The Devil in Jerusalem

by Naomi Ragen

  Unfortunately, one of his members, a nineteen-year-old drug addict, turned out to be from a prominent family of lawyers from Tel Aviv, who looked into what had happened to her and had wound up whisking her away to be deprogrammed. She had sung like a canary, and the next thing Leibel knew, he and all his cult members were on a plane bound for Peru.

  A food cart rumbled by. A stewardess handed Shem Tov his meal. He stared at it, incensed. “Not kosher!” he screamed at the stewardess, who hurried to take it back.

  She looked it over in confusion. “Sir, you see here,” she pointed to a large stick-on label on the carefully wrapped meal, “it says clearly: ‘Kosher.’”

  “Not glatt kosher!” he screamed, slamming his fist on the tray table, which made the person in the seat in front of him jump.

  “Please, sir. We’ll try … Please calm down!”

  He slammed his hands violently against the seat in front of him, pushing the chair forward. The passenger turned around, alarmed.

  “Sir, if you don’t calm down, I’ll have to call the head of security.”

  He looked up and saw two burly men heading down the aisle toward him. At this, a miraculous calm came over Menachem Shem Tov. He let his hands fall limply to his sides, closing his eyes. When he opened them, he looked at the stewardess. “Sorry,” he said. “Going to funeral of my father. Very sad. Take meal. Sorry.”

  She looked at him doubtfully, handing him back the meal and nodding to the two men, who turned around and went back to their seats. After that, he behaved himself, quietly eating his meal then closing his eyes to sleep. It was going to be a long trip.

  33

  In the next few days, Daniella Goodman’s lawyer negotiated a plea deal for his client. She would receive a five-year prison sentence in exchange for turning state’s witness. Five years behind bars, Bina thought, wondering if it was just.

  “How hard did her lawyer try to get her out of serving jail time?” she asked Morris.

  He shrugged. “Not very. I understand Daniella didn’t want to walk scot-free. She thinks she deserves it.”

  Yes, Bina thought. I can understand that.

  Daniella Goodman’s full and complete testimony, which was immediately sealed by court order to protect her children, was shocking, putting the finishing nails into the airtight cases they were now building against Shem Tov, Hod, Batlan, and Goldschmidt. But there was still one star witness that they had not been able to interview: Duvie Goodman.

  “Do you think he will talk to us now?” Bina asked doubtfully. From the beginning, of all the children, Duvie had been the most problematic, behaving like a wild horse they were trying to saddle for the first time every time they approached him, screaming curses, biting, and kicking. Not only that but, until recently, he’d intimidated the other children into silence with spoken and unspoken threats.

  Bina found his behavior inexplicable. Why was he so determined to protect Shem Tov and his accomplices? Could it be that he had been recruited? That he was now as brainwashed as his mother had been? Or perhaps he hadn’t experienced the horrors the others had at Shem Tov’s hands?

  “I think you’ll find that he, of all the children, was the most abused,” Johnny said to her surprise when she discussed it with him.

  Her eyes opened wide, and she shook her head, thinking of Menchie and Eli. “How can you say that?”

  “Because he, according to his mother, was the most rebellious, the most outspoken. Who knows what they did to him to get him to cooperate? And being the big brother, he probably feels the most guilt at not having been able to protect his younger siblings. In his own way, by threatening them to keep quiet, he’s trying to do that now.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “He’s terrified that Shem Tov will find out and take revenge. It’s no different than the Mafia. Don’t be fooled by his tough-guy act. He’s a child, Bina. He deserves our compassion.”

  “But we can’t get near him.”

  “He isn’t different than the other children. Try the same strategy. Make him feel safe. We’ll not only get our evidence but help him to understand it was not his fault. I think you’ll find that Duvie, of all the children, is the most eager to tell us what was done to him.”

  She doubted it.

  “Go, Bina. Talk to the kid,” said Morris. “Take Johnny with you.”

  Duvie was also now living with Joel, while the others were in foster homes.

  They knocked on the door. Joel answered, nodding. “He’s in the living room.”

  “Hi, Duvie,” Johnny called out to him.

  He was thirteen, going on fourteen, a short boy with beautiful blond hair covered by a black, velvet skullcap. His long silky side curls hung down on either side of his rosy cheeks.

  At first glance, he seemed younger than his age. Only when Bina looked into his eyes could she tell that his childhood was long gone.

  “Do you remember me, Bina Tzedek?”

  He nodded hostilely.

  “And you remember Johnny?” Joel said encouragingly. “They’ve come to talk to you.”

  “You know that Shem Tov is in jail, right?” Johnny told him.

  “I know that’s what you told the others to get them to talk. But how do I know you weren’t lying?” he responded warily.

  Luckily, this time it was actually true. Shem Tov had been picked up trying to enter Peru. He was already sitting in a Peruvian jail.

  “Here, look at this.” Bina said, pulling out a photo she’d downloaded from the Internet, anticipating this question. It was a clear picture of a bareheaded, shoeless Shem Tov being led away in chains by Peruvian police. CHILD MOLESTER CAPTURED BY PERUVIAN BORDER CONTROL was the headline. “Now he’ll never be able to hurt any of you again.”

  Duvie took it. Suddenly, he sat down. Holding the paper in both hands, he stared at it for a long time, until his hands began to shake and tears ran silently down his cheeks. The transformation was unbelievable. In front of their eyes, he went from a belligerent teenager to a confused and hurting child. “Baruch Hashem,” he whispered, closing his eyes. God be blessed. He sat there, without saying another word, sobbing uncontrollably.

  There was nothing to do but wait patiently, unable to help, their hearts sore.

  He opened his eyes, looking around the room. “Now I’ll tell you everything.”

  So that’s all it ever was, Bina thought. A child’s simple terror. She’d misjudged him.

  “When my parents moved from Yahalom to Jerusalem, I started a new school. It was a yeshiva in the Old City. And the rebbe there used to hit all the boys with a stick whenever he felt like it. This made me nervous, so I started biting my nails. Every time I did it, he’d smash me over my fingertips with a fat ruler. Once, it hurt so bad, I took it out of his hands and broke it in two, and told him to go to hell.”

  A small smile lit up the corners of Johnny’s mouth.

  “So, I got kicked out. They sent me to another place. It was even worse. I got kicked out of there, too. The third place was the worst. The kids were retarded or criminals. I was afraid of them. So I cut classes and started hanging out in the center of town by the place they call Cat’s Square. Lots of kids like me hang out there. My father tried to talk to me. I said I’d try harder to be good. But I was very angry. My parents kept getting complaints about me from my teachers. They kept grounding me. But on Purim, I went out anyway with Yossie. We went to town and had a pizza and had fun.

  “When I got back, my parents flipped. They called Shem Tov. He told my parents to send me to live in his rat-infested beit midrash, and that he, himself, would teach me for my Bar Mitzvah. I begged my parents not to, but they sent me away. They said I needed ‘a strong hand.’” He looked down at the photo of Shem Tov in handcuffs, his hands trembling once more.

  “Whenever Shem Tov showed up at his beit midrash, he would beat me with a long stick. He’d smash it into my back and my face. And when he wasn’t there, he appointed Goldschmidt to be ‘responsible’ for me. Whenever I did the smallest thing he
didn’t like—if I yawned or went to the bathroom during a lesson—Goldschmidt would call Shem Tov on his cell phone, and when he hung up, Goldschmidt would smash his fists into my stomach and my face. He’d kick me and bend my fingers back until they almost broke.” Tears filled the boy’s eyes. “And there was someone else there, Bannerman…”

  Johnny and Bina exchanged glances. It was the first time they’d heard the name.

  “He was then put in charge. He was supposed to ‘neutralize’ me, to make sure I didn’t lift a finger without permission. He made me—” he stopped, breathing hard “—suck his thumb. He made me drink water after everyone in the yeshiva had spit in the cup. To drink coffee they filled with paprika or salt, to drink the leftovers in everyone’s coffee cups. And when I wouldn’t, he … he beat me with a baseball bat, and … he squeezed my…” He looked down into his lap.

  Bina could see that Johnny’s continued silence came at a price, his gentle hands squeezed into rock-hard weapons.

  “Even right before my Bar Mitzvah, the whole bunch ganged up on me and beat me. They broke a tooth.” He opened his mouth and pointed inside. “They told me my parents knew all about what they were doing to me, and that they were happy about it, that they thought I deserved it, that they didn’t love me anymore because I was such a disgrace to them, which is why they sent me away in the first place. I started to believe them, and that’s when I decided the best thing would be to kill myself. A few times, I even tried. I almost threw myself in front of a truck. But it didn’t work out. I was too slow or the truck was too fast.”

  “Did you ever try to tell your parents what was going on?” Johnny asked gently.

  “I was never allowed to be alone with them. The only time they’d let me go home was if the whole group came with me. I tried to talk to my father, to hint to him … but Goldschmidt overheard and I got hit so bad. Anyhow, I couldn’t make my father or my mother understand. They didn’t want to believe me. That’s when I started thinking that everything Shem Tov told me had been true. They really were in on it, my father and my mother.”

  Bina had a vision of this child standing up on the bimah on his Bar Mitzvah day, such a joyous occasion, his face black and blue, his teeth broken, his terrified voice trembling as he read the words of the sacred Torah, the book of kindness and love that had governed the lives of Jews from their inception as a nation. It was an obscenity.

  “Then my father was suddenly gone, and Shem Tov moved us all to his house. They were all there, except Bannerman. And Shem Tov was the king. They did whatever he said and did it like it was fun for them. Like they enjoyed it. They were a bunch of Nazis! Sometimes Shem Tov watched, and sometimes he joined in. They made me sit in weird positions and stay up all night learning. And if I fell asleep, Goldschmidt would lock me in the storage room for two days, every time, with no food or water. They gave me a bowl to use as a toilet and told me I wasn’t allowed to fall asleep. They never opened the door except to throw me a little food or beat me. They kept a cell phone in there, so that Shem Tov could listen to everything going on inside. And when the battery died, they’d open the door and beat me, telling me I shut it off on purpose. Once, they tried to force pills down my throat. I think it was Ritalin. They took me to the mikvah and on the way beat me with a cell phone until they broke another one of my teeth. And when I tried to talk to my mother, I got dragged away and beaten so badly I couldn’t move.

  “So I made a plan. To run away and take Yossi with me. But we got caught. They forced liquor down our throats. Shem Tov told Batlan and Goldschmidt to beat us up. I thought I was going to die. Then they locked us both in the storage room. After a while, I stopped counting the days.”

  Bina inhaled, then exhaled slowly. How much more, how much more? she silently asked. But if this is what the child lived through, I have to have the strength to at least listen.

  “But that wasn’t the hardest part,” he said suddenly.

  Johnny and Bina looked up at him and at each other, startled, afraid of what they were going to hear next.

  “The hardest part was watching what they did to my kid brothers. One night, I heard Shem Tov tell Batlan to beat Menchie. I sat there watching all night long as he hit Menchie with his fists, slapped him, kicked him. And I couldn’t…” He began to weep, in heartbreaking sobs. Bina went to him, but he shrugged off her attempt at comfort. “No, don’t. I don’t deserve it. I sat there and watched and I was too afraid.… I was a coward! I didn’t do anything. I didn’t say anything. I just watched, you understand? They hit him with a hammer, until he bled, while Shem Tov watched, this fucking smile on his fucking face.…” The boy wept. “They burned his fingertips with a lighter, they stuffed his mouth with food until he almost choked, they put him under a faucet and almost drowned him. And I saw it all, I saw it all.”

  “It wasn’t your fault—do you understand that!”

  “No! You don’t understand anything. Once I tried to stop them and they beat me up and then … then … they made me help them!”

  A current like a bolt of electricity went through Bina’s body, a sudden sense of darkness clouding her vision. The root of Duvie’s violence was self-hatred.

  “I saw them taking Eli into the kabbalah room, Shem Tov, Batlan, and Hod. They closed the door. I heard Eli screaming and screaming and screaming. Hod came running out. When he opened the door for a second, I caught a look at Eli. He was pressed up against a spiral heater. Batlan was holding his skin in his hands. They’d just burnt it off! They brought my mother from upstairs. I could hear them telling her some stupid freaking lies—that Eli had stood too close, that they’d tried to move him away—and she swallowed it! Didn’t complain to them! Nothing. Shem Tov didn’t want him taken to a doctor. He told my mother to treat him herself. I think she tried. But then she saw it was getting worse. And Shem Tov kept beating Eli. I think she was afraid they’d kill him. So she told Shem Tov she was going to get him out of the house, give him to some lady she knew. And Shem Tov, who hated Eli most of all, said yes.”

  He was breathing heavily, sweat pouring off his red face. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve.

  “Duvie, I know this must be very hard for you. But you are doing great!” Bina said, trying tentatively to put a hand on his shoulder. To her surprise, he let it rest there.

  “Can you tell us what happened to Menchie?” Johnny asked him after a short pause.

  “The last day we were in Shem Tov’s house, he made me tie Menchie’s arms to the back of a chair with chains. They said it was to help him, so he wouldn’t scratch the blisters on his burnt foot. His head was all swollen and purple. Shem Tov stood all of us up against the wall and told us that we should tell anybody who asked that Eli was burned by a fire in our house in the Old City. I heard him whisper to Batlan that he had to turn Menchie into a cripple so he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what happened to him. And that night, when we were moved back from Shem Tov’s house to our own house in the Old City, I heard Batlan talking to Shem Tov on the phone. After he hung up, I saw Batlan go into the room where Menchie was sleeping. After that, I saw Menchie lying on the floor, and Batlan had his mouth over his mouth, trying to breathe into him. And then the ambulance came.”

  “Would you excuse me a—” Bina ran to the bathroom and heaved over the toilet, tasting her breakfast once again. She washed her face, filled her mouth with water, and spit it out. She looked up at her face in the mirror, trying to reset her features, to remove the shock and horror so the boy wouldn’t see. She needed to be calm, professional, she told herself, closing her eyes and breathing deeply.

  She came back and sat down. “Sorry, please, go on, Duvie. This is very helpful.”

  “In the next few days, Shem Tov’s wife, Ruth, kept calling me. She told me to keep my mouth shut and to make sure my brothers and sisters kept theirs shut, otherwise, there were going to be a lot more tikkunim in the future when we went back to live with them.”

  “That is never, ever going to happen, Duvie,”
Bina told him. “Because of your courage, because you told us everything, you are going to be the reason that all of them—Shem Tov, Batlan, Goldschmidt, Hod, and this piece of turd Bannerman when we find him—are going to sit in jail for a very, very long time. They are going to eat prison food and be locked up twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

  “I wish … I wish…”

  “What?” Johnny said.

  “That you’d do to them what they did to us! Tie them up and let me be in a room with them for a day, with hammers and spiral heaters and shit and vomit.”

  Ah, if only real justice were possible, Bina thought, wishing for the same thing. But the state was so limited, its hands tied by its humanity, its adherence to civilized rules. For a moment she longed for biblical punishments, for death by stoning in which the entire city gathered, each individual invited to cast a rock at the perpetrators of horrendous deeds. How she would love to fling a few boulders on these men, watch them as they tried to protect their worthless hides with their cowardly hands, hands that had tortured innocent children. She could already see their defense attorneys crying crocodile tears: their poor clients were misled, brainwashed. They were only following orders!

  And Shem Tov, the Messiah? What would his lawyer say? Already, he was trying to claim that Shem Tov should be granted asylum in Peru because authorities in Israel—fornicators, pig eaters, and idolators—had no sovereignty over the Holy Land, which was established before the Messiah against God’s will. Shem Tov wasn’t an Israeli because Israel didn’t exist. He had been living in occupied territories, and thus so-called Israelis had no jurisdiction over him!