by Andrew Kane
He heard a quiver in her voice. “To be honest, I was really hoping that they wouldn’t be here,” he said.
“Pardon me?”
“I was hoping we could, sort of, be alone.”
“Pinchas, this really isn’t…”
“Right,” he interrupted. “I know.” He attempted to sound rational, but his mind was possessed.
“I think you should leave.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d like you to.” Stay cool!
“Am I not good enough for you?”
She sensed his rage. Careful, she told herself. “You’re married!”
“So were you when you were with Joshua. Are you still with him?”
“Excuse me?”
“I saw the two of you together. I know all about it.”
“About what?”
“About this,” he answered as he reached out and touched her. He was out of control, desperate just to feel her in his arms at last.
She backed away, frightened.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to…”
“I want you to leave. Now!” Trembling.
Paul struggled to restrain himself, to keep from doing something really stupid. Suddenly, almost miraculously, a moment of clarity emerged, ordaining him to heed her demand.
He turned away, wondering if he would ever be able to look at her again, and walked out the door in shame.
He wandered for blocks, confused and dejected, worried about the potential consequences of his actions. Would she tell anyone? Would Chava find out? What was he to do?
A thought came to mind. He could blow the whistle on her and Joshua. After that, nobody would believe anything she would have to say. It was cruel, but what choice did he have?
He also knew just to whom such information would be most valuable. The one man who would appreciate it and use it wisely. He quickly turned on his heel and headed to see Rav Schachter.
Paul was flattered at the rabbi’s willingness to see him with barely a moment’s notice, but wasn’t sure what to make of it. Last time, he had waited weeks for an appointment. Perhaps it was divine intervention; it certainly made him feel better to think so.
In truth, however, Rav Schachter had a special interest in Paul, and had known from the start of their relationship that Paul would one day prove to be useful. With all the racial problems emerging in the neighborhood, entrée to a man such as Alfred Sims could be quite valuable.
“Good day, Pinchas, I hope things are going well with you and Chava,” the rabbi opened, leaning back, seeming unbothered by the intrusion.
“Baruch Hashem, all is well.”
“Gut, then what brings you here this afternoon?” Right down to business.
“I have come with unfortunate news.”
The rabbi raised his eyebrows.
Paul continued, “It is a matter requiring the utmost discretion, a matter that I now realize I should have brought to the Rav’s attention long ago. It concerns the daughter of Rabbi Isaac Weissman.”
Schachter appeared nonchalant, but Paul saw through the mask. He knew the rabbi was eager to hear what he had to say. He proceeded to relate his tale, omitting not a single detail of that afternoon on the boardwalk. A few years had passed since the incident, but his recollection was impressively vivid, arousing Schachter’s suspicion of the veracity of everything he was hearing. But Schachter was a pragmatist, and believed in the old adage: where there’s smoke, there’s fire. This was something he could exploit.
“This is an interesting story, Pinchas, but it is about something that happened quite a while ago. Tell me, do you have any direct knowledge that there is still something going on between this man and Rachel Weissman?”
“No, I only saw them that one time.”
“And why have you brought this information to me, and why now, after all this time?”
“I have been grappling with what I saw for a long time. At first, I had considered telling someone or asking someone what to do with such information, but then I thought that I would probably have been doing more harm than good. I didn’t know how to proceed, so I kept it to myself. I suppose, in hindsight, that was wrong; a woman suspected of adultery is a serious matter and her husband has a right to know.”
Rav Schachter nodded.
Paul continued, “Lately, I have been feeling guilty about the way I handled this. I have been wondering how I would have felt if it had been my wife, God forbid, and another man had seen her doing something like this, and had concealed it, as I have. It is unthinkable.”
“So why do you come now? The marriage between Rachel and Binyamin is over.”
“But the sin has still been committed, both hers and mine. I know I can’t do anything about hers, and I suspect that the Bet Din wouldn’t choose to do anything at this point either, but I can do something about what I have done, or haven’t done, as the case may be.”
“So you have come here to confess?”
“And to ask how I can repent.”
The rabbi began to realize that this “penitent” was even more clever and cunning than he’d imagined. “You have expressed yourself quite well,” he said, “and you are correct that neither I nor the Bet Din would act on such information, considering that such action would serve no purpose for the ‘husband.’ The fact that you did not come forth when you should have, also seems to have had no actual bearing on the unfolding of events in this situation. The Eibeshter, our Creator, has obviously resolved the matter on His own.”
Paul nodded, showing appreciation for the rabbi’s insight.
“As for your t’shuvah, repentance,” Rav Schachter continued, “there is no specific prescription in a case such as this. All I can say is that you should learn from what you’ve done, and if ever a similar situation arises, you will behave differently. After all, isn’t that what the Rambam, Maimonides, says t’shuva is all about? A man truly repents when, if confronted with identical circumstances in which he committed his sin, he behaves differently.”
“Yes, I remember learning the Rambam’s thoughts on this,” Paul responded.
“Gut, then let this matter take up no more of your precious time.”
“And what does the Rav plan on doing with the information I have disclosed?”
“I am going to do nothing,” Schachter said. “As I explained, the marriage is already over, and all things considered, it is unlikely that Rachel Weissman will easily find another shiddoch. Perhaps some unfortunate widower or divorcée who has already fulfilled the mitzvah of having children will take interest in her, and that is punishment enough for such a beautiful young woman. I see no purpose in adding to her misery.”
“I understand,” Paul said, well aware of the rabbi’s duplicity.
As soon as Paul departed, Rav Nachum Schachter arose from his chair, walked to his window, and looked down upon Eastern Parkway. There, below him, the sidewalks were teeming with soldiers of the Lord, armored in their black and white garb, shielded with caftans and fedoras, pacing briskly from place to place. Some would be en route to prayer, others to study, and still even others to their homes and families. And then there were those who were headed to unspeakable places, harboring treacherous secrets. Sexual indulgences, drugs, gambling—Schachter knew that all those things were out there, that the black and white facade concealed many shades of gray.
The amorality of the world had crept into Schachter’s ghetto, and he blamed the likes of Isaac Weissman, and Isaac’s teacher, Rav Feldblum, for these vile intrusions. Feldblum was his nemesis, a man “disloyal” to the Rebbe, a man who dared question the Rebbe’s messianic destiny. Feldblum’s camp was too embracing of modern society, sending vulnerable yeshiva students onto the streets to proselytize among the secular and forsaken, and accepting outsiders into the community, thereby poisoning the purity of the Lubavitcher lineage.
Schachter wondered how many of the Rebbe’s followers lived like Rachel Weissman; how many had been influenced by the debau
chery and perversions of the outside world; how many had been defiled and enticed.
Stirred by his ruminations, Schachter knew he had to act. Feldblum and his circle of “apostates” had to be discredited. And now he had the means with which to do it, the fact that the daughter of Isaac Weissman had fallen into a life of sin. It was the ultimate irony, superb ammunition. But the mere word of Pinchas Sims wasn’t sufficient. Real evidence would have to be gathered, perhaps photos, or credible witnesses.
Schachter turned from the window, pressed the buzzer on his desk, and summoned his assistant. A moment later, the underling appeared in the elder’s office, waiting anxiously for instructions.
“There is a matter that requires our immediate attention,” the rabbi said.
Rachel Weissman Frankel had chosen to keep silent about the incident with Paul Sims. She believed she was safe from him, and that he wouldn’t be back. Moreover, she was concerned about once again becoming the object of gossip. She’d already suffered enough of that.
For days, she’d been unable to sleep, haunted more by what Paul had said than what he had done. Last night, she finally surrendered to the little yellow pills Marcia Schiffman had given her when she’d been depressed. She had avoided resorting to medication, even during the worst of times, but this had pushed her over the edge.
The pill worked like a charm. The sleep had done her good. She awoke a bit hung over, but feeling far better than on previous mornings. She came into the kitchen for breakfast, made herself some coffee, and picked up the newspaper her father had left on the table.
She thumbed through the want-ads, imagining what it would be like to get a job. Of course, she could easily find work in the neighborhood, but she fantasized about breaking out, doing something like designing clothing in Midtown or selling art in SoHo. In truth, she knew she was terribly unskilled; she also knew Manhattan was no place for a Hasidic woman to be.
She turned to the front section of the paper, national and international news, and skimmed the headlines. Unlike her father, who read the paper from cover to cover every morning of his life, she was rather selective. She landed on a piece about a recent terrorist skirmish in Israel. That sort of thing always grabbed her attention. It never ceased to amaze her how such a tiny scrap of land, on the other side of the world, managed to command so much attention.
It had been over a year and a half since the Yom Kippur War, yet the graphic memories returned whenever she read such articles. She had been twenty-three at the time, consumed in the turmoil of her failing marriage, too demoralized to even attend synagogue on that single holiest day of the Jewish calendar. In fact, it hadn’t been until that evening, when her parents had come to break the fast with her, that she actually learned the news. “They are like Nazis, those Arab bastards, to attack Jews in their synagogues,” her father had exclaimed. Rachel had never heard him use such language before and, forgetting her own troubles, attempted to comfort him.
She hadn’t been very successful, but it wasn’t her fault. Isaac Weissman had been inconsolable, the images in his mind too powerful to be quieted. “They vill never leave us alone,” he had added, banging his fist on the table. “Never!”
Rachel would never forget that scene, the fierce look in her father’s eyes, words and resonance of which she’d never imagined him capable. Each time she came upon an article about an attack in Israel, she could picture his reaction to it, and here was yet another one. She worried about him.
She finished the first section of the paper, and went on to the local news. She usually didn’t bother with local news, but today she felt compelled. Perhaps because she was restless, or maybe a tad more inquisitive than usual. Or simply, perhaps, it was the hand of God.
Her eye was caught by a headline: SUSPECT FREED IN LUKINS RAPE CASE. She was stunned. Everyone in the Lubavitcher community knew about Emma Lukins’ frightful attack six months earlier, and the impending trial. Since the incident, women had been warned to be careful when they walked the streets. There had even been talk among the men about setting up citizen patrols.
Rachel read on:
Chief Assistant DA, Leonard Strauss, announced yesterday that the State’s case against Willie Johnson in the rape of Emma Lukins was being dismissed because of lack of evidence against Mr. Johnson. New leads concerning another possible suspect will be pursued. Miss Lukins, a member of the Lubavitcher Hasidic Sect, lived alone in an apartment at 127 Empire Blvd. in the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn. The incident had taken place on August 9, 1974. Jewish leaders had been outraged by the brutality of the crime, and had complained to the authorities about the increasing frequency of violent acts perpetrated against members of the Lubavitcher community. Black leaders have maintained that Mr. Johnson had been falsely accused. There is a wall of silence around the actual events that led to the dismissal of the case against Mr. Johnson yesterday. Joshua Eubanks, Mr. Johnson’s attorney, said only that his client has been exonerated of all charges and that he hoped the police would work quickly to find the actual perpetrator.
Joshua Eubanks? Rachel couldn’t believe her eyes.
Joshua Eubanks! Not a day had gone by in the past few years in which she hadn’t thought of him, and now, here he was, in print. The New York Times, no less.
Joshua Eubanks!
She reread the article to convince herself she wasn’t dreaming. She had always expected great things of Joshua. A lawyer, no surprise. Willie Johnson’s lawyer, that was hard to take.
It had been several years since she’d last seen him. She tried to imagine what he must look like, but she could only picture him as he was then. She found herself overtaken by curiosity, and perhaps by something more than curiosity. She wanted to see him again.
She downed the coffee, closed the paper, and got up from the table. Her hands were unsteady and she almost dropped the saucer on her way to the sink. She quickly washed the saucer, and hurried to her bedroom to dress. It took three outfits till she found the right one.
She didn’t want to think about what she was doing, or even why she was doing it. Obstacles and consequences be damned. Whether he was married, involved, or how he would react after all this time, none of it concerned her. She wanted only to go to him, talk to him, to hold him, and to feel good once again.
She had suffered enough.
CHAPTER 43
It was a storefront office on Nostrand Avenue, small but just right for Joshua’s needs. The first three months’ rent would be paid by an interest-free loan from the Nostrand Avenue Commerce Association, an organization of local merchants who wanted to reward Joshua for his performance in the Johnson case.
The commerce association was dedicated to promoting black owned businesses, and establishing youth programs throughout the community. The night after the Johnson dismissal, three representatives from the association had visited Joshua at his home. Their proposition was straightforward. All he had to do was join the association, participate in raising charitable funds, attend monthly meetings, operate fairly in business dealings with other association members, and repay the loan in a reasonable amount of time. A ready-made clientele, prestige, and legitimacy, all wrapped up in one neat package. Amazing what a little notoriety can do.
They had informed him of the availability of the storefront office. The landlord was a member of the association. The rent would be more than equitable.
Joshua was thrilled with all the attention. He’d never imagined himself belonging to such a fraternity. He’d made it, a lawyer, keeping company with local bigwigs. The look in his mother’s eyes had said it all.
So here he was, the day after the Johnson dismissal, standing with Connie in the back room of the storefront, figuring how to set up shop. The place was barren and dilapidated, but had potential. “I guess I could put my desk over there,” he said, pointing to the corner.
“What desk?” Cute.
“They said they would help with some start-up furniture. Nothing exotic, just some used odds and ends.”
/>
“So you want this to be your private office, and the front to be the reception area?” She walked around, gesturing in different directions as she spoke.
“I suppose so.” Tentative. “This is really a large room. I could also divide it into two private offices. That way, I’d be able to have an associate.”
“Associate? You don’t even have money for a secretary!”
“Well, that’s why I was thinking of an associate. Someone to share clerical stuff and expenses with. Interested?” He gave her a suggestive look.
“If you mean associate, no. If you mean partner, maybe.”
“Then I mean partner.”
“Equal partner?”
“As equal as the sides of a square.”
She looked him in the eye, thought for a moment, and said, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“That’s what I said.”
They started to embrace, and were about to join lips, when they heard what sounded like a woman clearing her throat. They turned toward the intruder standing in the doorway. “Excuse me, the front door was open,” Rachel said in an embarrassed tone.
Joshua’s mouth fell into his stomach. He stood there, frozen.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Rachel said. She turned to Joshua. “Your mother said I would find you here.”
Silence fell upon the room. Connie looked at Joshua. Rachel looked at Joshua. Connie and Rachel looked at one another as Joshua said, “Connie, this is…”
“Rachel, I presume,” Connie interjected.
Joshua had told Connie all about Rachel, on more than one occasion. In fact, Connie had believed that Rachel was the reason Joshua would forever have trouble with other women. Now she understood why.
“Rachel, this is Constance Henderson, my law partner.” He liked the sound of that.
The two women held out their hands and shook, while Joshua stood, not knowing what to do or say next. Connie looked at her watch and said, “Oh my, I didn’t realize what time it was. I’m late for court.”
