The Devil in Jerusalem

by Naomi Ragen

  “We’ll extradite.”

  “There is no extradition treaty between Israel and Namibia. That’s why he’s there.”

  “But why would they shelter a monstrous child abuser?”

  “Exactly. That’s why we have to build an airtight case against him, Bina, no?” Morris pointed out.

  “We have the notebooks.…”

  He shook his head. “It’s not enough. We need the testimonies of the victims, with corroborating evidence from the mother and his accomplices.”

  “We need the children to talk?”

  He nodded, then shrugged. “There is no way around it.”

  “Let’s talk to Johnny. He’s the best child investigator in the country. If he can’t get to them, no one can.”

  Bina, Morris, and Johnny met at Beit Ticho, a quiet, garden spot in the center of town. Once home to the artist Anna Ticho, it was now a museum with a small restaurant, where many local authors gathered to write over a cup of coffee and a Danish.

  Bina looked around at the blooming garden bathed in bright spring sunshine, her mind roaming back to the windy cold day in March when two horribly abused children had been brought into Hadassah Hospital. One was healing, and the other still lay in a coma. Her heart contracted as she thought of the little boy who would never again experience his childhood, run through a garden, smell the flowers. She breathed in the jasmine and roses, trying to clear her head and exhale the poison in her heart.

  This case was tearing her life apart, she thought. Any idea of having another child had to be put on hold. “I can’t even think of nurturing a new life with all this ugliness inside me,” she insisted to her husband. It was not only the case that was on hold, but her life.

  “Johnny, we have got to get all the children to talk.”

  He nodded, his long fingers pressed together, roof-like, touching his lips. “It’s a catch-22. As long as he’s out there and they think he can still harm them, they likely won’t talk. And as long as they won’t talk, he’ll be out there. Also, as long as they think that their mother will be hurt by their testimony, they won’t talk. As long as their eldest brother has power over them, they won’t talk. We need to break down these barriers one by one.”

  “Where do we start?”

  “I think we should separate Duvie from the rest of the kids when we bring them in to talk to them. I also think we have to come to some kind of plea deal with the mother,” said Johnny.

  “I don’t see it. She’s crazy, hypnotized. She’ll never agree,” Morris broke in morosely.

  “I didn’t say it would be easy. But you’ve got no choice. And it’s important for the kids. Talk to her lawyer. Take her out of her holding cell and put her into Neve Tirza Prison. Give her a taste of what life will be like for her there. I heard she had problems with her three cellmates in Jerusalem. Let her try dealing with a hundred drug addicts and murderers and prostitutes who all despise child molestors. Tell her if she doesn’t talk she’ll be there for the rest of her life.”

  “She deserves it!” Bina murmured.

  “I’m not so sure.” Johnny shook his head. “From all the evidence, it seems to me that Shem Tov is a dangerous psychopath, a person born with no conscience. Such people are often gifted with intelligence, magnetism, seductiveness. If you read the history of cults, it’s the more intelligent and sensitive people who fall prey; people who are educated, idealists. Add to that Daniella Goodman’s loneliness and isolation, her exhaustion in taking care of seven children with a husband who is who-knows-where most of the time. I’m sure she felt shock and terror at Shem Tov’s behavior, but by the time he revealed his true self to her, like most cult members, it was too late. She was in too deep,” Johnny said gently.

  “So she’s never going to wake up?”

  “I’m not saying that. What’s hopeful is that it’s been shown that even cult members don’t really change at their core. What they’ve learned, been forced into, is like a shell over their basic beliefs and personality. Eventually, it’s possible for them to break out and return to themselves. To see the truth.”

  “We don’t have time to wait for her to ‘hatch’; we don’t have time for ‘eventually,’” Morris said firmly. “Let’s start with the kids, then talk to the older boy alone. What is Duvie, thirteen? He’s a scared kid. Figure out a way to ease him into telling us the truth. I think it’ll be easier than with the mother, who’s got a shitload of guilt to flush out of her system before she can face the truth. Some people would rather delude themselves forever than actually look into a mirror.”

  26

  Soon after Menchie was born, Shlomie gradually slipped back into his old ways and Daniella was finally forced to admit to herself her feelings toward him had changed. She no longer felt that he was her family, part of her life. Maybe even worse, she no longer admired or respected him. Bit by bit, whatever love or connection she had once felt for him had simply vanished.

  This knowledge came to her in increments: the petty disappointments that he was not there when the children needed to be cared for; the disgust at how blithely and with such self-righteousness he gave away money he had done nothing to earn, and which did not in any way belong to him. Most of all, it was the aftereffect of those brief conversations she could manage with him about what he did all day.

  “The Messiah says…” was the way he started every conversation, a look of stupid awe on his face as he grandly expounded on his latest newfound wisdom. “The Messiah says if you want to communicate with angels, you must leave your false humaneness behind. In the Book of Enoch, the first perfect human ascends to God without death.…”

  Burdened with changing dirty diapers, trying to feed, clothe, and educate seven lively children, she hardly heard him anymore.

  “The Messiah says that when you light candles Friday night, you bring the Divine Feminine aspect into the home,” he droned on.

  “Did you remember to buy diapers? We are very low,” she interrupted him wearily, his supercilious singsong reminding her of loathsome Sunday-morning television Bible-thumpers.

  “Oh, diapers,” he repeated, momentarily distracted.

  “Amalya, sweetie,” she called out. “Can you please run down and get some diapers? Also, bring me some baby cream for Menchie’s rash.”

  She turned away from her husband, lifting a heavy laundry basket full of clothes, noting that Shlomie made no move to help her. He probably doesn’t even notice, she thought bitterly. She heard her granny whisper in her ear: Luftmensch.

  She put the basket down in the living room near the couch, using her foot to push away a pile of scattered toys. Toys, bits of cookie crumbs, used tissues, and candy wrappers were everywhere. It was sickening. But as hard as she tried, she realized she just couldn’t do more on her own. She’d simply have to wait for their housecleaner, who came twice a week. She’d ignored Shlomie’s frequent suggestions to have her come in more often. With their astronomical expenses and the ridiculously low interest rate the banks were now paying on deposits, she had no choice. She sat down heavily on the couch and began to fold. Shlomie followed her.

  “We’re learning the book Sefer HaBahir, the ‘Book of Brightness,’ by Rabbi Yitzhak Saggi Nehor, who was called Isaac the Blind. He wrote about the mystical importance of light and color.”

  “Right, a book about light and color, from a blind man.” She shook her head, matching up tiny socks.

  He ignored her. “It’s about the transmigration of souls from one human life to the next. Our actions decide to which life we will return. Kabbalah is a link between God and the universe and humanity. The Sefirot are the bridge. They emanate from God, suffuse life. The Messiah says—”

  “Can you go out and get a pizza for dinner?” she asked him. “I just don’t have the strength to cook.”

  He looked up at her, as if coming out of a trance.

  “A pizza?”

  “Yes. Actually, you’d better bring four. Duvie can eat half a pizza all by himself.”


  “Duvie?” His face suddenly changed color. “Actually, I have something to tell you about Duvie.”

  “Yes?” she said without looking up, continuing to fold.

  “His rebbe called me yesterday.”

  She put down the undershirt in her hands. Now he had her attention. “Again?”

  He nodded uncomfortably. “He complained Duvie isn’t participating in the Talmud class. He isn’t doing his homework.”

  “Weren’t you supposed to talk to Duvie about his behavior?” she accused.

  “I did!” He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, as if on the witness stand. “I explained to him the great zchus of being a Talmud scholar. But he says he’s bored. That the teacher is boring and mean.”

  She sighed, leaning back. “Maybe he needs a new school?”

  “No, no. The Messiah says he’s in a very good school.”

  “Then you have to spend more time with him, Shlomie! Learn with him. Try to inspire him. He doesn’t understand yet the importance of learning. He’s still a child.”

  “In two and a half years, he’ll be Bar Mitzvah, responsible for his own sins.”

  “Then isn’t now the time for you to try harder with him? If you were only home more, instead of—”

  “Whatever I do, I do for the good of our family—you know that! I do exactly what the Messiah tells me. He says I must link myself to the spirits of saints, to bring down their holiness into my life. And so I pray at their graves all over the Galilee, hoping for grace.”

  “Graves? You spend your time in graveyards?”

  “You can’t imagine the feeling that comes over me at the foot of a saint’s grave! The feeling of Divine inspiration. It’s as if I’m filled with sudden holiness and understanding. It’s—”

  “Shlomie, I didn’t have these children by myself. I can’t bring them up by myself. You have to be a full-time father.”

  He hung his head, chastened. “I will try harder,” he promised.

  But when he discussed it with Menachem Shem Tov, to his surprise, this time the Messiah shook his head emphatically. “You cannot be ruled by a woman or by a child. There are ten aspects of Divinity in man, the ten Sefirot. It is a roadmap to a genuinely balanced life. But it requires discipline to learn and to practice. Before you can help your children, you must help yourself. Like on an airplane, what do they tell you to do if the cabin pressure falls?”

  His eyes lit up with sudden understanding. “To put on your own oxygen mask first before helping your children.”

  Shem Tov nodded sagely. “Exactly. How can you help your children if you yourself are dying from lack of oxygen? To visit the graves of saints is spiritual oxygen. It allows even the most ignorant fool to absorb the greatness of spirit, the divinity of these hallowed souls. By praying to them, you are rewarded by receiving some of their greatness. Only then, when you have absorbed enough, will you be able to lead your family. You must not do less; you must do more!”

  “But, my wife, Daniella, she is unhappy. She complains I am never home as it is.”

  “Why was Adam expelled from Eden?”

  “Because he was seduced by Eve.”

  He nodded. “And did listening to her advice bring either of them blessing?”

  A great light suddenly exploded in Shlomie Goodman’s mind. He shook his head eagerly. “No. Eve was also expelled from Eden! She had to bear children in agony!”

  “Yes! And the rest of her curse was?” He looked at Shlomie expectantly.

  “‘Her desire is to her husband and he shall rule over her,’” Shlomie quoted, ecstatic he actually knew the answer.

  “Exactly. This is your lesson, what God is trying to teach you. You must ignore your wife’s pleadings and go forward to earn you both blessing and not a curse. You must rule over her and yourself. Do not be weak. Do not give in.”

  Shlomie bowed. “My rebbe, Messiah, how can I ever thank you?” His lips trembled and his eyes were wet with tears.

  “The evil and good that befall us every day are of our own making, not that of the indifferent universe. Choose wisely,” Shem Tov admonished him, allowing his fingers to be kissed. When Shlomie had gone, he went to the bathroom and washed his hands three times with soap, scrubbing them with a nail brush. As he looked into the bathroom mirror, he saw in the depths of his own brown eyes a flicker of disgust, of contempt, and of satisfaction.

  * * *

  In the coming year, Shlomie often didn’t come home at all, sleeping overnight in Meron near the grave of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai, who was attributed with the authorship of the Zohar, or in the forests as dawn broke after all-night prayer sessions. More and more, he felt distanced from his wife and children. But this could not be helped, he told himself. He thought of Moses and how he had also separated from his wife Zipporah and his children. That was the life of the saint or prophet, he told himself. A man rises in holiness when he removes himself from the petty burdens and strife of everyday life. This was his destiny.

  He thought of Rabbi Akiva, the ignorant shepherd, son of a convert, who had married the wealthy heiress Rachel, whose father disinherited her for her choice. With Rachel’s blessing and encouragement, Akiva abandoned her to poverty and loneliness and went off to learn Torah with her admonition—“Only return to me when you are a great scholar”—ringing in his ears.

  He, too, would return to his wife and his family only when he became a great scholar. With the Messiah’s encouragement, he chose to dress in accordance with his new status. Every day he would put on the flowing white robes he had worn for Menchie’s brit, clothes of spotless white, without a single stain or blemish, to match the yearning of his soul to be purified.

  When Duvie turned twelve, he was once again kicked out of his yeshiva. Given that this was the only yeshiva that had been willing to take him in, it placed Daniella and Shlomie in a very serious bind. But they couldn’t very well argue with the principal, who had kindly taken Duvie in, based on assurances that the boy would turn himself around if given another chance. If anything, Duvie’s behavior had taken a severe turn for the worse. Now he skipped classes altogether, spending afternoons in the center of town, where he would smoke cigarettes and eat pizza with other yeshiva dropouts.

  Daniella had done her best to talk to him, to no avail. She begged Shlomie to take him in hand. But the child had no use for his father’s advice, either.

  “I never wanted to go to that stupid place. I’m not learning anything there. No English. Hardly any math, no history or social studies. All they want is for me to learn about five brothers who get married and one of them dies, and no one remembers who married whom. It’s stupid. They’re making me stupid.”

  With Duvie’s problems, their own seemed to grow, the fights between them erupting at closer and closer intervals, spewing poisonous fumes over everything in their wake, destroying their domestic life. Soon, their problems with Duvie spread, virus-like, to their other children.

  Amalya, always so quiet and docile, came to blows with Shoshana, who was constantly in her room destroying her precious doll collection. Yossi took to clinging to Daniella even more than usual, wanting her constant attention, getting up late every morning, and stashing secret supplies of chocolate under his bed. He gained so much weight that his pediatrician told her he was prediabetic. And if that was not enough, Gabriel began wetting the bed. Even Shoshana, Daniella’s bright, pretty, chatterbox, seemed quieter, sadder, burdened somehow. Only the babies, Eli and Menchie, seemed oblivious. Daniella struggled on, refusing to admit defeat, until things came to a sudden head.

  It was Purim, and Duvie and Yossi had disappeared. Daniella and Shlomie were on the verge of calling the police, when the two finally showed up, long after dark, their eyes red and glassy, their words slurred.

  “Where have you been!” Daniella shouted at them.

  They giggled.

  They were drunk, she realized, appalled. A twelve-year-old and an eleven-year-old.

  “You are supposed to drink un
til you don’t know the difference between ‘Blessed is Mordechai and cursed is Haman!’” Duvie protested.

  “I don’t know the difference,” Yossi exclaimed, before running to the bathroom to throw up.

  “Did you let your brother drink alcohol? Your little brother?” Daniella screamed at Duvie.

  “All the boys were drinking!”

  “Now, now, Daniella, it’s the custom on Purim for people to drink wine and be merry,” Shlomie soothed.

  “Shut up! That is not the custom for us, for our children. They’re still babies, for God’s sake!”

  Shlomie looked as if a pet dog had jumped up and bit him.

  “And what’s this?” she said, shaking cigarette ashes off Yossi’s costume, a scarlet king’s robe, as the boy came back into the room. “Were you smoking!”

  He looked down defiantly.

  She turned to Shlomie. “What do you expect! He has no father to teach him. Our children are fatherless!”

  The children were stunned by this, cowering. While they were already used to hearing their parents fight, previously it had always taken place behind closed doors. This was an escalation. Even Eli and Menchie looked up, startled, beginning to cry. Amalya and Shoshana picked them up, carrying them into the bedroom. Gabriel, too, seemed overcome with grief. Duvie led him off, plying him with cookies, while Yossi sat uneasily by the table, finishing off a mountain of sweets.

  “Really, Daniella!” Shlomie remonstrated, shocked.

  “You are a big waste of time. A do-nothing. I can’t stand the sight of you. Get out!” she shouted at her husband. “Get out of my life!”

  “Please, we can talk about this—”

  “Aba, Ima, don’t!” Yossi cried.

  But Daniella was beyond reasoning, frustration bursting through the artificial dams she’d hammered together through the years composed of piety, self-sacrifice, and shame at another failure. She heard the rankling echo of Joel’s words: Why do you put up with it?