The sound of slamming delivery truck doors slapped at my ears the moment I walked onto the street. While I was in Simon’s office early morning light had replaced the sky’s pre-dawn gray: October’s brittle beacon for the city’s first shift.

I hadn’t walked very far before realizing the cocaine had eliminated my hunger. Simon’s ploy had been a good one; I was also no longer tired. I decided against the apartment but headed home for my car. Maybe I’d think of somewhere to go when I got there.

Simon’s assignment seemed straightforward: interview the Hasids, interview the punks. But his religious conversion, however sugar-coated, continued to feel uncomfortably complicated. This wasn’t one of his political “joins,” but something from the heart. At the very least, it was a new wrinkle on an old friend’s coming middle age. His conversion recalled a time when almost everyone I knew returned to school for a graduate degree. As if, in unison, their alternative lifestyle had grown obsolete. I’d never been as political as my friends, nor as straight, so I just stayed put and felt abandoned. I was feeling some of that now and wondered whether it was Simon’s decision that disturbed me, or his parting question? Was I tired of having nothing to believe in?

I kept my eyes on the street scene while I walked past clumps of wage-earners huddled around the urban oases—sub shops and newsstands. There is something seismic about a metropolitan area just before showtime; an urban potpourri of ambiguous feelings steaming into the chilly daylight. People leaned into the autumn with grim determination or weary resignation. Too many days doing the same damn thing. Some people, though, actually had a bounce to their step. The ones who couldn’t remember yesterday.

My fist uncurled to grasp the car door handle and I felt a fierce desire to roll down the windows and cut a radio-blasting swathe through town. To hell with propriety, the new case, or Simon’s middle age.

To hell with my middle age.

I let the keys dangle, kept the windows rolled, and lit a joint hoping to ratchet down. I inhaled and thought about throwing the little glass bottle out the window. But I knew better. By nightfall I’d be back crawling around in the street.

Two cigarettes later I pulled my head out of a minor midlife crisis, no longer needing to teenrace through the town. I felt a little more like myself, though still reluctant to spend the day alone. I stayed with my decision to work, but didn’t want to meet with the Avengers until after I’d met with the Hasids.

And meeting the Hasids meant introducing myself to Rabbi Sheinfeld. Simon’s Rabbi would be my first step on the stairway to Hasidic heaven. I’d received the Temple’s address along with a warning to park my personality before I went calling. Simon didn’t want me to leave a bad impression. He was more than a little worried I’d be hostile in a House of the Lord.

My anxiety flared as I approached the massive limestone building. I’d always been aware of the Temple’s presence, but never before noticed the amount of high-priced, tax-free real estate it consumed. The frontage faced the main thoroughfare of the city’s adjoining suburb—a town proud of its schools and its ability to hold the line against Black immigration. When I turned onto the bordering side street I saw, for the first time, a driveway sign offering substantial parking to the Temple’s worshippers. I stretched the invitation and turned in anyway. I didn’t think God towed.

 

I was relieved when Rabbi Sheinfeld pointedly pulled an ashtray from his desk. “I generally don’t allow anyone to smoke in my office but sometimes it’s impolitic to make a fuss.”

I didn’t think this was one of those times so felt doubly grateful as I lit up.

“They aren’t very good for you, as I’m sure you know,” Rabbi Sheinfeld said with a friendly nod.

“I’m not a just-say-no kind of guy,” I acknowledged after a tension releasing drag. “Who were the people we passed on our way to your office?”

“The Temple’s fundraising group. The more heinous the anti-Semitism, the harder they work. These days Israel needs as much support as possible.”

I wasn’t sure why. “I suppose,” I said noncommittally.

The Rabbi looked at me carefully, leaned back in his executive maroon leather chair, and changed the subject. “This has been an extraordinary twenty-four hours.” He pointed to the telephone. “If my secretary weren’t holding calls we wouldn’t have a moment to talk. Organizations, Hasidim, members of my own congregation…,” he said shaking his head. “I had to nap right here in the Temple.”

“News travels fast.”

“Instantaneously. Reb Dov’s brutal murder has shocked the entire Jewish world.” Sheinfeld pulled a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses from his suit’s breast pocket, perched them on his nose, and peered. “Simon suggested I might find you…,” he groped for a moment, “distant from your heritage.”

“Depends on your definition of heritage. Some people think I’m too much like what came before. When did you speak to Simon?”

“Before coming downstairs to greet you. I’m afraid I woke him up. Again.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mind. He’s pretty upset himself.”

“You seem surprised. You’re Jewish, aren’t you upset?”

I wasn’t going to tell him that the measure of my Jewishness had been tossed into a hospital’s foreskin container a couple of minutes after my birth. “I never like unnecessary death.”

“Of course. But doesn’t it horrify you when it’s the result of violent anti-Semitism? Perhaps you think it paranoia, but when something like this happens it elicits terrible memories. I grew up during the Second World War. Although none of my immediate family died in concentration camps, we had relatives.” He hesitated then added, “All Jews had relatives.”

He waited for me to agree but I couldn’t. There had been no talk of losing family in my house. There had been no talk of Jewish. Hell, there had been no family. Of course, I only lived there for twelve years. Maybe the subject came up after I’d gone.

“Rabbi, I don’t know whether I had relatives in concentration camps or not. It doesn’t really matter. Simon asked me to investigate the White Avengers and their relationship with the Hasids. I intend to do a thorough job. I hoped you might make a few calls to some of them, letting them know who I am.”

“Absolutely. Simon was surprised you arrived here so quickly.”

I smiled. “Tell you the truth, I don’t think Rabbi Yonah has much to worry about, but I understand the pressure everyone is under. The Rabbi who died was an important religious figure, wasn’t he?”

“Murdered,” Sheinfeld corrected. “Yes, extremely important. He was the spiritual teacher of the Hasidim throughout New England. More than that really. At the time Reb Dov became Rosh Yeshiva, the Rebbe, the Hasidim were a small community, isolated and practically irrelevant to the rest of the Jewish world.” Sheinfeld smiled wryly. “It would be an exaggeration to suggest that Reb Dov marched them into the twentieth century, but the Yeshiva expanded under his humanitarian leadership. Reb Dov brought a warmth and joy to religion. He created an atmosphere that reduced the distance between the Hasidim and the rest of the Jewish community.”

He grimaced. “Perhaps you know how difficult it is to get the three major factions of our religion to agree on anything.” Genuine remorse sliced through Sheinfeld’s polish. “Reb Dov’s ability to command this wide-ranging respect is one of the bitter ironies. Over the years the Yeshiva drew larger and larger crowds for their Simchas Torah celebration. By necessity they were forced to dance outside.” Rabbi Sheinfeld shrugged. “In truth, the Rebbe relished the large participation.”

“One of the ironies?”

“Well, Mr. Jacob, in a perverse way it is quite ironic that the bastards chose him to kill.”

“Perverse?”

“Reb Dov was a gentle man. He demanded non-violence from his followers regardless of the provocation.” A grave look clouded his face. “I’m sorry to say, his approach is not universally shared. A growing number of Jews are enraged with the rising tide of anti-Semitic incidents. The Rebbe deplored violence, but his death, especially if something…unexpected happens to Reb Yonah, will add ammunition to those calling for a preemptive defense.”

“Preemptive defense? Sounds like something left over from Vietnam. What do you mean ‘if something unexpected should occur’ to Reb Yonah?”

“If Reb Yonah were to be engaged in a long legal wrangle, the militants among us will have an opportunity and platform to promote their views. Especially among the Hasidim. I believe in the old admonition to ‘choose our enemies carefully for one day we will come to resemble them.’ Unfortunately, there are people already rattling sabers. Reb Dov’s death is a bitter pill and there are those who simply won’t swallow it.”

He nodded absently, still caught in his concern. “It’s a tricky situation. Last night’s horror didn’t occur in a vacuum. The number and magnitude of incidents against the Jewish people throughout the world have steadily increased.”

The glasses were off again and his lean tennis body edged forward. “The Hasidim have absorbed the brunt of the trouble.” He shook his head. “I suppose they most resemble an anti-Semite’s picture of a Jew.” He paused as a quick smile flew across his face. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jacob. I don’t think you asked for a sermon.”

“Matt, Rabbi. This is helpful. It gives me a context to work from. I don’t have any experience with Hasids, and I’m somewhat apprehensive about interviewing them.”

Rabbi Sheinfeld nodded sympathetically but when he spoke his voice had an edge. “I’m happy to make a few calls but understand, the Hasidim use me when they need to, but otherwise have nothing to do with me or my Reform Temple.”

“Why is that?”

“In their eyes I represent someone who separates Jews from their religion. Many Hasidim believe you are either Orthodox or you are not a Jew. There is no in-between.”

“You don’t sound entirely comfortable with the situation.”

“To be the object of scorn is unpleasant. It also represents an intolerance I find disturbing.”

“But you help them when they need it?”

“They are my brothers, Mr. Jacob…Matt. And, as I said, Reb Dov was different. A man with enough breadth and insight to respect all people.”

“All people or all Jews?”

Sheinfeld stood. “Do you always bring that chip with you, or is it reserved for religion?”

“I’m leery of fanatics, that’s all.”

Sheinfeld sat back down and pulled the telephone closer. “I don’t think you mean it when you say ‘that’s all.’”

I thought of my discomfort with Simon’s relationship to the Temple. “There’s been an awful lot of innocent blood spilled in God’s name.” I paused then shrugged. “Besides, like I said, the thought of interviewing Hasids is intimidating. I’ve never seen one up close.”

He appreciated my admission. “Don’t be alarmed, they don’t have horns.”

“I hope you meant that as a joke?”

Sheinfeld raised his eyebrow. “I didn’t, but it’s not bad.”