed, looked rather harried.
“Organized chaos, I call it,” Zangwill remarked, running a hand through his impossible curls. “Again, I thank you for getting me out of this.”
“Have you been told the reason for our visit here today?” Cyrus Barker asked.
“Our headmaster is not very forthcoming, as a rule.”
“We are investigating the death of Mr. Pokrzywa. Did you know him?”
“Louis? Of course. Are you gentlemen detectives?”
Barker made a sour face. He did not like the word. “We are enquiry agents, yes. How well did you know him?”
“Rather well. We lived in the same boardinghouse. He hadn’t been in the country a great many years, but he was a wonder with languages. He taught Hebrew and Greek.”
“What kind of fellow was he?”
“He was quiet. Reserved. He was formal in his English, but if you spoke Yiddish to him, he’d open up a little. I knew him as well as anyone.”
“Did he have any enemies, or was he involved in anything dangerous?”
“Not at all. Far be it from him. I don’t know how this could have happened.”
“Did you or anyone notice his resemblance to, shall we say, the stereotypical version of Jesus Christ?”
“Oh, certainly, we chaffed him about it. Of course, there were dozens of fellows here in the East End who could pass that description, but he was close enough to receive comments. I’ve always wondered if he was a little vain about it. His hair was rather long by London standards, and I suspect the headmaster may have wanted him to cut it, aside from the side curls, of course. Louis was very orthodox, otherwise.”
“Were there any women in his life?” Barker continued.
“He was a handsome fellow, and there were always intrigues around him. The matchmakers and prospective mothers-in-law were hounding his steps. He was asked to dinner by so many families, he was the best-fed man in the East End. I don’t know if he had a sweetheart, but I doubt he led a monk’s existence, if you’ll forgive the expression, sholem aleichem.”
“Aleichem sholem,” Barker responded automatically.
“You know your Yiddish, Mr. Barker. Anyway, I believe he was the sort of fellow to keep his private life private, which is generally a good idea, murders notwithstanding.”
“Where are his rooms?”
“Number forty-three, Wilkes Street. First floor, back.”
“Ah, yes. The chevra in Whitechapel. Not the best address.”
“You’re telling me. I was born in the area. For a Jew, ghettoes are the same everywhere.”
“What more can you tell us, Mr. Zangwill? We’re trying to understand what sort of fellow he was.”
Zangwill took in a deep breath and blew it out, his dark, expressive eyes searching for words. “Serious. He didn’t have much of a sense of humor. Mystical. He read the Kabala, and the Talmud, of course. He was a first-rate debater on points of law. He had a passion for Maimonides and quoted him often. He was not really one of the fellows, a bit of a stuffed shirt, if you’ll forgive the expression.”
“Did he talk about his youth and how he came to England?”
“Not a word. We knew about his impressive escape from the pogroms in Russia, but he didn’t like to talk about his personal affairs. He was something of a mystery. His own roommate, Ira Moskowitz, once told me he couldn’t make head nor tails of him.”
“Tell me more about the chevra.”
“We met in a boardinghouse that used to be a private home. It is cheap, and Mrs. Silverman, the landlady, has been so far unsuccessful in killing us with her cooking.”
“It is not my intention to sully the reputation of any daughter of Zion,” Barker asked, “but could you possibly give me the names of some of the women Louis Pokrzywa knew, or some of the families he visited?”
Zangwill looked a little uncomfortable. “I don’t know…”
“We merely wish to speak with any young woman who knew Louis, to get a woman’s perspective.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt, but I only know the one,” the teacher said, reluctantly. “Her name is Rebecca Mocatta.”
“Is she Rabbi Mocatta’s daughter?”
“Yes, his younger.”
“Capital. We won’t take up any more of your time. Thank you for answering our questions.”
“Certainly. Come back any day you like, if you have more questions. But be sure it’s during first period!”
We came out into the hall just as every door in the place opened and spewed forth children, all determined to get to their next class immediately, and talking at the top of their lungs in the process. In the midst of the sea of children, like a lone island, Barker stood, rooted to the spot. It was the first time I’d seen him unsettled. His brows must have been a full inch above the top of his spectacles. Discomfort, almost panic, was written on his face. I deduced he was uncomfortable around children. He stood, immobile, as they poured around him on all sides, occasionally buffeting him. Within a few moments they were reduced to a trickle. Barker resettled his jacket and tie and shot his cuffs. He cleared his throat.
“Mmm. Yes, well. Shall we go, Mr. Llewelyn? What are you smiling about?”
“Nothing, sir. I’m ready to go.”
The boardinghouse was only a few blocks away. I was beginning to know the area better now. Just north of the school was the cemetery, and two streets east was the Romanian restaurant where we had met the rabbi.
By daylight, Whitechapel looked bedraggled. She was sooty, and the fine rain that was beginning to fall made the red brick look like glowing embers. Windows were boarded up, and conversely, fences were denuded of planks for firewood. I thought of the glory of Whitehall, and the comfortable urban prosperity of Newington. I doubted much money was spent by the mayor of London on repairs in this district.
At the door to the building, Barker put an arm out and began removing his shoes, according to shiva custom. It felt strange being out in a public street in one’s stockinged feet, but as we stepped in, we set our footwear down at the end of a long line of shoes.
Inside the house, to the left of the front door, was a sitting-room parlor. There was nothing initially to show that this was a boardinghouse for Jewish scholars. The furniture was overstuffed and dated in a style popular several decades before. In honor of the deceased, all mirrors had been covered, and the room was full of low stools. The students of the yeshiva were all there, sitting on the stools and talking; presumably they had been released from their studies by Jewish custom. Nobody, I noticed, sat in any of the normal chairs.
Barker spoke to the fellow who had sup
plied our skullcaps and ribbons the day before. He was about thirty, and clean-shaven save for a black square of dense hair from his lips to his chin. He introduced himself.
“I’m Simon Ben Loew, head of this chevra. So, you have returned.”
“I have. I assume these gentlemen were the closest acquaintances of Louis Pokrzywa.”
“We were,” one of them spoke up, almost querulously. “Who are you?”
“My name is Barker. I have been retained by Sir Moses and the Board of Deputies to investigate the death of your friend.”
“But you are a goy,” the fellow protested. “They couldn’t find one of our own to investigate?”
“I believe your race has looked down upon the office of ‘spy’ since they first arrived in Canaan. I have done work for the Board before. They were satisfied with my performance. Perhaps you feel reticent speaking about Mr. Pokrzywa around two Gentiles, but let me say that any information you withhold may be the one clue necessary to finding your fellow teacher’s killer.”
“But this is shiva!” the fellow persisted. “It is unseemly.”
“How unseemly?” countered Barker. “Is not the purpose of shiva to discuss and remember the deceased?”
“I’m being lectured on Jewish law now by a goy,” the student complained.
“Now, with your permission, gentlemen, I would like to ask you a few questions, and I’d prefer that my associate, Mr. Llewelyn, take notes, so that I can remember everything. Mr. Ben Loew has given us his name. May I have yours as well?”
The first was Arthur Weinberg, a student of about twenty. Levi Rosenthal was next, a very heavyset fellow. Ira Moskowitz, Pokrzywa’s roommate, came after him. Then Theodore Ben Judah, the little firebrand who had argued with Barker. Isaiah Birnbaum and Ferd Kosminski were the final two. Most had beards and wore the funereal black. It required all my wits to tell them apart and take everything down accurately.
“What sort of fellow was Louis Pokrzywa?”
“A decent sort,” Mr. Kosminski said, and they all agreed. Yes, yes, a very decent sort.
“But was he a scholar, an athlete, a zealot? What were his interests?” Barker had already received some of these answers from Zangwill, but he was keeping that a secret. Or perhaps he was testing the other teacher’s answers for their veracity.
“A scholar,” Ben Loew responded. “An excellent scholar. Better than any of us.” The others agreed, though Ben Judah looked prepared to argue the last point.
“Did he get along well with all of you?” Barker continued. “He was several years older than most.”
“No, he didn’t always get along with the rest of us. I think he thought we were frivolous at times,” Rosenthal responded.
“We made sport of him a little,” Birnbaum added. “He could be such a granny. He didn’t understand practical jokes, or a fellow’s need to relax after a hard day’s study. Off he would run to some charity or the other. He was always on some committee or joining a league.”
“Did he spend Shabbat here?”
“Yes, he did,” Moskowitz, the roommate, answered. “He’d received a box of books from a bookseller in Prague, and he went through them one by one after we got back from the synagogue.”
“He took his Sabbath meals with you?”
“He did. As soon as evening came, however, he was off like a shot.”
“Where did he go?” Barker asked. He had eased himself down on one of the little stools. I think the young scholars were fascinated by him.
“We don’t know,” Birnbaum answered.
“He didn’t always tell us where he was going,” Ben Loew admitted.
“Not that we cared,” Ben Judah continued. “I mean, why should it matter to us if he was working for the Jewish Children’s Fund tonight or the Sisters of Zion Charity Benefit tomorrow?”
“So, he could have been going anywhere,” Barker said.
This put Ben Judah’s dander up. “You’re twisting our words, Mr. Detective! If Louis said he was going somewhere, that was where he was going.”
“I understand he was invited to the homes of several young ladies in the area for dinner. Did he ever talk about any of them when he returned?”
“Oh!” Rosenthal chortled. “He was so funny when he came back from those dinners! The girls would be flashing him little signals, and the mothers simpering in his lap, and the fellow was so solemn and naive he wouldn’t know what was going on! He thought one girl had a facial tic, and it turned out she was simply winking at him! Oh, it was funny!”
“But he got along well with women, did he not? I mean, perhaps even better than with men?”
“A number of the committees and charities he was a member of were mostly made up of women,” Ben Loew answered. “He got along with them. He once told me they ‘got things done.’ ”
“Were there any particular women he saw more than others? Did he see any of them more than once, or have one as a friend?”
The young fellows looked uncomfortable, as Zangwill had earlier.
“Rabbi Mocatta’s daughter spoke with him, sometimes,” Kosminski said cautiously. “He went to dinner at their house occasionally. I got the impression that the two of them were merely friends.”
“Did any of you see him after the Shabbat was over? On the street, perhaps?”
Nobody had.
“So no one saw him after he ‘was off like a shot,’ until his body was found. Do you think he had some sort of appointment or rendezvous?”
“If he did,” Ben Judah said, “he was certainly very cool about the whole thing.”
“And when did you notice he was missing? When did you start to worry about him?”
“I noticed about ten thirty that he was gone overlong,” Ira Moskowitz said. “But last year, he directed a Purim play and rehearsals sometimes went on until eleven thirty. By midnight, we certainly began to worry.”
“Did you look for him?” Barker asked.
“We couldn’t,” Birnbaum volunteered. “If we went in search of him in the middle of the night, we would wake Mrs. Silverman. And if she knew Louis was gone after midnight, she might think ill of him and toss him out. We didn’t want him to lose his rooms just because he was late. He’d been here for over two years.”
“So what did you do?”
“What could we do?” Ben Judah countered. “We went to bed. We didn’t believe he could get himself into a real scrape. Certainly, we couldn’t predict that something like this would happen to him.”
Barker sat for a moment or two without speaking. Then he tried a different tack. “Would you say he was an ambitious fellow?”
“Oh, yes,” Moskowitz said. “He was always talking about ‘getting on.’ I think he wanted to be another prime minister, like Disraeli. He lamented to me once that he was too old to attend Oxford or Cambridge.”
“You talk about ambition like it is a bad thing,” Ben Judah sputtered. “He was studying to be a rabbi. He would have made a great one, like Maimonides. He had good motives. He was a real mensch.”
“I’m not attempting to besmirch Mr. Pokrzywa’s memory,” Barker said. “I’m trying to get at the truth. Can any of you fellows think of anything Louis Pokrzywa had done recently that seemed out of the ordinary, for him at least?”
“He canceled an appointment last week,” Rosenthal said, finally. “He was going to tutor me, but not ten minutes before we were to begin, he came up all apologies and said he couldn’t do it, that he had to go somewhere. He didn’t say where.”
Ben Judah spoke up reluctantly. “I suppose if we’re discussing things out of the ordinary, I saw Louis talking with a woman I didn’t recognize in Petticoat Lane a couple of weeks ago.”
“Could you describe her?”
“Rather pretty, a Choote, I think. That is, a Dutch Jew, by the look of her.”
“Did they go off together?”
“How should I know? I saw Pokrzywa every day. I couldn’t care less who he spoke to. One minute they were there, then they we
re gone.”
“And this was on market day, you say? Two weeks ago?”
“Yes. Sunday. Midafternoon.”
Barker bowed. “Thank you for your time, gentlemen. We’ll intrude upon your mourning no longer.”
Outside in the hallway, Barker stood a moment, still in his stockinged feet, and pulled on his lower lip in thought.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“I’m thinking that, collectively, men are only slightly more observant than mollusks. For insight, we must talk to a woman.”
Instead of putting on our shoes, Barker and I padded down the hallway to the landlady’s private rooms.
11
IF BARKER WAS THINKING HE’D GET ON BETTER with the landlady, he was mistaken. She was a cantankerous-looking woman in her early sixties, wearing the shiny black dress common to matrons and widows. Her hair was pulled back so severely, it would have won approval from the Spanish Inquisition as a method of torture. I could see why, on that fateful night, the gentlemen who were her boarders had decided not to disturb her. When Barker introduced himself, she even had the audacity to demand what I myself had always feared to ask.
“Why are you wearing those glasses indoors? What’s wrong with your eyes?”
Barker’s more expressive eyebrow, the left one, curled itself into an arch above his spectacles. “An infirmity, madam,” he said, “brought on by an injury.” His fingers stole to the scar which bisected his right brow. “We’d like to ask you a few questions and to see the late Mr. Pokrzywa’s rooms, with your permission.”
