When I arrived home from work I knew tonight wouldn’t be like all other nights. Sarai usually had dinner waiting for me, the house smelled like brisket or flanken, and I heard the sounds of the children’s laughter. But tonight there was no table setting for me in the kitchen and the apartment was silent.
“Sarai?” I said, walking down the long hallway, passing the children’s room. “Sar?”
Now I heard my daughters’ giggling from beyond the door to their room. We had nine beautiful children. My oldest son Moishe had a good job as a computer programmer in Manhattan, and his wife was pregnant with their first child. My oldest daughter Leah had married a good man, a jeweler like me, and had given me three healthy grandchildren so far—all boys. My other seven children lived at home with Sarai and me in a three bedroom on East Sixteenth Street near Avenue M. Three boys shared one room, three girls shared the other. The baby, Ellie, slept in a crib in our bedroom.
I went into the bedroom and saw Sarai was in her street clothes—long denim skirt, a gray blouse, white sneakers. This was strange because she usually changed into a nightgown by this time of the evening. I’d known Sarai since she was a teenager and she was my first and only love. She was thirty, okay forty, pounds overweight, and had crooked teeth and brown hair that was too long and too frizzy. I guess there was nothing special about her, but who was I to talk? A zhlobby jeweler from Midwood? I seemed to go up a new pants size every birthday, and I was forty-seven. Besides, Sarai was the mother of my children and I couldn’t imagine life without her. Was not being married to a beautiful woman the most awful thing in the world? My father had been a complicated man, but he had a simple saying that I never forgot. He often told me, “Never complain to Hashem about your life, because your life could always be better, but it could also always be much, much worse.”
I sat next to Sarai on the bed, rested a hand on her soft shoulder, and said, “What is it, Sarai? What’s wrong?”
She was sobbing so hard she couldn’t speak. Her mother had been ill, had recently had surgery for diverticulitis, but the doctors had said she’d make a complete recovery.
There was no dinner prepared so I knew something awful must’ve happened.
“Is it your mother? I hope not,” I asked.
She tried to speak, couldn’t get enough breath, then said, “N—no … No.”
“Baruch Hashem,” I said. “Then what is it then, Sarai? Not something with the children, I hope.”
She cried harder. Now I was seriously scared. Oh God, may Your name be blessed, hurt me, but please don’t hurt my children.
“Who?” I wanted to shake her to make her stop sobbing. “What happened, Sarai? You must tell me. Right now.”
“It’s … it’s Jacob,” she said.
If my heart didn’t stop, it almost did.
“Jacob … ?”
She nodded, sobbing.
I rushed into the boys’ room. I knew I’d seen Jacob, but my panicked brain had to make sure. Thank God, Jacob was at the foot of his bed, studying for his Bar Mitzvah.
Maybe no father should have a favorite child, but I’ll admit it, Jacob was my favorite. He was the boy I wished I had been at twelve years old. So kind, so considerate, such a mensch. My quietest child, but also my brightest. He was brilliant in math, at the top of his class at the yeshiva, and I expected him to work on Wall Street or in banking someday. I joked, what do I need with retirement funds? I have Jacob. I was happy Jacob was okay, but now I was angry at Sarai for causing such tumult.
Back in the bedroom I said to her, “What’s the matter with you, causing such tumult? You almost scared me to death.”
Still sobbing, she said, “You … you don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?” I was annoyed. “He seems fine. Please, what is this, Sarai? Why are you causing such mishegas after I come home after working so hard all day? You nearly scare me to death, telling me something is wrong with my favorite son, and then I see that the boy’s fine? Why do you do that to me, Sarai? Why?”
She stopped crying, glared at me, and said, “He is not fine, Izzy.” She waited, then repeated it slower, “He is not fine.”
“Look,” I said, “I don’t know what this craziness is about. I just saw him, in his room, and—”
“I saw blood in his underwear, Izzy.”
Of course I knew what she meant, what she was implying, but I said, “Blood? What do you mean, blood?”
“There was blood. I saw it.”
I stared at her for a long time, wondering if this was just her imagination, or if she was crazy. Women, they have so many complicated emotions, they couldn’t be trusted sometimes.
“Okay, so you saw blood,” I said. “Maybe he wiped too hard.”
“I asked him, Izzy,” she said. “He told me what happened.”
“Told you? Told you what?”
“He said it happened at his Bar Mitzvah lesson this afternoon,” she said, “when he met with Cantor Schwartz.”
I already felt it in my kishkes. I’d known Meir Schwartz for years, knew his family so well. My children, they were friends with his children. I’d been selling jewelry to the family for years.
“You’re imagining this,” I said.
“He told me, Izzy. He said the cantor made him take off his pants and underwear, bend over his desk and—”
“Stop!” I yelled.
Ellie, startled, started crying in her crib, and Sarai went to hold her.
I knew if Jacob had said it had happened, it had happened. He was a good boy, he didn’t lie. Did I feel anger? Of course I felt anger. Who wouldn’t feel anger when hearing such a thing about his son? Did I feel guilt? Of course I felt guilt. After all, it was I who paid for the lessons with Cantor Schwartz. How could I not feel guilt for sending my son to the house of a pervert, a maniac, a monster?
But, mostly? Mostly I felt shame.
When Sarai was through quieting the baby she said to me, “We have to do something, Izzy. Meir Schwartz is a criminal, he hurt our child.”
I had been sitting on the bed with my head in my hands. But now I looked at her and said, “You didn’t do something foolish and call the police, did you?”
“No, of course not,” Sarai said. “I’d never do such a thing without talking to you first. I was going to call you at work when I found out, but I thought it would be better to tell you in person, when you came home.”
“You did the right thing,” I said, and kissed her on the cheek. “Baruch Hashem.”
“But we have to do it now, right?” She was shaking with hysteria. “We have to call the police.”
I grabbed her by her arms, below her shoulders and said, “Sarai, calm down.” Then she turned toward me and I looked right at her teary, bloodshot eyes and I said, “You know we can’t call the police, we can’t call anybody. You know that.”
Like me, Sarai had grown up in a strict Orthodox community in Brooklyn, and she knew what happens to people who make accusations, especially accusations against a beloved cantor. Cantor Schwartz was a Kohen, no less; he came from one of the most respected families in all of Judaism. People who make such accusations, they’re shunned by their community, that’s what happens. I knew my boy and knew he wasn’t a liar, but no one would believe the word of a boy over the word of a respected Kohen. We couldn’t go to the police; we couldn’t even go to Rabbi Pearlman. I had worked for years to build the life I had—build a business, provide for my children, be part of a wonderful Jewish community. Did I want to ruin it all with a phone call?
“But … but we can’t let him get away with it.” Sarai was crying.
“We have to talk to him,” I said. “Who knows the stories children make up?”
“You know Jacob doesn’t lie.”
“Maybe he doesn’t think he’s lying. Maybe Cantor Schwartz hugged him or did something else. Maybe it was misunderstood.”
Sarai was shaking her head, sobbing.
I left our bedroom and returned to the boys’ room. Jacob, his lips moving as he silently read the word of Hashem, looked fine. I wanted to believe he was fine.
I asked the other boys to leave us alone and when they were gone I sat on the bed next to Jacob.
“Jacob,” I said. “Your mother tells me such a terrible story, but I know it’s just her imagination, isn’t it?”
I laughed a little, trying to make it into something funny, but I was feeling no humor.
Jacob was looking at his book, not at me. The behavior wasn’t normal. He was always such a respectful child.
“Please, please look at me,” I said.
When he did, I said, “This isn’t true, right? Nothing really, right?”
“It happened,” he said.
All I could think about was going to shul on Friday night, having to shake Cantor Schwartz’s hand.
I stared at Jacob without blinking for several seconds, then I grabbed his shoulders and shook him, saying, “It didn’t happen. Tell me it didn’t.”
Jacob, remaining remarkably calm during my outburst, said, “I’m so sorry, father. I couldn’t stop him. I tried, but he was too strong.”
“Maybe he just hugged you.”
Still, he was very matter of fact, didn’t seem at all frightened, but I knew he was telling the truth. I snapped out of my rage and felt nothing but love, compassion for my child.
Hugging him tightly I said, “Okay, okay,” and then I stood up.
“What are you going to do, father?” he asked.
Leaving the room, I didn’t answer.
I walked to East Nineteenth Street, to Cantor Schwartz’s house. Although he only lived about five blocks away, it was a cold night with a harsh wind, and when I arrived my face was numb and my nose was running.
Lillian, the cantor’s wife, opened the door. I wondered if she knew what type of man she was married to, or if she believed the lie like the rest of us.
“Is Meir home?” I asked.
“Yes, please come in,” she said.
Several of the cantor’s children were milling around. The house smelled like boiled chicken, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten dinner yet and I was starving.
Meir came to the door and said, “Izzy, what brings you here?”
Meir was stocky, gray, about sixty years. I looked into his eyes and saw the guilt.
“I have to talk to you about something.”
“I’m in the middle of dinner right now, Izzy. Can’t it—”
“No, it can’t,” I said.
Lillian was nearby, overhearing.
“Fine, okay,” the cantor said, and led me downstairs to the office in his finished basement.
The cantor sat at his desk, but I remained standing.
“Is this about the bracelet I bought from you last month?” he asked. “I know I said my wife thought it was too big, but we had it resized here in Brooklyn.”
“It’s not about the bracelet, it’s about my son.”
Again I saw the guilt evident in his eyes.
“Oh, yes, Jacob, such a smart boy,” the cantor said. “He’s doing so well. And what a great natural voice. He could be a singer if he wanted to.”
“He told us what you did to him today,” I said.
“What I did?” he said. “I don’t know what this means.”
“My son is not a liar,” I said. “If he says you raped him, you raped him.”
Meir stood angrily and said, “Are you some kind of crazy person? Coming in here and talking to me with such disrespect?”
I hated him, as much as I hated Hitler himself. But I also knew there was nothing I could do with my rage. I was a good Jew. I didn’t believe in an eye for an eye. Besides, he was a Kohen.
“You know there’s nothing I can do,” I said. “But I’m warning you, if you touch him again, I will do something. And for what you did already, the damage you’ve done to my family, Hashem knows about it, and you will have to live with that for eternity. That will be your punishment.”
I left the cantor’s house and walked home in the cold.
When I entered our bedroom, Sarai asked, “Did you take care of it?”
“There’s nothing to take care of,” I said. “It’s in Hashem’s hands now.”
For the first time in twenty-four years of marriage, my wife spent the night on the couch.
The next night, when I returned home from work, again no dinner had been prepared for me. This time I wasn’t surprised.
I had a can of tuna fish and the leftover macaroni and cheese from the children’s dinner.
While I was eating, Jacob, in one of the black suits he wore to the yeshiva, came to the table and said, “We need to talk.”
“Okay, talk,” I said, wondering what this was about.
“In private, right now,” he said.
By his tone, I knew this was related to what had happened with Cantor Schwartz. Had the cantor ignored my warning and molested my son again?
I went with Jacob out to the hallway in front of our apartment and said, “Tell me, what is it?”
“Not here, father, outside.”
It was another cold night and neither of us were wearing overcoats, but we went out in front of the building anyway.
“What?” I asked. “Before I freeze my tukhes off.”
“I killed him, father.”
I stared at him, then looked around to make sure no one was nearby. Then I said, “What? What are you talking about?”
He pulled up his suit jacket and showed me the blood on his shirt.
“I brought a knife to Bar Mitzvah studies today to protect myself,” he said. “And when the cantor tried to pull down my pants again, I stabbed him.”
“No.” I didn’t want to believe it. “You didn’t.”
“Yes, I did,” he said. “He’s dead, in his office at the shul.”
“Please,” I begged him. “Please tell me this isn’t true. That blood, it isn’t real. It’s ketchup from the kitchen.”
“No, it’s blood,” he said. “Cantor Schwartz’s blood.”
I wanted this to be a nightmare. I wanted to wake up in my bed screaming.
“Why, Jacob?” I asked. “Why?”
“I didn’t want him to hurt me again.”
“Do you know what’s going to happen to you now? Do you know what’s going to happen to us?”
“I’m sorry, father.”
I slapped his face so hard my hand stung. He barely flinched.
“In the shul they’ll find him, if they didn’t find him already,” I said. “The murder of a cantor, a Kohen, they won’t ignore. They’ll want justice. Did anybody see you?”
“I—I don’t know, father.”
“You probably left fingerprints, your hairs,” I said. “You’ll go to jail, we’ll be shunned by our whole community, my business will be ruined. Why did you do this to me? Why did you do this to us?”
“I’m sorry, father,” he said and ran back into the building.
Sarai still wasn’t talking to me, which was a good thing. I couldn’t imagine how upset she’d be if she knew what her son had done. I had to think, figure out what to do, and I couldn’t be around her hysteria.
With Sarai sleeping on the couch in the living room, I had the bedroom to myself. I watched the news on TV, bracing myself for a big story about a murder of a cantor in Brooklyn. The rabbis dealt with most crimes in the communities on their own, but for a murder they would involve the police. It was possible that Jacob had shut the door to the cantor’s office when he left, but wouldn’t the cantor’s family wonder why he didn’t return home from work?
The next day was Shabbes. I checked the news on my phone all day during work in the Jewelry District in Manhattan, but there was still nothing about Cantor Schwartz. Was it possible that the body hadn’t been discovered? What if Jacob only thought he had killed the cantor, but the cantor had survived?
I left work early and, before sundown, walked to the shul with my whole family. I had no idea what to expect at shul, but I knew it would be some kind of nightmare.
Right away Sasha Weinberg, a man about my age, approached me and said, “Hear the news?”
I braced myself, asking, “News? What news?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it,” he said. “It’s Cantor Schwartz. He died of a heart attack last night.”
“A heart attack?” My shock was real.
“Yes,” he said. “Isn’t it terrible?”
The whole shul was buzzing, mourning the cantor. During the service, Rabbi Pearlman had prayers for the cantor. I looked over at Jacob several times, but he was staring straight ahead, or looking at his siddur, obviously ignoring me. Sarai was behind the mekhitzah with the rest of the women so I couldn’t see her reaction to the heart attack news. Meanwhile, I couldn’t focus on the service at all, too absorbed in worry and fear.
After the service, I just wanted to get outside, for some air, when Rabbi Pearlman came over to me and said, “Can I have a word with you please?”
It was very unusual for the rabbi to ask to speak to me alone on Shabbes.
He led me to the back, to a secluded area of the shul, near some offices, and then asked, “Do you know what happened to Cantor Schwartz?”
I paused, thinking, then said, “What happened? He had a heart attack, right?”
“So then you don’t know anything of this?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” I said, bracing myself. “What do you mean by this?”
“Your wife murdered Cantor Schwartz yesterday,” he said.
I was stunned, of course, as this wasn’t what I was expecting to hear.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“She was seen leaving his office,” he said. “She stabbed him many times in the chest.”
Was this possible? Had Sarai done it, and Jacob had lied to protect her?
“That’s … that’s crazy,” I said.
“It’s true,” he said.
“But … but you just told everybody in the congregation that it was a heart attack.”
“Listen, I know why she did it,” he said. “But she’s crazy, going around stabbing people. You have to talk to her, get her a mental evaluation, make sure this never happens again. And you have to keep this a secret now or your wife’s going to jail, you understand?”
“No, I don’t understand,” I said. “If this is true, if my wife did this, why wouldn’t you call the police? Why are you—”
“There were others,” he said. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Wait,” I said. “You mean you knew this was going on and you—”
“Listen, you’re lucky your wife isn’t going to spend her life in jail,” he said. “You’re lucky the community doesn’t know what she did. Do you realize how lucky your whole family is right now? I’m doing you a favor by not making this all public.”
“No, actually, I think you’re doing yourself a favor,” I said. “What about Cantor Schwartz’s family? Do they know the truth?”
“They know nothing,” the rabbi said. “He’s already in the casket. They’ll never see the body.”
“So what’s this?” I asked. “Your idea of justice?”
“Your wife killed a Kohen,” the rabbi said. “She’s the one who will have to face God.”
“And what about you?” I asked. “Will you be facing God?”
I watched the rabbi walk away.
At home, when the kids were asleep, I confronted Sarai in the kitchen, telling her what Jacob had told me yesterday and the rabbi had told me today.
“I’m so sorry, Izzy,” she said. “I was so angry, I’ve never felt such anger. He did this to my child, my baby. I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing.”
“How did Jacob get blood on his shirt?” I asked.
“He saw me when I came home,” she said. “I was so upset, he hugged me, told me it would be okay. He’s such a mensch, after everything he went through, to care more about me than himself. Trying to protect me and telling you he did it, that’s a real mitzvah. I didn’t care if the body was found, if I went to prison.”
“Do you realize what could’ve happened to us?” I asked.
“But it didn’t happen,” I said. “The rabbi said it was a heart attack. We got away with it.”
I imagined Sarai, going into the cantor’s office, stabbing him like some crazy person. This was my wife? The mother of my children?
“Murder’s against Jewish law,” I said, and went to slap her face but she moved and I hit her right in the nose.
Blood gushed but she seemed strangely calm, at peace.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that so hard,” I said. “Can I get you some ice?”
“No, don’t get me anything,” she said. “I did a horrible thing in the eyes of God. I don’t deserve comfort. I deserve punishment.”
“Punishment is nothing,” I said. “But guilt … guilt, Sarai …”
I didn’t have to finish the thought because she knew what I meant.
She knew.
At Shabbes dinner, after the prayers, we ate the leftover flanken with cholent and lokshn kugl. Sarai was silent, her eyes bloodshot, her nose swollen. The children must’ve known why her face was swollen—they were smart children, and they’d heard all the arguing, all the fighting—but they didn’t ask anything and pretended not to notice. Jacob didn’t speak at all, looking at his food.
I missed the talking at the dinner table, the laughter. I just wanted more nights at home like all other nights.
I had two pieces of pound cake with vanilla frosting for dessert.
“Do you want some more?” Sarai asked.
“No, I’m full,” I said.
I left her with the dishes.
I knew what I was going to pray for in shul tomorrow morning. God had always been there for me in times of trouble and tragedy. Tomorrow? Tomorrow I hoped He’d at least be willing to listen.