Invisible City (12 page)

It’s been half my life since I attended a Jewish event. I had a friend in junior high school named Anya who was Jewish. We met in the “gifted” social studies class. There are several thousand Jews in Orlando, but since my father worked for the church, all his friends were Christian. He often said he lamented the lack of Jews in our life and wanted me to learn more about “that side” of my family. He bought me
The Diary of a Young Girl
, by Anne Frank, when I was eight or nine years old, and for years afterward I devoured a series of young adult novels about the Holocaust. I was, as most people are when they learn about the Holocaust, appalled. I remember I had a vague idea that I might find clues about my mother in the books. Maybe the horror of what the Jews had endured—the betrayal and savagery—was such a burden, culturally, psychologically, that it drove even those fifty years away from it to sacrifice everything in … deference? Remembrance? Honor? When Anya and I met, she had been preparing for her bat mitzvah for more than a year. She kept her “Torah portion” in a binder with her school papers. It was phonetic, so I could read it, too, sort of. She was always practicing, so when we would eat lunch together, or occasionally visit each others’ houses, I would test her. Once, I slept over on a Saturday night, and the next morning she took me with her to Hebrew School, which was much like Sunday School at my dad’s church, but more focused on preparing the student for either a bar or bat mitzvah or a confirmation, which was different, but I wasn’t sure how.

“This is my friend Rebekah,” she told the class when the teacher asked her to introduce her guest. “She’s Jewish, but she doesn’t belong to temple.”

I knew a couple of the kids by sight from school. One was a shitty kid named Gabe. He wasn’t terribly bright and his parents spoiled him, a lethal combination in his case.

“She’s not Jewish!” he said, his face a smear of scorn.

Gabe and I, it turned out, had already had it out over my Judaism, or lack thereof. Early in the school year, the teacher had given him some tests to pass back, and when he saw how I spelled my name, he grilled me.

“Why do you spell your name like that?” he demanded, standing over me, waving a paper in my face.

“None of your business,” I told him. My rebuff only enraged him further, and he began telling everyone that I was trying to make myself look Jewish by spelling my name “the Jewish way.” And
clearly
I wasn’t Jewish, because have you
ever
seen a Jewish redhead? And besides, her dad works at a
church
. The gossip was much more interesting to Gabe than most everyone else, since most everyone else didn’t really give a shit about Jews one way or the other. He stuck to it, though. He made a real effort to get people to rally against me. Anya, whom I had told about my mom, told me I should stand up to him and say that I was Jewish because my mom was Jewish. But I didn’t want to open that can of worms with him. So when he protested my Jewishness in Hebrew School, I was surprised at how it suddenly affected me.

“My mom was more Jewish than you’ll ever be,” I said, leaning toward him. “My mom was so Jewish, she gave everything up for Judaism. She gave
me
up. Would your parents give
you
up for Judaism?
Fuck you
.”

If I hadn’t said “fuck,” they probably wouldn’t have escorted me out. But I did, and they did. When I saw them all again, at Anya’s bat mitzvah, they kept away. Even Gabe. After that, it was me who kept away.

I am pressed toward the funeral home by the crowd, barely having to move my feet. The moaning seems to be coming from every direction. Is Aron Mendelssohn here? Is Miriam? From where I’m standing, everyone looks the same. I am able to get to the sidewalk and just past the gate into the parking lot when the voice on the loudspeaker falls silent. All I can hear is weeping. I rise onto my toes again and see a light-colored wood box moving slowly on the outstretched hands of the women outside. The box that holds Rivka Mendelssohn. The women around me lift their arms. I do the same, my fingers moving in anticipation. As the box moves back, the women turn to watch it, until suddenly, she is in my hands, and everyone seems to be looking at me. My fingertips feel the scratch of the wood, but the box itself seems weightless. Around me, the women turn as one, passing her back toward the street. I watch as she floats away, carried on the outstretched hands of the women of her community, until finally she reaches a waiting black car and is slid into the back. Someone shuts the door and she is gone. The women nearest the car slap their hands on its tinted windows, their rising wails a final good-bye.

Men and women jog after the car, and the crowd thins. I stand and look around for friendly faces to interview. Everyone seems to be looking down. There is a lot of hugging. I spot a woman across the street who is wearing pants and smoking a cigarette. I cross at the light and approach her.

“Excuse me,” I say. “Do you have a minute?”

The woman looks at me. I continue.

“I’m a reporter for the
Trib,
” I say. “We’re doing a story about Mrs. Mendelssohn.”

“Oh?” She looks mildly surprised.

“Yes, I’m just looking for a little information about her. What she was like, how she’ll be missed. That sort of thing. I’ve spoken a little to her family.…”

“Really?” Now she’s even more surprised. “What did they have to say?”

“Well, they were very distraught, obviously.…”

“Did they tell you she was planning a divorce?”

“No,” I say. That’s news. “Was she?”

“She was. Very definitely. She told me she had seen the rebbe, though I don’t know what other action she had taken.”

“That’s, um, rare, in this community, right?”

“Not as rare as you might think. But yes, it’s unusual.”

“My name is Rebekah,” I say, extending my hand to shake.

“I’m Sara Wyman.”

I jot that down.

“And how did you know Rivka?” I ask.

“That’s a long story,” she says. “And my ride is waiting.” She reaches into her enormous purse and pulls out an overstuffed wallet. “Here,” she says, handing me a business card. “Give me a call.”

The card says, S
ARA
W
YMAN,
L
ICENSED
C
LINICAL
S
OCIAL
W
ORKER.

“Would you mind telling me something quick about her? Something to characterize her for the article? I’d really appreciate it.”

“You can say that she was a passionate, intelligent woman who cared deeply for her children and her friends.”

I can already hear my editor say, boring.

“Anything else? Was she involved in any … activities?”

“She ran a group for new mothers.”

“Boro Park Mommies?”

Sara nods. She seems to be considering telling me something else, but instead she just says, “Call me. We can talk in depth. But not now.”

With the crowd dispersing, I decide to go find Mrs. Shoenstein’s daughter, Chaya. The corner she pointed to has three row houses on it. I climb the short staircase to the first one, which has two buzzers, but neither are marked with names. I hear something above me and I look up. There is a woman in the second-floor window. She slides the glass up a few inches.

“Hello,” I say, trying not to shout.

“What is it?” She’s young. A teenager, maybe. And her voice is soft.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I say, speaking toward the second floor. This is an awkward conversation to have at a distance. “I’m from…” I pause a moment and consider: which do I say first, that it’s about Rivka Mendelssohn, or that I’m from the newspaper? For lots of people, saying you’re from the
Trib
works—they love the idea of being in the paper. But that is clearly not the case in this community. I decide to lead with her mom.

“I’m looking for Chaya,” I say, hopeful.

“I am Chaya,” she says.

“Hi,” I say, probably too cheery. “I just, I just spoke with your mother.…” I point toward the funeral home. “I wonder if I could come up.”

“My mother?”

“She said you were … a friend of Rivka Mendelssohn?”

“My husband is away,” she says.

“Right … I was hoping we might talk? My name is Rivka. I’m from the newspaper.…”

The window opens wider and the girl comes closer to the sill. “Your name is Rivka?”

“Yes,” I say, the lie feeling less uncomfortable than it probably should. “I work for the newspaper. We’re writing an article about Mrs. Mendelssohn.”

Chaya closes the window and disappears. A moment later, she’s at the front door. She is very tiny and very pregnant, wearing a long black skirt and enormous sweater. Her head is wrapped in a cloth hat a little like Miriam’s. She looks at me, looks both ways up and down the street, and then gestures sharply for me to step inside.

I follow her up a steep set of carpeted steps and into a kitchen with appliances that look older than either of us. There is a faint smell of meat and mildew. Garbage is piled in the corner. Poor Chaya is not much of a housekeeper.

“My husband will be home soon,” she says.

“I won’t take up too much time,” I say. “I just, um … were you close with Rivka?”

The girl begins to sob. It’s a guttural, inelegant noise, not the quiet weeping of the women at the funeral. She’s so tiny and front-heavy, I worry she might fall over. I look around for a chair.

“Here,” I say, gesturing toward the kitchen card table and folding chairs. “Sit. Please. Can I get you anything?” The girl shakes her head and wipes her nose on her sleeve. She looks barely fifteen.

“Rivka helped me…,” she says between sniffs and sobs. “She … she was my babysitter. She and my sister, Esther … And then … when I got married … she said, she told me about … you know.” She puts her hand on her belly and looks at me through soggy, frightened eyes. “I was so scared that day … she…” The girl’s breathing starts to speed up; she’s sucking in air like she’s drowning.

I put my hand on her arm. “I’m so sorry,” I say again.

“What happened to her? No one will tell me.”

“The police don’t really know yet,” I say. I’m not going to tell her her friend was found naked and dumped in a pile of sharp, cold trash.

“I don’t understand,” she cries. “Was it a car accident? Rivka walked a lot. She wore those ear … tubes?” she says. “To listen to music. When she was walking outside. Did she get hit? I worried she’d walk in front of a bus.”

“No,” I say. “I don’t think so.

Chaya looks puzzled and exhausted. She puts her hand over her nose and mouth and looks up, like she’s trying to see backward through her tears.

“I asked her boy, Yakov. I said, ‘Yakov, where is Mommy?’ He said, ‘Mommy is sick.’ I asked Miriam, Mr. Mendelssohn’s sister?” I nod. “And Miriam…” She pauses. “Miriam is an
akarah.
” I try not to look puzzled at the Yiddish word. If my name is Rivka, I shouldn’t have to ask her to translate. So I write the word down phonetically and circle it. I’ll ask Saul.

Chaya continues: “I said, ‘Miriam, where is Rivka? Is she ill?’ Miriam said ‘puh-puh.’” The girl makes a spitting sound with her thin lips. “She said,” lowering her voice, “‘Rivka is a
zona
.’” Shit, I think. Another word I don’t know. The girl begins to cry again. I look around the room for a box of Kleenex. There is a roll of paper towels on the counter near the sink. I get up and tear one off, hand it to her. She blows her nose and wipes her wet face.

“Rivka was … questioning.” She says it so quietly, I can barely hear her above the hum of the refrigerator. “But she would
never, never
break her vow.”

“Questioning?”

Something about my question stops her.

“How do you know Rivka?”

“Oh,” I say, stumbling. “I’m … I don’t … I didn’t know her. I’m from the newspaper. We’re writing an article.”

“I cannot be in the newspaper. My husband is very traditional.”

“I understand,” I say.

“I thought maybe you were…” She doesn’t finish her sentence. Her face has changed from sadness to sickness. The corners of her mouth pull back and for a moment I think she might vomit. Instead, she gets up and disappears down the hallway toward the back of the apartment. I hear a door open and close. The state of the kitchen is pretty bad. The linoleum is cracked in places, and several cabinets are crooked. There are no magnets or drawings or photographs stuck to the refrigerator door. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be trapped in such a dingy domestic life at such a young age. I wonder how old her husband is.

Chaya comes back, carrying something close to her chest. She sets it down—it’s a well-worn copy of
O, The Oprah Magazine.
On the front, Oprah smiles broadly, offering an Easter-colored cupcake to her spring reader.

“She gave me this,” says the girl. “Take it. You go now. You cannot be here.”

At the front door, the girl peeks out, looking left and right before allowing me to exit. I try again for a little more information. “Do you know Mr. Mendelssohn, Rivka’s husband?”

The girl shakes her head. “Go,” she says, and pushes me out the door.

I begin to say “Thank you,” but before I can finish the phrase, I am talking to the door.

Zona.
I walk slowly toward the sidewalk and wonder what it means. A broken vow could be an affair. And an affair is a motive for murder. But I don’t know what to do with this information. If it’s even true. I wonder if Miriam—or Saul, or Sara—could confirm?

I call in Mrs. Shoenstein’s quotes.

“You didn’t get anything from the family?” asks Lars.

“No,” I say. “They were…”

“Go to the house. They’ll come home after they bury her. See if you can get something about the gardener. Then you’re off.”

It takes twenty minutes to walk to the Mendelssohn house. I linger outside, staring, looking for some clue, some evidence of the violence, the sorrow, the trauma, on its façade. But everything is sturdy and stoic. I wonder if she died in there. It’s possible. My chest tightens when I think about the way Aron Mendelssohn roared. He is a big man. A big man who owns a dumping ground.