The Devil in Jerusalem (7 page)

What she usually told people who asked was that other drivers were crazy and parking spaces such a problem. If they looked at her oddly, she'd add that she lived a short bus ride away from everywhere she needed to go and hiring taxis was cheaper than owning a second car.

All this was true, but not really the truth.

The real reason she didn't want to drive was because she loved the extra time it took to walk down the street, to wait for a bus, to sit back and look out the window in peace before she got to work—time leached out of her crowded day to think about her life. It was in such short supply these days, with two-year-old Lilach and five-year-old Ronnie and a briefcase bulging with reports studied late into the night that hung heavily, physically and metaphorically, on her slim shoulders. She always got the worst ones: wife beaters, pedophiles, rapists.

Lately, though, she and her husband, Noah, had been talking about having another child. They missed having a baby: that delicious smell of a warm bath and baby powder, the soft little kissable face and bottom. But the last birth had been a horror: a detached umbilical cord, an emergency cesarean, hemorrhaging. But she knew she couldn't wait too long. Statistically the chances of birth defects went zooming up with every passing year once you hit your thirties. She was thirty-four. She'd already seen the first wrinkles around her eyes and between her brows, little lines that used to disappear immediately after a frown but now lingered.

She drew her fingers through her hair, recently cut and a full-blown disaster, the hairdresser misinterpreting her “give me something cute and youthful” into a license to chop up her curly, shoulder-length auburn hair into a ridiculous pixie that had no chance in hell of looking good on anyone over six. For the millionth time, she tugged on her bangs, trying to stretch them to cover her forehead. It was useless.

She walked into the modern police headquarters, surrounded by shopping malls and car dealerships, taking the elevator up to her floor.

“Hi, Bina. Just the girl I want to see,” Morris said as soon as she stepped out into the corridor. He frowned. “New haircut?”

She grimaced, nodding.

“Want me to bring in the guy who did it?” He grinned.

She shook her head. “It's useless. There is no death penalty in Israel.”

He put a sympathetic arm around her shoulder.

Morris Klein was a senior detective with forty years' experience. A former paratrooper who had been through three major wars and uncountable skirmishes, he had lost two fingers of his left hand and wore a prosthetic leg. Everyone in the department looked up to him. She was flattered he had sought her out.

“What's up?”

“It's on your desk.”

He hovered by the door as she hung up her purse, settling herself in her chair. He seemed impatient, begrudging every extra second. She looked down at the pile of material and began to read, her face slowly draining of color. She looked up at him. “Tell me, Morris, is it because I'm inexperienced? Or is this the most sickening case ever? I feel nauseous.”

She was shocked to see his face change color as well. He shook his head. “It's the worst one anyone in the department has ever come across. It goes way beyond crime. There's something truly satanic about it. It's like a true-crime novel, or one of those tabloid stories that happen in far-off places. These kinds of things just don't happen in Israel, among Jews, especially religious Jews. Certainly, it doesn't happen in Jerusalem, the Holy City.”

Two young children, he told her, victims of horrific child abuse that had left one in a coma and the second with horrifying burns. Five other children who were so traumatized they refused to say anything. And a mother and father in custody, the former reading psalms all day and the latter proclaiming his innocence and ignorance.

“Unless we come up with something, we're going to have to let the father go.”

She was shocked. “Why?”

“He's separated from the mother, divorced, something, living outside Jerusalem. He hasn't seen the children in months and he has an iron-clad alibi for the days the kids were injured.”

“What's he like?”

“Weird, American, dressed in prophet-wannabe flowing white robes. But not evil. Incredibly naïve, though, a born-again Jew, brainwashed by all that Breslov stuff, the red strings, amulets, and whatnot. My gut tells me he wasn't involved. Maybe he's a fool, but he isn't a monster.”

“Did you get anything from him?”

“Hard to tell at this point. He rambled. But he did say something curious we need to follow up on. He said the divorce itself wasn't supposed to be permanent. It was simply a temporary
tikkun
.”

“He used that word? From the kabbalah?”
Tikkun,
a correction, a way of returning the divine sparks of holiness that had been lost—she remembered from her days in the religious public school system.

He nodded slowly. “He said he divorced his wife in order to, get this,
improve
their relationship! Go figure that one out. While he was gone, his fellow yeshiva students had apparently started living in the house to help his ex, who was finding it hard to manage alone with all seven kids.”

“What?”

“You're religious, Bina. Tell me, is that normal, for three yeshiva guys to move in with a religious woman who's just gotten divorced?”

“Absolutely not! Especially if you're telling me we are dealing with haredim.” She shook her head. “What else did the ex say?”

“Nothing, really. He just looked stunned by the whole thing, saying that there had to be some mistake, that his lovely, gentle wife was a wonderful mother and would never, ever hurt their children.”

“Did he ask about his children?”

“Many times. He really seemed distraught and anxious to take care of them. Of course, we told him he wasn't allowed to go anywhere near them until we had more information.”

“Good. Even if he isn't directly responsible for child abuse, they
were
his kids, after all. He can't just think he is going to walk away from all this.”

Morris shrugged. “Okay, right. But he's not the problem, Bina. Think about it. If the mother wouldn't hurt a fly, and the father isn't responsible, then who is?”

She looked down at the papers in front of her. “Have you spoken to the mother?”

He nodded, pulling up a chair and looking into her eyes. “If he was eccentric, then she is certifiable. Dressed like the prophetess Deborah, too busy muttering prayers nonstop to worry about her damaged kids. You grew up in a religious home. What do you make of the ‘holy' act?”

She shrugged. “Haven't you and I seen the worst serial rapists and child abusers suddenly put on a skullcap when they have to face a judge? It's easy enough to wear long sleeves and cover your hair.”

“It never impresses the court, but that doesn't seem to stop them trying.” He grimaced. “And afterwards, they whine their way into the ‘religious' wing of any prison, where they spend their days as pious Talmud scholars instead of working. But a woman trying that tack? I haven't seen it before. Also, she doesn't appear to be evil or insane, the Andrea Yates, Susan Smith kind of psychopath. And the kids? They are dying to see her and keep asking about her. Even the one in the hospital with the burns hugged her and clung to her. I've never seen children treat an abusive parent that way.”

“Actually, it's not that uncommon, believe it or not. Give me some time to study the material and I'll let you know what I think.”

“Don't take too long. This is urgent. But I'm stumped. I figure you're our best shot, being a woman, religious, a mother—”

“Please, don't compare me to her,” she said, already dreading diving headfirst into this polluted cesspool. But like someone who has already paid for tickets to a particularly wild and dangerous amusement park ride, she felt she had no choice but to get on.

She read over the preliminary information and the transcripts of the early interviews. From what she could see, Daniella Goodman wasn't faking. She really was in another world, but no place Bina had ever visited on planet Earth.

What kind of mother watches a child with an irreversible brain injury without crying out for revenge? What kind of mother turns around and blames a husband she hasn't let near her kids in months? What kind of mother hides the truth, protects the abuser? There had to be someone else involved. After all, the mother had been in the hospital when her youngest child had been brought in. Who had put a three-year-old into a coma? And—not that it really mattered—why? Who had done this? And why did Daniella Goodman refuse to cooperate in bringing that person to justice?

And how could they make her?

 

6

They were excited young newlyweds, getting ready for their new life. Almost immediately, they began gathering together those wedding presents that could not make the trip to Israel with them: all the electrical appliances that ran on the wrong voltage, the fragile crystal, the frivolous tchotchkes that would be expensive to ship and were unsuited to the serious life they planned, a life of family, study, and prayer. A life of simple pleasures.

And just as suddenly, all their plans were suspended.

She was pregnant. Honeymoon pregnancy, the doctor called it cheerfully. Shlomie was thrilled. She was devastated. It meant postponing their Aliyah indefinitely. And she had so wanted to get away, to leave behind her mother's disappointment, her father's irritated compassion.

Her grandmother found them an apartment and paid for it. Shlomie got his old job back. And she waited, growing heavier and heavier and more despondent each day as the lethargy of idleness made her sleepy and indifferent.

“Why don't you come to the store and help me out?” her mother suggested, emphasizing the “me,” making it judgmental and personal rather than an innocent question.

“I don't know the first thing about jewelry. You know that.”

“You could learn, though, couldn't you?”

It was better than nothing, Daniella supposed. At least it would get her out of the house and away from the refrigerator. Her weight gain was alarming.

The store, founded in 1911, was immense, with lush, turn-of-the-century fittings that made it a landmark, historic building. Daniella sat behind sparkling glass counters lit by clever overhead lighting, her eyes mesmerized by the flash of well-cut diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. But aside from using Windex on the cases, there was little else she was really qualified to do, she thought listlessly. There was no way her mother would trust her to serve a serious customer shopping for a $20,000 diamond engagement ring. And not without good reason, she admitted to herself.

“Look, over there,” her mother said one morning, nodding toward a young couple with tattoos. “They're yours.” She snickered snobbishly.

“Can I help you?” Daniella asked, smiling, feeling an immediate kinship with others her mother had found unworthy of her precious time and attention.

“No,” the young man answered, a half smile, ironic and dismissive, on his face.

“Sure,” the young woman said, glaring at him. “We'd like to see an engagement ring. But with a black diamond.”

Daniella swallowed. Was there such a thing? A black diamond? Wasn't the whole beauty of a diamond in its whiteness, its dazzling purity?

“Just a moment; I'll check what's available.”

“Of course there are black diamonds! Right over there, see? The black and white diamond cocktail ring,” her mother hissed, moving her head slowly from side to side at her daughter's hopelessness. “They are extremely fashionable and very expensive.”

“Like how expensive?”

“For a real, unenhanced one of a decent size? Thousands.”

“And ‘enhanced'? What does that mean, by the way?”

“It means heated and filled with a substance that will change the color to whatever color you want.”

“A fake?”

“No,” her mother said patiently, holding back a sigh. “Real diamond, fake color.”

“Do we carry those?”

“Sure. Everyone does. They're over there, by the fissure-filled rubies.”

“Fissure-filled?”

“Natural rubies are pretty ugly. Mostly they fill the holes inside with glass to make it prettier.”

“So, this is all a big fake?”

She bristled. “There is nothing wrong with improving on nature. Why should millionaires be the only ones to wear a black diamond or a pretty ruby? Your customers are waiting.”

They were talking softly but with growing vehemence to each other. When she drew near, they stopped, falling into a sullen silence.

“We have black diamonds. Enhanced black diamonds.”

“Are they real?”

“Yes, they are real, but they get a little help in the lab with their color.”

“Oh, I don't know.” The young woman shook her head. “I wanted a real one.”

“Can I ask why? White diamonds are so much more—”

The girl cocked her head, staring belligerently.

Daniella swallowed. “Traditional.”

The young man spoke up. “Black diamonds come from a supernova explosion that took place even before our solar system was formed. They dropped to the earth like meteorites.”

“They absorb light,” the girl said. “They don't give it back. They trap it, hold it, like a secret inside. That's what I want.”

Something about what she said startled Daniella. The idea of total blackness secretly holding light. It reminded her of a lecture on kabbalah she'd heard at a National Council of Synagogue Youth conference during tenth grade. Kabbalah had been a big fad at the time, a few girls in her class wearing red strings on their wrists, something she found silly. But something of the kabbalistic idea of ten holy vessels containing God's primordial light had remained with her as a magical image, like a fairy tale myth.