Authors: Joel Blaine Kirkpatrick
Caraliza (25 page)
Sareta took the image from Evan and caressed the edges, and her face showed sadness he knew must be deep. This was the boy and she knew him, barely any memory at all, but the photo stirred that memory. She had seen him a few times; she was but a youth, visiting the shop with her family.
“
Those are the eyes I remember. Only his eyes in my heart this entire time. This was in Papa’s chest?” she smiled.
Those are the eyes I remember. Only his eyes in my heart this entire time. This was in Papa’s chest?” she smiled.
“
Yes, with many more. They will all be shared and cherished, but this image has more power than stirring your memory, Sareta.”
Yes, with many more. They will all be shared and cherished, but this image has more power than stirring your memory, Sareta.”
Evan reached across the table and took her hands in his. His hands were very strong and very warm to her.
“
The police did not look in the freshly dug garden, because Papa produced a photo of Yousep planting roses. The soil was newly turned, by the making of the garden. They never looked to see what else might be buried behind the shop because no one even thought they should look.”
The police did not look in the freshly dug garden, because Papa produced a photo of Yousep planting roses. The soil was newly turned, by the making of the garden. They never looked to see what else might be buried behind the shop because no one even thought they should look.”
The sudden thought Yousep and the girl might lie together behind the tiny porch made Sareta weep with new grief, and Evan held her hands as long as she would let him.
“
If what you say is true, they may be buried right at the bottom of the step,” she said in a weak voice.
If what you say is true, they may be buried right at the bottom of the step,” she said in a weak voice.
“
Yes, they might. We cannot let Shelly dig there until we have help from the authorities,” Evan tried to reassure her.
Yes, they might. We cannot let Shelly dig there until we have help from the authorities,” Evan tried to reassure her.
“
Why the police?” Sareta asked confused.
Why the police?” Sareta asked confused.
“
Because if work crews find remains, then Shelly is shut down, for how long we can’t even guess”
Because if work crews find remains, then Shelly is shut down, for how long we can’t even guess”
“
Why do those poor children scare you to find them? You should wish to find them; they should be laid properly to rest.”
Why do those poor children scare you to find them? You should wish to find them; they should be laid properly to rest.”
“
Something else doesn’t want them found. I want him first.”
Something else doesn’t want them found. I want him first.”
At the Times archive, Evan read the first article he could find, which spoke of the terrible incident in the shop, and realized it might have been the one Shelly kept from the chest on their first opening. But this article said Papa was already unable to work, just days after the disappearances. Why did he pay for work on one of the front windows in the shop, just a few weeks later? Why do any work on a useless window anyway?
Evan was more troubled now by the fact of the doubled receipt.
Normal activity should have died away altogether, for a much longer time than just a few weeks, as his grief progressed, and his family tried to pick up the loose ends of his life. Had the window been damaged in the break in? Why take several weeks to repair if it had? Papa found the shop in disarray, not broken into. Was that just flowery reporting of the era, or was the shop not broken into after all? Would a grieving man waste money on needless work, would a craftsman take the job, knowing the man and his pains?
The New York Times,
Thursday, July 21,1919
Thursday, July 21,1919
MURDER IN JEWISH SLUMS
Clues, there have been few. Two youths: a boy and a girl, missing since Tuesday night last. The street where the crimes are reported, the same street where a month before, another disappearance, also with no clues. This event in the old Reisman Portraits, under the gaze of the city’s finest, has the Jewish slum community in an uproar.
The owner of the shop, Menashe Reisman and his family have asked all those who knew the murdered clerk to comfort his family, the loss of their only son. The last name of the family given only as Kogen, no more can be said to identify the youth, a request of the New York City Police Department, who need no further embarrassment in this neighborhood before the public make an outcry of foul.
Seen by only three living persons, the identity of the missing girl cannot be determined, no kin is known to notify. Neighbors cannot help authorities prove whether one person or two is indeed missing; another fact embarrassing the police force, in their second search now for clues to a crime they have become desperate to solve.
This paper has found that at least four persons have been in the interrogator’s rooms at the precinct offices. No one has yet been charged with the crime.
Only these facts are known to be reported by the witnesses: the two youths were in hiding in the shop until such time as they could escape with the help of the police. The missing boy’s parents have testified they knew the boy was protecting the girl, but have not identified the person or persons who were known to be of harm. They have told this paper that the persons already questioned, none of them were the person who should be sought. The owner Mr. Reisman found his shop in disarray, and the two children gone, when he opened for business the next day. He also declined to say which person the police should seek.
Mr. Reisman’s family say due to grief, he is no longer well and able to work.
Evan found more than twenty articles in the newspaper archives which were related in any way to the family during that terrible year. He was amazed it had been so much in the news and he made copies of every one. Sareta would not gather any clippings for him; too many mouths might tell Shelly that questions were being asked about the past. Shelly would guess it was Evan. He had to rely on the struggle in the archives. But he also found nearly ten more articles in the years before. Papa Menashe was a newsworthy fellow, long before the Reisman Portraits became legendary, and haunted, and he became a shadow of himself.
The effort in the archives was desperately tedious and painful. He found newsprint he could hold, or he could see the scans of the pages, but they provided no system to tell him where he could look to find the name Reisman, or the reports of the case, it was not possible with documents of that era. Evan could only read as fast as his eyes could see the pages. When he begged an archivist for any hint of how to better do the job, he was told he could go to the police archives and see reports from the precinct which existed there those years ago. They would be microfiched, but there would be fewer documents to see in that archive. The newspaper reporters on the case would have been watching for police reports to hint there was any news to write again for the paper. Dates of the reports would tell him, within a day or two, which paper would have something to find. Evan realized the reports would tell him if the garden were ever disturbed in the investigations at all. It took him two precious days to get the permissions he needed, and he lied that he was writing a book on an unsolved case. What he found, opened a door which was heaven sent.
He found police reports listing all the named suspects. One was an unknown person, someone they pulled from nearby alleys in their hope to find any clues. The Kogens were interviewed nearly a dozen times, and the last few reports were brief, the family too distraught to give more information. A report written two months after the crime, the Kogens were leaving their grief in the slums. They were moving to Chicago, and they would not allow more questions about their dead son. Papa was interviewed daily it seemed until his health failed. But deep inside one page, from just a few days after the crime, a suspect was mentioned as a person of intense interest, but that person vanished. The report only listed the number for another case and report file, those were from the month before the incident in the shop. Evan begged to see that set of reports as well, and found Papa Reisman again in the list of witness names.
The suspect lived in the basement apartments in the building right across the street. Evan wrote down the name. No evidence was found that the man had been involved in the disappearance of the other sixteen-year-old boy. The boy never returned to the neighborhood and was believed dead; a body was never found, never recovered. The tenant across the street from the shop was repeatedly questioned, and was always brutish and vile, but the man was never charged, his apartment searched nearly a dozen times. Evan took his notes and returned the file. He went back to the Reisman case and continued to read.
Not once did any document mention disturbance of the garden area. The crawlspace under the building was searched twice, the floorboards checked, and the basement apartment under the stoop on the other side of the street was searched again, twice more. The tenant, unnamed, again only the case number, was no longer anywhere to be found. And never the garden
Evan felt chills from the emotions and he was drained when he left the archives with his notes and photocopies. He returned home to his den and began to lay the papers on the floor, in the order of the dates they were published. The photo of the girl graced his wall behind his couch, and he was thankful it would lie a bit to his eyes at every glance. Only when he stared, and refused to be fooled, would the angel let him see into the glow, and find the damaged skin beneath.
Grandma Sareta did not know any reason Yousep and his girl were in danger and hiding in the shop. Her own mother-in-law insisted she was shocked to learn of the deeds on the morning of the crime. Sarah had not known Yousep was hiding anyone in the building at night. Sareta’s husband, Menashe’s oldest son, was never told why; even in all the years Papa lay in the studio on the divan, talking to people who were never there. If there were some reason to fear a person who lived across the street, that reason was lost forever in the horrors of the crime. Evan suddenly remembered the deeds in the chest, and his thoughts exploded into so many questions he could not sort them out.
“
Did Shelly tell you we found the original deed to the building, when Papa purchased it in 1889?”
Did Shelly tell you we found the original deed to the building, when Papa purchased it in 1889?”
“
Yes, we were thrilled to learn it survived. Do you promise to share it when you have put an end to your searches?”
Yes, we were thrilled to learn it survived. Do you promise to share it when you have put an end to your searches?”
“
Yes, Sareta, you have my word. Nothing will be lost when I am done.”
Yes, Sareta, you have my word. Nothing will be lost when I am done.”
She did not know. Shelly had not told her.
Papa owned the building across the street. He may have owned it still, when the children were murdered. Evan thanked Sareta and rushed to catch the county archives before they closed.
It was little better than looking at the police archives. The oldest books were no longer there for the public to abuse and destroy. They were microfiched as well. But at least they used a cross reference, built of the deed book and page numbers, so any deed could be found if connected to another such document. He carried the original deed in his hands and soon found Papa had not sold the building across the street, or the one beside, until he died.
His estate sold the properties. The one across was sold for a fraction of the possible value; it was a slum still and in decay. The one beside, which never offended the windows, fetched a modest price and the family earned some money because of it. It was likely the source of their support until fame alone began to make them wealthy. What hurt Evan to realize - another secret, which had never been suspected; the family buried it too deep to ever let it surface; Papa owned the slum until the day he died. More than three dozen tenants paid him monthly rent, and he was barely able to keep his family fed, and the shop open. Of what use was the money? Of what disuse was it applied? Evan was lost and confused.
***
The darkroom closet was the safest place Caraliza had ever been. She would stand for hours behind Evan as he developed the plates they longed to see. Her arms against his bare skin under his shirt, feeling the pressure of each breath, every beat of his heart. And he would sing her name in whispers so she could hear it from his breast.
“Shelly,”
he would sing, and the notes would circle his heart. When she was warm again finally, and full of his breath, Shelly would step from the closet and sink to the floor beside it. It was so very wrong to give herself that way. It drained her as it filled her heart with Evan. He would not come to her, he refused, but the Reisman Portraits understood. Shelly was starving for Evan, so it gave her Yousep to hold. Caraliza brought him there, and took Shelly inside to hold him again, whenever she wished. What did the spirits want in return? Shelly did not know, as she removed the damp blouse she wore. She was drenched in sweat again, from the visit in the closet. She could still feel the tingle in her arms, which always took her there for the comfort she would find. Had she stayed long enough this time? The tingle said no, she withdrew before she was fed enough to keep her heart alive. Shelly smiled a very tiny smile, removed her remaining clothes, and stepped back inside to feel his body against her skin.
“Shelly,”
he would sing, and the notes would circle his heart. When she was warm again finally, and full of his breath, Shelly would step from the closet and sink to the floor beside it. It was so very wrong to give herself that way. It drained her as it filled her heart with Evan. He would not come to her, he refused, but the Reisman Portraits understood. Shelly was starving for Evan, so it gave her Yousep to hold. Caraliza brought him there, and took Shelly inside to hold him again, whenever she wished. What did the spirits want in return? Shelly did not know, as she removed the damp blouse she wore. She was drenched in sweat again, from the visit in the closet. She could still feel the tingle in her arms, which always took her there for the comfort she would find. Had she stayed long enough this time? The tingle said no, she withdrew before she was fed enough to keep her heart alive. Shelly smiled a very tiny smile, removed her remaining clothes, and stepped back inside to feel his body against her skin.
***
The plumbing was nearly complete; all the electrical conduits were in place. Wiring was ready to be sealed at both ends and the building lay in partial readiness for the renovation to begin its final work. The new basement needed to be dug and poured. It would take nearly the entire garden, but would be low enough that it could be hidden under a deck from the back porch. There would be enough room for a lovely patio area and a few more tables for the guests. A brace of trees would shield the patio from the lot behind, but they could not be planted until the basement was dug.
Shelly only allowed workers in the building in the afternoons, something which caused endless hours of argument on the phone with her contractor, when she would answer the phone. She spent her time in the closet every morning, until she was wet with desire, and tearful at the pleasure of holding something warm.
She only spoke to her father, and only about the expenses and their reasons. Grandma Sareta thankfully left her alone, after that tearful visit, when Shelly told her all the awful things that happened between them, to her and Evan. Sareta understood, Shelly could not part with the building, and survive the parting. It seemed the clan would wait, to see if Shelly emerged with the Reisman Portraits, to live in the present, and no longer the past and the darkness still within it. Shelly felt Evan on the edges of her life, and it was a wound she couldn’t bear. So she worked when her heart would be silent, and the closet would bring it some peace.
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