The Devil in Jerusalem (36 page)

The only problem was time. But on that score, he felt confident. Daniella Goodman wasn't about to open her mouth. Neither was his wife. As for Batlan, Hod, and Goldschmidt, if they weren't in jail already, they soon would be. They'd have no reason to talk, and even if they did, what good would it do them? He'd made sure that their hands had as much, if not more, blood on them than his own.

He leaned back, sighing. To be a fugitive … it was a failure. Where had it all gone wrong? he wondered, his sense of anger and self-pity deepening. It was that woman. Daniella.

He felt a surge of lust at the memory. Her slim, pliant body in bed, so different from that of his fat wife's. But Ruth had not always been like that. She, too, as a bride … He licked his lips. His desire for Daniella had made him lose control, he thought. Wanting her. Wanting to get her into his house, into his bed anytime he wanted her without all that traveling up and back from Beit Shemesh to Jerusalem. But her children were a nightmare, brought up without the discipline his own children were used to. He had lost control, especially with the two youngest. Menchie, that defiant little wretch, who seemed to see right through him. Whatever he did, the child wasn't afraid. And then, in the end, it had been too late. If he talked … So he had to make sure the child would never be able to talk again. Batlan, that moron, as usual had screwed up, almost killing the kid and then panicking and calling an ambulance. He felt incensed all over again.

As for Eli, there had been no rational reason for how he had treated the child, except for one: he looked exactly like Shlomie.

He took out a new notebook, regretting he'd left the old ones behind. He'd fled in a panic, telling Ruth to pack them when she came to join him with their children. He wasn't sure when that would be.

He settled back in his seat. He'd already called the head of the Neshamah Amuka cult, Reb Leibel, his mentor, who had fled to Peru with his entire congregation when the Israeli Police had started investigating him. Much of what Shem Tov had done, he had learned from Leibel, who was a master.

Leibel, born to secular parents on a kibbutz in southern Israel, had become a born-again Jew sometime after his dishonorable discharge from the army, when he was caught stealing and selling weapons. In a newly grown beard, wearing the black suit and white shirt of the pious, he had roamed B'nai Brak looking for a yeshiva to take him in. He had attached himself to several, and on the way had watched with envy the way the rebbe was treated in these congregations, the way money was collected to keep him in a luxurious home with lovely furnishings. How people kowtowed to him, serving him, and hanging on to his every word. In that moment, he saw his future.

Beginning with only a few of his fellow students and their wives, Leibel created a small, proselytizing cult that told followers that his way was the purest way. He made up strange rules about what foods could and could not be eaten that went far beyond the kosher laws, outlawing rice and lettuce and many other things with the contention that they might contain tiny insects, which were forbidden to eat. He imposed a dress code for women that rivaled the Muslims in its severity, and went beyond, imposing the strictures on little girls older than twelve months, and forbidding women to ever remove their stockings, even in private. And the more stringent his laws became, the more he was astonished to see how people flocked to him, begging to be part of his congregation. He started experimenting with his power, seeing how far he could push people to go against their instincts. He married off eleven-year-old girls to thirty-year-old men in secret ceremonies. He took in runaways and had sex with them, before handing them over to other cult members. Discipline was harsh and physical, often requiring medical attention, which was not forthcoming. And the more he did, to his delight, the more his fame spread, and the more a certain type of religious seeker begged to be let in.

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. C
HILD MOLESTER CAPTURED BY
P
ERUVIAN
B
ORDER
C
ONTROL
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.”