Zaddik, page 46
Panic rose in Taylor’s chest. Would there be a knife waiting for me? he thought, the same knife that had waited for the Seer in the crowded streets of Lublin on erev Simkhas Torah, the same saber that had slashed down on my great-great-grandfather, Hirsh Leib, the Zaddik of Orlik? The sense of déjà vu was overwhelming.
Taylor was having trouble breathing. The street seemed more dense with people than the sidewalk, so he worked his way toward the edges of the crowd, moving down the block sideways, his back to the buildings along Rodney Street. That was better. At least his back was protected. He felt his heart slow down. He paused for a moment and felt for the small microphone that Frank Hill had taped to his chest that afternoon. “I’m through. I’m on the street,” he said into his chest, knowing that his words would be picked up in the police van parked somewhere nearby. How anybody could get through this crowd to reach him if there was trouble was, however, another matter.
Somewhere, either on the street or in the synagogue, Taylor knew that Frank Hill would be keeping an eye out for him. Somehow that did not make him feel terribly secure. Somewhere in the crowd, Taylor knew, would be the men who were holding Sarah hostage.
He started moving again, with difficulty, through the happy throng.
All he could do was wait for them to approach him.
And ask for the Seer’s stone.
Which he did not have.
Up ahead, the sky grew brighter, and Taylor knew he was nearing the flatbed trucks and the wedding canopy. He pushed on. Around him, men were already dancing in groups to the sound of Klezmer music piped through the loudspeakers, either trying out their steps for the wedding feast, already intoxicated, or simply unable to contain their excitement.
They’ll be waiting next to the khupa, Taylor thought. That’s where they’ll be. In the heart of the crowd.
But where will Sarah be?
“Nothing yet,” he said into his chest.
Taylor recalled his own wedding. He remembered the rabbi he hardly knew mumbling the Hebrew prayers neither he nor Carol could understand; he remembered standing under the khupa and stomping on the glass. Actually, now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure that it wasn’t a flashbulb.
He remembered thinking that Carol looked terrible: she was wearing too much makeup; her hair was frozen in some awful style; the dress made her ass look fat. It was depressing. Weren’t all brides supposed to be beautiful on their wedding day? Why not his?
Of course, he had been no prize. The pictures from the wedding showed a young drunk and drug addict—slitted eyes and a slack mouth—a face he had seen a few thousand times in a few hundred AA meetings.
He remembered pouring too many drinks on top of the Percodans in his belly and falling asleep in the cab that took them to the airport hotel. He was so tired. And wasn’t Carol angry when he couldn’t get an erection that night. It was all a mistake. Carol, the wedding, a big mistake.
Were today’s bride and groom—who, Taylor knew, had barely met—any stranger to each other than Carol and he had been on their wedding day or even, for that matter, after ten years of marriage?
Taylor fought to steady himself against the swirling crowd. He recalled what he knew about Orthodox weddings. By now, the bride, sitting on a chair piled high with pillows, surrounded by her friends and relatives, would have been veiled. Either the groom or the badkhen would have instructed her on her duties as a Jewish wife. Then grain would have been sprinkled on both their heads to promote fertility.
Suddenly Taylor heard a roar. The Klezmer music stopped. A Hasid standing next to him shouted in English, “They’re leading the khossen!” Everyone around him was shouting in English and Yiddish: “They’re leading the khossen!”
Taylor lunged through another knot of men and suddenly found himself up against the side of the flatbed truck. The platform brushed his cheek. Looking up, he saw the billowing khupa, a huge blue-and-ivory sail with silver embroidery borne aloft on tall wooden poles held by four men.
Across the street, coming out of the synagogue, Taylor could see a procession of bearded men carrying tall, lighted candles, walking beneath strings of lights strung across the street. There looked to be ten—no, twenty of them. Then, between them, leaning against them, looking neither left nor right, Taylor could see a pale young man. That must be Adam Seligson, he thought. He looks sick. Well, Taylor thought, recalling what Rabbi Kalman had told him, he would have been fasting all day.
The procession made its way toward the lights, toward the khupa, and then mounted the steps onto the platform. Taylor spotted Rebbe Menachem Seligson, the grand Lubavitcher rebbe, being helped up the steps, a tall silk hat balanced on his enormous head, his gray beard flowing halfway down his chest. He looks fierce, Taylor thought, like an ancient king of Israel. He noticed that the rebbe’s lips were moving, but he didn’t seem to be talking to anyone. He’s singing to himself, Taylor decided. He’s singing to his God.
My God? wondered Taylor. Perhaps. We’ll see.
Rabbi Kalman should be among this group, Taylor thought, but he could not see him.
The men carrying the candles fanned out around the khupa, gathering on the left side of the platform, and as Adam Seligson took his place under it, another roar came from the crowd: “They’re leading the kaleh! They’re leading the kaleh!”
Taylor felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun around, preparing to drive his elbow into the assassin’s throat. A large, burly, black-bearded Hasid stood smiling at him. “I thought it was you,” he shouted over the noise of the crowd. “I told myself, It’s him. I recognized the back of your head. You remember me?”
Taylor forced a grin as his heart pounded in his chest. Jesus, he thought. “Of course I remember you, Mr. Schumach. How are you?”
“Wonderful, wonderful,” shouted Schumach. “Of course. How could anyone not be wonderful tonight? It is beautiful, yes?”
“Yes,” said Taylor. “Beautiful.”
“So, Mr. Detective. I don’t hear that anyone catches the momzers who killed Zally, may he rest in peace, and poor Miss Stein.”
“I’m still working on it, Mr. Schumach.”
“Really? Wait,” Morris Schumach said, rising up on his toes. “Here comes the bride.”
Taylor turned. He could see, coming down the street from his right, another procession carrying candles, this one made up of young girls. Behind them walked Esther Teitel, dressed in white lace. Just behind her, marching with high steps like a toy soldier on parade, Taylor saw Rebbe Joel Teitel. For a moment Taylor imagined that their eyes met.
I may disappoint you, Taylor thought, and as if Teitel had read his mind, he saw the zaddik nod.
The bride’s party mounted the steps of the platform. Then Esther Teitel and her friends and relatives began circling the khupa. They walked seven times around as the cantor sang, his voice booming through the loudspeakers ringing the platform, echoing down Rodney Street. To Taylor, standing just below a speaker, it sounded like the voice of God himself. He could feel the bass in his belly and chest; he could feel his bones vibrating.
After the seventh round, Esther Teitel stepped forward, joining Adam Seligson under the khupa, standing to his right. A rabbi Taylor did not recognize stepped in front of them and lifted the bride’s veil for a moment, then let it fall.
The cantor had stopped. The crowd had grown still. Taylor looked around him, hoping to see Sarah Kalman’s face somewhere. He stood up on his toes, hoping that someone would see him. Where were they? He turned around to look behind him. Morris Schumach was gone.
Under the khupa, Adam Seligson took a sip from a small crystal wineglass and held it out for Esther Teitel. She lifted her veil, bent her head, and drank.
The rabbi held up a document and began reading the wedding contract aloud in Hebrew. Was he talking about the Seer’s stone right now? Taylor wondered. After a few minutes the rabbi finished, and the bride and groom bent to sign the paper.
Taylor saw Adam Seligson turn toward Esther Teitel, take her hand, place the ring on her finger, and mumble the prayer: “Behold, thou art consecrated unto me, according to the Law of Moses and Israel.”
Now the crowd was absolutely silent. Taylor could hear the wedding party shuffling on the platform. He could hear the faint sound of traffic blocks away, a distant plane overhead, and the heavy breathing of the man pressing against him from behind. Taylor wanted to turn around, to look—was this Czartoryski? the Cutter?—but the crowd was pressed so tightly against the platform that it was impossible for him to move.
He could slip a knife between my ribs right now, he thought. I wouldn’t even fall; I’d die standing up.
Where were they?
Up on the platform Taylor heard a stomp, heard the crowd roar “Mazl tov!” and knew that the groom had broken the glass.
Suddenly he was spun around and hugged hard by a chunky Hasid burying his head in Taylor’s chest. Then he was released, spun around again, and hugged by another. People were pounding his back, pounding his shoulders. All around him men were congratulating each other, embracing, weeping, shouting. The Klezmorim started up, the clarinet wailing, the violins shrieking, the drums and cymbals crashing double time. The wedding was over; the party had begun.
The crowd surged, carrying him away from the platform, back down Rodney Street, toward the Pratt Institute Gymnasium on DeKalb and Willoughby for the wedding dinner. It was futile to resist, so Taylor went with the flow.
Where were they? Where was Czartoryski, the Cutter, Sarah? What was happening?
Taylor ducked into a doorway and felt for the microphone taped to his chest. It was gone. He stuck his hand under his coat, into his shirt, and found it lying above his belt. The wires were torn. Taylor slipped it into his pocket.
Looking out from the doorway, Taylor saw the Hasidim streaming down the block. What could he do? He joined them. The gymnasium was only a few blocks away.
He felt someone come up on his left and catch his left wrist, bending it slightly forward. The ease and fluidity of the move shocked Taylor and shook his confidence. He recognized the hold and knew that whoever had him could break his wrist in an instant, break it before he could come close to getting his gun out of its holster.
“Are you Czartoryski?” Taylor asked the tall, thin Hasid walking next to him.
“Stop walking.”
Taylor stopped. Without releasing his wrist, the Cutter stepped in front of Taylor.
“Do not move,” the Cutter said. “I am going to take your gun. If you resist me, I will kill you.”
Taylor looked at the Cutter’s face, at his sorrowful eyes and hollow cheeks. There was no uncertainty in that face, no nervousness, no excitement. It was like looking at a corpse. Taylor allowed him to reach into his coat, take his weapon, and drop it into his pocket.
“Now start walking again, please,” the Cutter said. “Do you have the diamond?”
“Do you have Sarah Kalman?” Taylor asked, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth, the pain in his wrist made him gasp. His knees buckled.
The Cutter pulled Taylor by the elbow, keeping him upright and walking. All around them on the dark street Hasids were hurrying toward the wedding feast, hoping to find a place near their rebbe’s table.
“I do not have the time to play with you,” the Cutter said. “You will have the girl when I have the stone, farshtay?”
“No,” said Taylor, preparing himself for the pain he knew was coming. “First the girl, then the stone.”
Taylor felt the small bones in his wrist shatter. He bit down on his lip to keep from screaming. He thought he might pass out.
“I could kill you right here,” the Cutter whispered in Taylor’s ear. “There is a gun in my pocket. Feel it?” Taylor felt it in his ribs.
“I could kill you before you could cry out,” the Cutter continued. “Believe me. I have done it before. Your wrist is broken now. I could put a bullet in your elbow. Then you will be a cripple for life. That would be lucky for you. Otherwise, I will put one in your eye. Then you will be dead. The stone, please.”
Tears ran down Taylor’s cheeks as he tried to move his left hand. He felt the Cutter’s hand slide up his arm and come up underneath his armpit, finding the pressure point there.
“Fuck you,” said Taylor, the rage building in his chest. Who was this man to threaten him, to hurt him? Who was this bastard to sacrifice Zalman Gottleib and Shirley Stein? Ariel Levin, Maria Radziwell, and Carol Rosenberg? And now Sarah Kalman. This murderer of Jews. This Jewish Nazi.
“Fuck you,” Taylor said again. “You Nazi fuck. I don’t care what the fuck you do, no stone unless I see the girl. Go ahead, kill me; you’ll never get it.”
“Then come,” said the Cutter, pulling Taylor forward. “You shall see. You shall see I am not a Nazi. Not me. You shall be a witness.”
They were moving down the street now, almost running, moving faster even than the Hasidim rushing to the wedding feast. They passed an ambulance, and Taylor saw people being ministered to. They passed the patrol cars, and Taylor saw cops leaning against their units.
He was sweating now, his wrist throbbing, his fingers growing numb. The Cutter’s gun dug into his ribs.
They crossed DeKalb Avenue, and Taylor saw the bright entrance of the Pratt Institute. He saw the crowd divide—the women heading for the Willoughby Avenue entrance, the men for DeKalb.
“Your invitation,” the Cutter said to him. “Give it to me.” Taylor reached into his pocket with his right hand and handed the invitation to the Cutter.
“You think I am a Nazi?” the Cutter said as they pushed their way across the street. They slammed into the crowd in front of the entrance, and the pain in Taylor’s wrist took his breath away. His vision grew dark around the edges. He heard a clarinet screeching; it sounded like a lunatic laughing.
“I killed Nazis,” the Cutter said. “Thousands of them. You don’t believe me? I fought the enemies of Israel. You’ll see. I was in the camps,” he said, grunting as they bulled their way toward the doors, the Cutter striking out with his left arm, warding people off, pulling Taylor along with his hand on Taylor’s elbow; Taylor fighting to keep from passing out from the exquisite agony of his shattered wrist.
“I watched them take my family, my mother and father and brothers and sisters,” the Cutter hissed into Taylor’s ear. “I stood up to my waist in Jewish blood. My father was a slaughterer. I looked into his mouth for gold when he was dead. It poisoned my stomach forever. The pain, I could die from it. I planted dynamite up the arses of the English for the Jews. I ate their hearts. You call me a Nazi? Who are you? What do you know? You don’t deserve the woman.”
They were inside the building, entering the gymnasium. The Klezmorim were shrieking away. A white trellis draped with a dark green plastic grapevine ran the length of the room, dividing the men from the women. A long table covered with a white tablecloth was pushed up against the back of the gym. It stretched from one end of the room to the other, while smaller tables were scattered across the floor. Two Hasids were dancing atop the long table. Taylor saw the Satmarer rebbe clapping and laughing.
“Where is she?” Taylor asked, his mouth dry, his lips cracked. He felt the mouth of the Cutter’s gun pressing against his vertebrae, urging him forward.
“There is a room,” the Cutter said from behind him, leaning forward over Taylor’s shoulder to be heard above the roar of the Klezmorim. “In this room is the real marriage. What you saw before is just business. Contracts. But after the business is done, the kaleh and khossen go into this room alone, alone for the first time. No one must go in but them. They go in through one door as strangers, they come out another door married. That is where we go. That is where you’ll see.”
They left the gymnasium by a side door and headed down a hall. After the mob scene on the street and the crush through the Institute’s doors, the hallway seemed almost empty, although Hasids continued pouring into the building.
They stopped in front of a door. The Cutter opened it and motioned for Taylor to step inside.
A small, compact, elderly man with white hair and red cheeks, wearing a beautifully tailored gray pinstripe suit with a black-and-green tie, stood in the center of an ordinary classroom that had had all its seats taken out. There was an automatic pistol in his hand, pointing toward the floor. A woman with short red hair sat on an elaborately carved wooden chair. She stared at the floor. The gun hung by her cheek. Taylor recognized Sarah Kalman.
“You cut her hair? Why did you cut her hair?” Taylor asked the man.
“Ah, you’ll have to ask my friend that,” the man said, indicating the Cutter. “Some Jewish custom, I imagine. My name is Ladislaw Czartoryski, Mr. Taylor. I believe you have something that belongs to me.”
“Sarah,” said Taylor.
Sarah Kalman looked up at Taylor, her face drawn, her skin pale. She nodded.
“When you and your friend put down your guns,” said Taylor, “and when I am standing outside the door with Miss Kalman, I’ll tell you where the stone is.”
“You were instructed to have the stone on your person,” said Czartoryski. “You were told to bring it with you. You do not have it?”
“No,” said Taylor.
“Truthfully?” said Czartoryski. “You are serious?”
“Yes.”
“That was foolish, Mr. Taylor,” said Czartoryski. “Incredibly foolish. Fatally foolish for Miss Kalman. Even though you do not wear a beard, you run true to type. Even with the young woman at the point of death, you bargain, you bluff, you try to gain an advantage. I see that you do not understand. Well, I must make you understand.”
Czartoryski’s eyes left Taylor’s and turned toward Sarah Kalman. His gun hand moved toward her temple.
“No!” Taylor shouted. Czartoryski turned back to Taylor, and as he did Taylor heard an explosive sigh. A small black hole suddenly appeared just below Czartoryski’s left eye, and blood began to seep out of the hole and run down his pink cheek. The gun fell out of his hand. He swayed. Another sigh, and another hole appeared above the eye, toward the center of his forehead.
