by Julia Dahl
Saul slowly pulls his eyes off me and addresses George.
“She was married,” says Saul. “I’m not sure of her exact age.”
“Do you know the family?” I manage to ask. My voice is tight, like something has its hands around my throat.
“I do,” says Saul. “Though not well.” He is older than my dad, maybe fifty-five. He is not wearing a wedding ring.
I can’t think of the next question.
“Are you enjoying New York?” Saul asks.
I nod. I can’t bring myself to look at him.
“Your father said you were a reporter.”
“My father? You talked to my father?”
“We’ve kept in touch a little. He sent me an e-mail when you moved here.” He’s still staring at me, and his face has this almost-laughing look. The beer in my stomach is threatening to shoot up my esophagus. I am not prepared in the slightest for this situation. I wonder what George thinks. The last thing I need is him reporting my meltdown to the desk. I raise my eyes and stare Saul down.
“Is there anything you can tell me about Rivka Mendelssohn?” If he’s going to make me feel like a frightened child, I am going to pump him for every ounce of information I can. Fuck you. I am not my mother.
“I’m sorry,” he says, wiping a hand across his face. “It’s just … I’m sorry.”
“Age? Kids? I spoke with Aron Mendelssohn. Were they married?” Each word is difficult to say, but I am not going to let this man—or my mother—turn me into a mute idiot who can’t do her job.
“Yes,” says Saul. “Rivka Mendelssohn was Aron Mendelssohn’s wife. He owns the scrap yard. This is their home. I don’t know her exact age.”
“I knocked on the door and met a woman,” I say. “Miriam?”
“You spoke with Miriam?” Saul seems surprised, which pleases me. See? I’m not just an orphan girl. I’m a big-city reporter, bitch.
“Just for a minute, but that was before we were sure the dead woman was Rivka Mendelssohn. I’d like to see if I can get a quote from her now.”
Saul is silent.
“Are you working on this case?” I ask.
“I work in property crime, not homicide. I was called in to assist with translation. Most Hasidim speak Yiddish at home. I help the department liaise with the community, when needed.” He pauses. “Would you like to speak with Miriam again?”
No cop has ever offered to facilitate an interview for me. Usually, they either scoff, like the detectives in the car outside, or shame me, shaking their head that I would have the gall to prey on these devastated people at this delicate time. Perhaps, I think, I have stumbled upon a source. Courtesy of my deadbeat mother.
“Yes,” I say.
“I will take you around the back.”
“Can George come, too?”
“No.”
I look at George. He doesn’t seem bothered. Saul walks toward the back gate and George bends down to pick up my pen.
“I’ll be right here,” he says. “Holler if you need anything.”
Saul lifts the latch on the gate and holds it open for me. The backyard is a narrow strip of snow-covered grass. A rusty metal swing set stands crooked in one corner; a row of garbage cans are lined up along a two-car garage. All the window shades are drawn. Saul knocks softly at the back door, which looks a lot like the front door; it has its own doorbell and small portico. Miriam appears at the door and Saul motions for me to go inside.
The three of us stand together in a small entryway. Miriam looks very nervous. She says something to Saul in Yiddish and he says something back; then he turns to me.
“It is Shabbos, she is worried what the neighbors will say about all the activity. I’ve told her you are Jewish. She says she can answer a few questions if it helps.”
I look at Miriam and try to catch her eye, but she keeps her head down.
“Thank you for taking the time,” I say. “I can’t imagine how hard this is. I just want to get a little information so that we can …” I want to say “humanize,” but somehow it seems inappropriate. “So we can just let our readers know a little about her life.” I pause for a cue to continue. Nothing. I continue. “Rivka lived here?”
Miriam nods.
“And, may I ask, how you are related?”
“Rivka is my brother’s wife. We are like sisters.”
I scribble sister-in-law in my notebook.
“How old was she?”
“Thirty.”
“Did she have children?”
Miriam nods.
“Sorry, can I ask how many?”
“Three girls and one boy.”
“Great …,” I say, scribbling. “And her husband, your brother, is Aron Mendelssohn? He owns the Smith Street Scrap Yard?”
Miriam nods again.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
Miriam looks at me for the first time during the interview. Her features seem even more pinched than they did an hour ago. I catch a faint whiff of cigarette smoke on her breath. “Tuesday.”
“Tuesday?” That’s odd, I think. It’s Friday now. “Had she gone somewhere?”
Miriam looks at Saul, as if for help. Saul doesn’t say a word. I’m surprised he’s let me go on so long.
“Were you concerned? Had anyone in the family heard from her?”
Miriam shakes her head.
“So you hadn’t heard from her? What did you think happened? Had she ever been gone like that before?” I have a bad habit of throwing all my questions out at once when I’m nervous.
Miriam bites down. I see her jaw flex. “She was a good mother.”
I write that down. “I’m sure,” I say, nodding. “Did you report her missing?”
Miriam does not respond, so I keep talking.
“How did she seem when you saw her last? Can you think of any reason this might have happened?”
Again, nothing from Miriam. I wonder if maybe her English is poor and I’m speaking too quickly. I try another subject.
“How are the children?”
“The children are fine.”
“Fine?”
Miriam nods. “They are very sad.”
I look at Miriam. She’s looking at my notebook. I write down kids v sad. “Can you tell me a little about Rivka? Was she born here? What did she like to do?”
“We were both born in Borough Park.”
“And you both live here, together?”
“My husband and I live on the third floor. It is a separate apartment.”
A door slams. We all turn and see that Aron Mendelssohn has come in through the front. As soon as he sees me, he stops. He looks truly shocked that I’m there, as if I’m some sort of winged beast that just dropped through the ceiling. Like, how the fuck did this creature get in my hallway and how can I kill it before it kills me?
“Miriam!” he roars. Miriam jumps toward me. She actually grabs my arm, as if I might protect her.
Saul moves quickly past us, and the two men begin shouting in Yiddish.
“Go!” hisses Miriam, pushing me toward the door. “Write something nice. She was beautiful. Say she was beautiful.”
I run out the back door, turning once to make sure Aron Mendelssohn hasn’t followed me outside. I can hear him yelling. I lift the latch on the back gate and jog past George to his car. I have no idea if Saul is behind me. Fred Moskowitz has returned from his coffee run and sees me coming out.
“We’re not getting a photo,” I say when George gets inside.
“Oh yeah?” says George. “Figures.”
“I’m gonna call in what I’ve got.” I pull out my notebook and my hands are shaking. I can barely read my writing, but I remember exactly what Miriam said. I call Cathy’s number directly. She picks up on the first ring. I tell her I talked to the sister-in-law.
“Perfect. Give me what you got.”
“Her name is Rivka. She’s thirty, married, has four children. Lives in a big house in Borough Park. Her husband is scary
.”
“Her husband is scary? Is that a quote?”
“No. Sorry. That’s me. The rest is from the sister-in-law. I got in the house after the cops and talked to her, but when the husband came home he started screaming and I left.”
“What’s the sister-in-law’s name?”
“Miriam.”
“Last name?”
“Fuck.” I forgot to ask. “I forgot to ask. It’s probably not Mendelssohn. That would be her maiden name and she said she was married.”
“And she lives there?”
“Yes. There are two entrances. It’s a really big house. It’s split into two residences.”
“Okay, we can just say the sister-in-law. Anything else?”
“The last time she saw her was Tuesday.”
“Tuesday?”
“Yeah.”
Moskowitz is coming toward me and George. His coat is buttoned improperly, so the collar pokes up at his chin on one side. I can’t talk to him while I’m talking to my editor. I point to the phone and make a sign to wait. He nods. I think Moskowitz might have worked for the Trib before striking out on his own. Or maybe it was the Ledger.
“That’s three days before she was found.”
“Right.”
“But they didn’t report her missing?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Okay. Any quotes?”
“Not much. She said, ‘She was a good mother.’ And, ‘She was beautiful.’”
“Really?”
“Really.” When she said it, it seemed somehow adequate as a description. Not so much now. “She was pretty shook up. She said the kids were very sad.”
“That’s a quote? The kids are sad.”
“The children. She said the children are very sad.”
“Is photo there?”
“Yeah, but I got chased out before I could even ask for a photo. And I don’t recommend anybody going back there. At least not tonight.”
“Is anyone else there?” She means other press.
“Just The Brooklyn Beacon.”
“Not the Ledger?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. Go home. Great work. Don’t forget to put in for overtime.”
“Does Larry at the Shack have anything? A cause of death?” The Shack is how newspaper people refer to the tiny office reporters have at police headquarters.
“Not yet. But it’s definitely a homicide.”
“Duh.”
Cathy laughs. “Great job, Rebekah.”
I hang up and roll the window down to talk to Frank.
“You got in,” he says.
“I didn’t get much. Just her age—she’s thirty.” The offer of information surprises Frank. “Thirty, married, four kids. Born in Borough Park. That’s it.” I can give him information because nobody reads his paper.
Frank repeats the information and I nod, indicating he’s remembered it correctly.
“Who’s this from?” he asks.
“The sister-in-law. Miriam.”
“Last name?”
“I forgot to ask.”
Frank snickers. Forgetting to ask for the last name is a first-week mistake.
“That’s all,” I say.
“Okay. Thanks.”
I roll up the window. George calls in and is told to go to a location in Queens. A city councilman’s wife was picked up for DUI. They want a shot of the car. I’m about to call myself a livery cab to go home when I see Saul coming out the back gate. He looks around, then waves at me. I get out of the car.
“Here is my phone number,” says Saul, handing me a business card that identifies him as a detective in the NYPD. “Please call me if you have any questions. For your story. Or … anything you need.”
He’s not staring at me with the same intensity now, which is nice. I write my phone number on a piece of notebook paper, tear it off, and give it to him.
“Thanks,” I say. “If you hear anything about the investigation, give me a call. I don’t even think they have a cause of death yet. I guess they’re waiting on the autopsy.”
Saul nods, but says nothing.
“Okay,” I say. “Bye.”
“Good-bye, Rebekah,” he says. He’s staring again. I turn and get back in George’s car to call for a livery cab.
“Everything okay with that guy?” asks George.
“Yeah,” I say. “He knew my parents.”
George nods. Unlike Johnny, George doesn’t need to fill a shift with talking. I appreciate that.
On the way home to Gowanus, sunk in the worn leather backseat of a beat-up Town Car, I check my phone and see that I have a text from Tony.
still on for 11?
It’s almost ten now. I even have time to shower.
see u there … hope you’re ready for a saga
As we merge onto the Prospect Expressway, I close my eyes and see Aron Mendelssohn. What if he killed his wife and now he’s mad enough to kill his sister for talking to me? I don’t remember ever reading about a murder in the ultra-Orthodox community, but I haven’t been in New York that long. I wonder if Saul knows more than he told me.
Saul.
I pull out my phone and dial my dad.
“Hi, hon!” he says.
“Hi, Dad.”
“How’s life in the big city?”
“Cold.”
“It’s a little chilly here, too. Maria brought in a bunch of grapefruit from the tree this morning and a couple had gone bad from frost overnight.” Maria is originally from Guatemala, but she’s been in the U.S. since she was a teenager. She and my dad met at a conference of religious academics in Denver when I was about three. Maria was working as an assistant to one of the conference coordinators. They got married when I was five and had my brother, Deacon, a year later. “How’s work?”
“Guess who I met today?”
“Who?”
“Saul Katz.”
“Oh!” He sounds happy, which I suppose I should have expected. I’ve never understood my father’s relationship to my mother and her memory. He doesn’t talk about her much, but when the subject comes up, he speaks with tenderness and sympathy, like she died of cancer instead of abandoned him with a six-month-old doppelgänger. I challenged him for years, screaming and crying that she was a horrible bitch, a selfish, weak, heartless little girl who ruined both our lives. He listened, and he stroked my hair and held me when I’d worn myself out. But he never said anything more combative than, she shouldn’t have left.
“Did you know he was a cop?”
“I did. He kept in touch over the years.”
“That’s what he said.”
“You sound upset.”
I sigh heavily. My dad is king of the understatement.
“He kind of ambushed me. Why didn’t you tell me you had, like, told someone who knew Mom that I was moving to New York?”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “He e-mailed me a few months ago. I think he saw your byline in the newspaper. Wanted to know if it was the same person.”
“Great, so he’s stalking me.”
“I doubt that,” says my dad. “He’s a very nice man. How did you say you met him?”
“He showed up at a crime scene.”
“A crime scene?”
“Well, actually, at a victim’s house. They found a dead woman in a scrap pile this morning, and it turns out she’s Hasidic. I went to her house to get a quote from the family and Saul was there.”
“How awful. Are you okay?” My dad is very concerned about my work for the Trib. He doesn’t approve of tabloid journalism. I wouldn’t say I “approve” either, exactly, but, as I’ve explained to him, The New York Times wasn’t hiring and I wanted to learn how to be a reporter.
“I’m fine.”
“I don’t know how you can do that kind of work. It must be so hard.”
“What kind of work, Dad?”
“Not the Trib—I just mean, a body in a, what did you say? A scrap pile? Lord.” My dad says “Lord�
� a lot. “The family must be devastated.”
I decide not to get into the reactions of the family members I’ve met so far.
“So, how did Saul know Mom, exactly? He’s older than you guys.”
“Saul was part of a group of ultra-Orthodox who were questioning the rigid lifestyle. They used to meet in a house out near Coney Island to talk freely and read newspapers and watch movies—things they couldn’t do at home.”
“They couldn’t read newspapers?”
“No. Most Orthodox try very hard to keep themselves from interacting, even passively, with the rest of the world.”
“Right, because we’re so evil.”
“Depends on your perspective.” I roll my eyes. My dad is the ultimate religious apologist.
“Okay, anyway …”
“They were all experimenting with new ways of living. From what I remember, Saul had married, at about nineteen, a woman he did not love. His family was not wealthy, and the matchmaker didn’t consider him a good match, so he ended up engaged to a troubled young woman from a slightly wealthier family.”
“Troubled?”
“Depressed? I’m not sure. What I know is that the marriage was a disaster. They were married more than ten years and had only one child, which was considered shameful. When he filed for divorce, she moved back in with her parents. Her father went to court and told a judge that Saul should be barred from seeing his son because he had become less religious and the child would be confused.”
“And the judge agreed?”
“Apparently.”
Everything I learn about Hasidic life is So. Fucking. Sad. But this is what she left me for. My stomach sizzles. I shift in my seat; I’m going to need a bathroom soon.
“Divorce was rare in the community, and he’d brought shame on his family and hers.”
“Where does Mom come in?”
“Saul had worked at his father-in-law’s clothing store. Of course, he was fired as soon as he filed for divorce. He had nowhere to go, and I think he actually slept outside or in the subway for a while until another man, I forget his name, invited him to help him fix up the run-down Coney Island house he’d been living in in exchange for a place to stay. Saul and the man—maybe his name was Menachem?—turned the place into a refuge for questioning Orthodox. That’s where he met your mother.”
