Zaddik, page 41
“So, may I call you Ben? Yes? So, Ben, tell me who you saw.”
“You’re a soldier?” asked Lerner.
“Captain Katz at your service, Ben, but please call me Giddy.”
Lerner fought the pain beginning to flash across his chest and told Gideon Katz about Belzec and about Czartoryski, the murderer. He described Czartoryski, and Katz took notes. Then, when he finished, he asked Katz if he could lie down and rest a moment.
“Would you like me to call a doctor?” Katz asked.
“Yeah, sure,” said Lerner, gritting his teeth against the pain moving down his left arm. “I think I’m having a heart attack. My wife’s son, he’s in a car outside.”
After the ambulance came and Ben Lerner was wheeled out through the El Al office on a stretcher, the smiling children with their colorful yarmulkes waving down at him from the walls, Gideon Katz called the embassy and spoke to the Mossad station chief. An hour later Carol Rosenberg was informed that a man answering to Ladislaw Czartoryski’s description had been seen deplaning from a London flight at Kennedy Airport that morning. If he did not make contact within twelve hours, he was to be considered renegade and appropriate action taken.
“Unless he’s got a goddamn good story,” her chief said, “we’ll do what we should have done as soon as Horowitz went missing. Get the ad in tomorrow’s paper. We’ll waken the Cutter.”
Chapter 64 The Mathew Rosenthal
Lubavitcher Yeshiva
Crown Heights, Brooklyn
Tuesday, October 29
WALKING THROUGH the study hall toward Rabbi Kalman’s office, Dov Taylor saw the students looking up from their books to stare at Maria Radziwell. They might as well be a different species, thought Taylor—the sickly-looking students, their sallow faces framed by curly black beards and wispy earlocks, and the tall, broad-shouldered Amazon by his side. Taylor smiled as he imagined the students’ shock: a six-foot blonde in the yeshiva! A shiksa in the yeshiva!
Taylor had been hypervigilant on the ride from Manhattan to Crown Heights, turning continually to see if they were being followed, and Radziwell had slumped, eyes closed, against the cab’s door, a little canvas traveling bag on the floor between her feet. When they’d crossed over the bridge, Radziwell had asked him to point out the Statue of Liberty. He’d leaned over, his shoulder pressing against hers, and found it in the mouth of the harbor.
“I thought it would be bigger,” she had said as he’d moved back to his side of the seat, shaking off the feel of her body like a dog shook off water. Had he ever been so alive to another body? he asked himself.
“I’ve never been there,” Taylor had said, turning around again to look out the cab’s rear window, again seeing nothing and knowing how little that meant. He knew he was being watched. He knew it.
They had completed the ride in silence.
By some telepathy, Rabbi Kalman opened the door to his office just as Taylor was about to knock.
He introduced Radziwell to the rabbi as Mary Rubel, and Kalman was, it seemed to Taylor, oddly enthusiastic. He was extremely solicitous, asking her if she was hungry, if she was cold, did she need clothing, would she please sit down, rest, nodding and smiling as if she were his long-lost daughter. Was the rabbi affected by her, too? he wondered.
“May I use the phone, Rabbi?” asked Taylor.
Kalman gestured toward the phone on his desk and asked Radziwell if she would like some tea.
“Yes, very much,” said Radziwell, and the rabbi left to get some.
Taylor dialed the Satmarer rebbe’s office. Pinchus Mayer picked up.
“Mr. Mayer? This is Dov Taylor.”
“Hello, Mr. Taylor. You have news for us?”
“Yes,” said Taylor. He saw Maria Radziwell watching him expectantly. “Yes,” he repeated, “I have news, and I have to see the rebbe. Immediately. Today.”
“Tonight, perhaps?” said Mayer. “The rebbe is not in right now, he is at the study house, and then, after evening service, he has guests at his table, people who have come from Israel for the wedding. It’s only a week away now. But after, about midnight, you could come, yes? The rebbe should be finished by then. What can I tell him to expect? What is your news?”
“I’ll be there at midnight,” said Taylor, hanging up as Rabbi Kalman returned carrying a cup and saucer.
“Here,” said Kalman, handing the tea to Radziwell and producing a handful of sugar cubes from his pocket. “I didn’t know if you took sugar, so I brought. Also,” he said, producing a crumpled plastic bag, “a little lemon. I’m sorry, we have no milk.”
“Thank you very much,” said Radziwell.
“I’m going to go now, Mary,” Taylor said. “The rabbi will take good care of you. I’ll call you later.”
“Thank you, Mr. Taylor,” she said, pressing his hand. Her touch felt intimate, and it made Taylor uncomfortable. He regretted what had happened in his apartment. She let go of his hand. “Thank you for everything,” she said. “Perhaps, when this is all over, you can show me the village you spoke of before.”
For a moment Taylor did not know what she was talking about, and then he remembered. Months ago, standing in the doorway of her apartment, wondering if she were offering him a kiss, he had offered to take her around Greenwich Village. Now, of course, she had offered much more.
“Sure,” he said. He let go of her hand and left the office with Rabbi Kalman.
“A beautiful girl,” said Kalman as they walked back through the study hall. This time none of the students looked up from their books. “She is, God forbid, in danger?” Kalman asked.
“I think so,” said Taylor.
“She has something to do with the murder, with the diamond?” Kalman asked.
“Yes,” said Taylor, “but, please, Rabbi, let’s not talk. The less you know, the better. You understand?”
“Of course I understand,” said Kalman. “What’s so hard to understand? I won’t ask.”
They reached the doors of the yeshiva. “Rubel is a Jewish name, I think,” said Rabbi Kalman, smiling. “It’s wonderful how Jews come in all sizes and shapes.”
What is he so pleased about? Taylor wondered. “I think Rubel is her married name. Her husband was Jewish,” he said. “I don’t think she is.”
Kalman’s smile vanished. “She’s married? I didn’t see a ring.”
“She’s a widow,” said Taylor.
“Oh,” said Kalman, his smile returning. “So young to be a widow. So sad. You like her?” he asked, and Taylor realized that Kalman was happy because a woman, any woman, but especially a beautiful one, might mean that Taylor would be seeing less of Sarah.
Annoyed, Taylor shrugged noncommittally. “Where will you put her up, Rabbi?” he asked.
“Don’t worry,” said Kalman. “I’ll keep her safe. As you said, better you shouldn’t know. All right?”
“All right. But try not to let the whole neighborhood know. I don’t expect it’ll be for more than a night or two. I’ll call as soon as I know what’s happening. I’ll call tonight whatever happens. Now”—Taylor watched Kalman closely—“I’ve got to see Sarah. I promised I’d drop by the shop.”
A small frown crossed Kalman’s face. “Yes, I know,” he said. “She went to the Satmarer rebbe’s house with Adam Seligson. I helped to arrange it. She is very fond of you, my daughter.”
I’m right, Taylor thought. He doesn’t want me for a son-in-law. Can you blame him? An unemployed, divorced alcoholic? Not what every father dreams of. Still, he resented Kalman judging him.
Taylor walked down Kingston Street toward All Things Beautiful. The sun was setting, and he looked at his watch. Only four-thirty, he thought. The days are getting shorter. Winter’s coming.
Up and down the block he saw the Hasidim closing their stores, pulling down their shades, locking the iron gates in front of their doors and windows. The women were all inside, preparing dinner; their children were either helping them or doing their homework. Bearded men in overcoats chatted as they hurried toward the temple for evening prayers.
Not so long ago, Taylor thought, this all would have been completely alien to me. Now, it’s almost as if I have lived this life.
The door to All Things Beautiful was closed, and the shop was dark. Taylor could see a small light burning in the back, and he knocked. After a moment Sarah Kalman emerged, wearing a burgundy coat with a black fur-lined collar. Her red hair was tucked inside.
“Where have you been?” she asked. “You said you were coming right over. I’ve been worried.”
“I’m sorry,” said Taylor. “I should have called. I was over at the yeshiva with your father. Something came up.”
“Well, my mother’s expecting me to help with dinner. She’s had the flu.”
“I could walk you home.”
“All right,” said Sarah, locking the door behind her.
“Everybody has security gates,” Taylor noted. “I guess Crown Heights isn’t as safe as it once was.”
They began heading up Kingston Street, walking closer to each other than strangers would have but keeping their hands in their pockets. The street lamps came on, and the sky above had turned a deep purple.
“There have always been gates,” said Sarah. “Ever since the blackout in the seventies. The blacks and Puerto Ricans threw rocks through the windows and looted the stores, so everybody got the gates. Now it’s even worse with the blacks from the islands. They hate us.”
“I know,” said Taylor. “Why, do you think?”
“I think it’s because we love each other and they don’t. So they’re jealous.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we have our own schools, our own stores. We buy buildings and make apartments for our people. The mayor and the politicians have to pay attention to us because we vote together. But the blacks, they hate themselves, so they hate each other. They go and rob each other and kill each other, so the politicians don’t have to pay attention to them. Then they look at us and they get angry about what we have, so they think we’re taking something away from them.”
“But the Hasidim have used their power to grab public housing for themselves. They’re pushing the blacks out of their own neighborhood.”
“But if they had respect for each other, we could not do it. I’m not prejudiced, Dov, believe me. Sometimes the women come into my shop, and sometimes they buy. They can be very nice. But I wanted to tell you what I discovered in the rebbe’s diary.”
They turned down President Street. “The Seer’s stone,” said Sarah Kalman. “The Israelis think it belongs to them, and the Satmarers think it’s theirs.”
“Is that what the diary says?”
“Yes. It says the Satmarers gave the stone to Adolf Eichmann so that he would let them go. Then, when the Israelis captured Eichmann, he tried to bribe them with it. And one of the Israelis who caught Eichmann gave it back to the Satmarers without telling the others.”
“So who do you think it belongs to, Sarah?”
They stopped in front of the Kalmans’ brownstone. “Would you like to come in for dinner?” Sarah asked.
“I can’t, thank you. I’m pretty tired. I’m just going to go home, get some rest.”
“All right. There’s more I can tell you later. I should go inside.”
“You didn’t answer me, Sarah. Who do you think the Seer’s stone belongs to?”
Sarah Kalman stepped up onto the first step of the stoop leading to her home, bringing her eyes level with Taylor’s. She looked down at her feet, and Taylor—free of her bright, intelligent gaze and feeling unobserved—wished he could touch her cheek, just this once, to feel its softness. Her features were so fine, he thought, so precious.
“You know,” she said, looking up after a moment, “the stone certainly belonged to the Seer, and according to your vision, he gave it to Hirsh Leib. In a way, Dov, I guess the stone belongs to you.”
She turned, went up the stoop, and opened the door. Light poured out of the house, and Taylor squinted, trying to see Sarah Kalman’s face.
“Good night, Dov,” he heard her say, and then she disappeared, the door closed, and Taylor stood alone in the darkness.
My stone, he thought, summoning up a memory of Lublin. The Seer lay propped against a wall, blood trickling from his mouth. Taylor crouched next to him, and the Seer whispered, “Take the angel’s heart, my friend.” There was more. What was the Seer saying? Lublin came and went inside Dov Taylor like the waxing and waning of the moon.
He walked back up President Street toward the subway. Once, he thought he heard hoofbeats, and he quickly turned around and stared down the empty street.
***
Sarah Kalman was met at the door by her mother.
“We have a guest,” she said. “Hurry.”
Sarah Kalman walked into the dining room, and sitting at the table was a giantess: a beautiful blond woman with wide-set brown eyes.
“Sarah,” her mother said, “this is Dov Taylor’s friend Mary Rubel. Mary, this is my daughter, Sarah.”
Chapter 65 JFK International Airport
New York
Wednesday, October 30
THERE HAD BEEN A FAMILY of Hasids sitting close to the Cutter on the flight from London—a man, a woman, and their three sons—and they were met at the airport by about ten more. They embraced and chattered in Yiddish as the Cutter walked around them, hating them.
They were, he had understood from their conversation on the plane, to be guests at the wedding.
The Cutter thought that he would go, too.
On the endless flight, his bowels twisting like some small, furry animal caught in a trap, the Cutter had stared at the Hasidic family, had watched how they looked only at one another, trying to shut out a world they considered unclean. And he recalled how the Hasidim had cleaved to each other even in the concentration camp’s democracy of death. They seemed to be saying that they were the only ones who were suffering, that they were the only real Jews, the real martyrs, and all the rest were dying on their time.
Sometimes, as he had pulled the gold from their dead mouths, the Cutter had thought that they were right: he was there on their account. If it were not for the Hasidim flaunting their Jewishness, living up to the worst imaginings of the Christians—clannish, arrogant, secretive, wearing their clothes of perpetual mourning—would all of Europe have turned against them?
Take them, he had wanted to scream. They think they’re better than us? Let them die in our place.
And he burned with shame.
Now they were turning Israel into a ghetto, bringing the filthy ways of the shtetl to the clean new land. They spoke Yiddish, not Hebrew; their sons would not work, would not serve in the army; they spat on women they deemed immodest, and they threw stones at buses that traveled on the Sabbath. Every year their numbers grew, and every year more of them arrived from New York, their rebbes, each one a little Ayatollah, issuing proclamations and running for the Knesset.
The Cutter clenched his fists as the bile rose in his throat. Another lightning bolt of pain shot through his stomach. He imagined himself on the floor of his father’s slaughterhouse, standing in the blood-soaked sawdust, a knife in his hand. He imagined Hasidim hanging upside down from the hooks, and he saw himself slitting their throats, splitting their chests, pulling out their entrails, examining their lungs, one after another, his hands wet and warm from the blood. He walked up to another hanging Hasid, spun him around.
It was his father.
The Cutter rubbed his hands together. They were wet with sweat.
He passed through customs. He felt weak, sick, tired unto death, and even the thought of killing that whore Radziwell could not revive him. He knew that no matter how much he made her suffer, no matter what he did to her white flesh, sooner or later he would have to grant her the peace that had eluded him ever since the day the Germans had come for him and his family.
He picked up an early edition of The New York Times at a newsstand, and as he always did upon arriving in New York, he turned to the classified ads and looked under “Lost and Found.” To his shock, there was a message for him: “Lost: $1,000 REWARD for return of 1 box containing office documents of Deborah Int’l Corp. Call 212-553-5495.”
He slipped into a phone booth and punched up the number. A man’s voice answered on the first ring, and the Cutter identified himself. “The Metro,” the voice said, “on Seventh. At three, eight, or twelve. All right?”
“Yes,” said the Cutter, hanging up and looking at his watch. It was one A.M. Plenty of time to make the three A.M. meeting.
It had been years since Deborah had given him instructions. It had been years since he had met anyone from the service. Now he had been given three separate times to meet someone at the Metro.
The Cutter looked at his watch again. Too late to call the Hotel Carlyle where the Magician would be staying. He would call in the morning.
The Cutter left the booth. He walked through the empty terminal, his footsteps echoing off the walls. He stepped outside through the glass doors and saw the line of cabs with their drivers dozing behind the wheels. The chill air cut through his thin leather jacket. He looked up into the night sky, but the airport lights hid the stars.
He walked up to the first cab and bent down to look through its window. A bearded face stared back at him, and for a moment the Cutter thought it was a Hasid.
The driver leaned over and rolled down his window. “Manhattan,” he said. “I’m only going to Manhattan.”
“Yes,” said the Cutter, sliding onto the backseat. He looked at the driver’s ID. A Greek. “The Metro, on Seventh,” the Cutter said, and then leaned back in his seat, wondering what the Mossad could want of him.
The driver asked him where he had come from.
The Cutter studied the dark face in the mirror. “Drive,” he said “Just drive. And for God’s sake, watch where you’re going.”
Chapter 66 The Satmarer Rebbe’s Home
South Ninth Street, Williamsburg
