While We're Far Apart (15 page)

“It is nobody’s business but mine if I attend or not.”

“But you are very familiar with the synagogue’s layout, the use of the rooms, and so forth?”

“Yes.”

“And you have a key to the building, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did you use your key to let yourself into the building on the night of the fire?”

“Of course I used it. The front door of the building was locked.”

“So you unlocked it and went inside?”

“Yes. I saw the flames and I went inside to save the Torah scrolls.”

Inspector Dalton nodded, then consulted his notebook once again. “I understand you had a conversation with Rabbi Grunfeld shortly before the fire began. Is that correct?”

Jacob had to think back to that night. It seemed like a very long time ago. He recalled that he had bumped into the rebbe on his way home from the store that evening, just as the men were coming out of the shul. “We had a short conversation that night, yes.”

“May I ask what you discussed?”

“How should I know what I said so many weeks ago? Do you remember the conversations you had in the past?” He was losing patience with these idiotic questions.

“Perhaps I can help jog your memory.” Inspector Dalton leafed through the pages of his notebook. “Ah, here it is. Several witnesses overheard you shouting that night. Arguing with Rabbi Grunfeld. They said you sounded very angry. You said something to the effect that you didn’t care what happened to the synagogue, that the building could fall down for all you cared. Do you recall saying that?”

For the first time Jacob felt real fear. These weren’t innocent questions that the man was asking. He was trying to lead Jacob down a path chosen well in advance. And Jacob had the feeling that something terrible awaited him at the end of it. “Why do you ask me questions if you already know the answers?”

“I’m just trying to confirm that the information is true, Mr. Mendel. Did you raise your voice that night?”

“I suppose I did.”

“I’m told that you were carrying a paper bag in your hand. May I ask what it contained?”

“My supper. I bought a can of soup and some crackers at the store. That was why I left the apartment in the first place.”

“Isn’t it against your Jewish beliefs to make purchases between sundown on Friday and sundown on Saturday?”

“My beliefs are my own business. They have nothing to do with the fire.”

“What happened to the bag that evening?”

“To the bag? What do you mean?”

“I’m told that you were carrying the scrolls, wrapped in a bundle, when you came out of the burning synagogue. You no longer had a bag at that time, nor is there any mention of a bag or a can of soup among your effects when they admitted you to the hospital.”

Jacob stared at the man, shocked by the information he seemed to possess. Again he thought back to the night of the fire, remembering how he had let himself into the synagogue, then dampened his jacket in the sink. He had no idea what had become of the soup. “I suppose I must have set the bag down inside somewhere. I don’t remember.”

“After your argument with Rabbi Grunfeld, what did you do next?”

“I went for a walk.”

“To any destination in particular?”

“No. I just walked.”

“Is there anyone who saw you and can verify where you went on your stroll?” Jacob’s stomach rolled with another wave of fear. He shook his head. “And at the time that you went for this walk, Mr. Mendel, the synagogue would have been empty? You saw all of the men leaving, correct?”

“No. I saw Rabbi Grunfeld and a few others leaving. I have no idea who remained inside.”

Inspector Dalton nodded, then flipped back a few more pages in his notebook. “The owner of the cigar store gave a description of the man who reported the fire and asked him to call for help. He said that he was Jewish, with a black beard and hat, wearing a black suit and striped suspenders. Was that you, Mr. Mendel?”

“Yes. I noticed the flames as I was completing my walk and returning home.”

“Then what happened?”

“I saw that it was taking too long for the fire trucks to arrive. The Torah scrolls were going to burn. So I went inside to save them.”

“Using your key?”

“Yes. Of course using my key.”

Dalton fell silent for a moment, as if thinking. He reminded Jacob of a hunter carefully setting a trap in the stillness of the woods. “Mr. Mendel, I understand that Rabbi Grunfeld and the others are very grateful to you for what you did.”

“Ask them, not me.”

“And so, after being angry with the other members of Congregation Ohel Moshe for more than a year – ”

“I never said I was angry with the congregation or anyone else.”

“Let me rephrase that . . . after being
estranged
from the others for more than a year, you are once again in their good graces, is that right?”

Good graces?
The phrase made Jacob angry. He stood abruptly. “I would like you to leave now. I have told you everything I know about the fire. I saw the flames as I was returning home. I asked the store clerk to call the fire department. I went inside to save the Torah. That is all there is to it.”

Mr. Dalton smiled faintly. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Mendel.” He seemed to take his time rising from the sofa and crossing to the door, pausing beside a bookshelf to examine Miriam’s small glass kerosene lamp.

“This belongs to you?”

“It was my wife’s.” Miriam used to use it as a night-light on Shabbat. Jacob hadn’t touched it in more than a year.

“This burns kerosene?” Mr. Dalton bent to sniff it.

“Yes. Good day, Mr. Dalton.”

By the time the inspector left, Jacob’s entire body trembled with fury. He remembered feeling this same impotent rage as a young man in Hungary when he’d seen how his people were treated, but he hadn’t experienced it in a long, long time. Not here in America. He stuffed his hat on his head and walked the two blocks to Rebbe Grunfeld’s apartment on the ground floor of a six-story brick building.

“You need to tell me what is going on,” he said the moment the rebbe opened the door.

“Yaacov? What – ?”

“A man from the fire department just interrogated me as if I were a criminal. What did you tell him about me?”

“About you? Nothing, Yaacov. I never said anything – ”

“Do you know how the fire started? Did they tell you that?”

“Please, come inside and sit down. The hallway is no place to talk.” He put his hand on Jacob’s shoulder and guided him through the door. “Let me tell my wife that you’re here. She’ll make coffee.”

The rebbe’s living room glowed with gentle light, warmed by softly whistling radiators. The aroma of home filled the apartment; the smell of roasted meat and spicy potatoes, of bread baking and soup simmering, the scent of cinnamon and fresh coffee. Jacob’s house had once smelled just the same. He should not have come.

“I do not want coffee,” he said, refusing to sit. “I want to talk about the fire. Do you know how it started?”

“They said it was arson, that the fire had been deliberately set. They found a burned kerosene can in the beit midrash.”

Kerosene. Jacob closed his eyes. “Were there signs of a break-in?”

“No. . . . Yaacov, please. Sit down and tell me what’s wrong.”

“Don’t you see? They think I set the fire!”

“You? That’s ridiculous. Who thinks that?”

“The inspector who just interrogated me. The questions he asked all led to that conclusion. I have a key to the building. I have not attended shul in a year. I argued with you after evening prayers on the night of the fire. . . . I am telling you, he thinks that I started the fire!”

“That’s absurd. I already told him how grateful we all are that you risked your life to save the scrolls that night. How valuable they are to us, and – ”

“And he thinks that was why I did it, to get back into your ‘good graces.’ That is exactly what he said.”

“No. No, that can’t be. I’ll tell him he’s wrong, Yaacov. I’ll tell him you would never do such a terrible thing.”

“Then you had better be ready to tell him who did set the fire. Because nobody broke in, Rebbe, and I happen to be one of the few men who has a key.”

“How can I tell him who set the fire? We don’t know who set the fire. Or why.”

“Of course a Jew must be to blame. A Jew is always to blame, yes?” Jacob turned to leave, but Rebbe Grunfeld grabbed his sleeve.

“Listen, Yaacov. I’m certain that you are worried for nothing. I’ll talk to the inspector. I’ll convince him that you are innocent. Please believe me. You have nothing to worry about.”

But as Jacob walked home through the rustling leaves, he worried nonetheless.

C
HAPTER 13

E
STHER DIDN’T UNDERSTAND
why some of the boys in school like Jacky Hoffman always acted rowdy in music class. She loved going down to the music room once a week and listening to the recordings the teacher played for them on her phonograph. Esther excelled in class, of course, because she already knew how to read music. And Miss Miller was one of her favorite teachers. Esther wished the combined class of seventh and eight graders met more often, and that the boys would behave so Miss Miller wouldn’t have to yell.

The hour-long music lesson had sped by much too quickly, as usual. But as Esther and the others began lining up to return to their classroom, Miss Miller pulled her aside.

“Could I speak with you for a moment, Esther?”

She turned to her classroom teacher, who nodded her approval. Esther waited behind while the other students shuffled out.

“Your caretaker, Miss Goodrich, came to see me the other day,” Miss Miller began.

“Penny did?”

“Yes. Miss Goodrich and I had a very nice conversation.”

Miss Miller’s words made Esther angry. This school, this music class, was her territory, and Penny Goodrich had no right invading it. Penny didn’t belong here or in the apartment or any other part of Esther’s life, for that matter. She would tolerate Penny until Daddy came home if she had to, but –

“Miss Goodrich told me how well you play the piano, and she asked me if I knew anyone who could give you lessons. I told her that I would be happy to teach you.”

Why did Penny always make Esther feel pulled in two directions at once? She wanted nothing to do with piano lessons if they were Penny’s idea. Who did she think she was? But at the same time, Esther liked Miss Miller a lot. And she had missed playing the piano, missed the sound of music in their apartment. Esther used to love studying the tiny black notes on a sheet of music, discovering the magic they contained and bringing them to life. She loved to create a story from the notes, making them say something happy or sad or playful or majestic.

Miss Miller rested her hand on Esther’s shoulder. “So . . . would you like to take piano lessons with me?”

Esther tried not to cry as she struggled to make up her mind. Should she do it? Then she remembered how Mama had seemed to come back to life the other day when she had played the piano for Peter. Esther nodded. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

“Good. I told Miss Goodrich that Peter may take lessons as well, if he would like to. Would you ask him for me?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll ask him.” She wondered if Miss Miller knew that Peter couldn’t talk. The entire school probably knew.

“How about if we start your lessons tomorrow after school? You can bring some of the books you were working on, and we’ll go from there.”

Esther nodded again as happiness battled with anger. And guilt. Was she being disloyal to her mother to study with another teacher? “How much does it cost?” Esther thought to ask. Daddy always worried about money.

“Miss Goodrich and I already worked everything out. I’ll see you tomorrow right after school. I’m looking forward to it, Esther.”

“Yes. Me too.”

As Esther helped with the supper dishes that night she wondered if Penny would mention the piano lessons. Esther knew she should thank Penny – it was rude not to – but she couldn’t make herself do it. If she opened the door just the tiniest crack, Penny would elbow her way inside.

When the last pot was dry, Esther escaped downstairs to the front porch. The apartment seemed stuffy and confining with Peter silently inhabiting their bedroom and Penny in the kitchen and the piano looming in the living room, tugging Esther in opposite directions between guilt and anticipation.

The fall weather was too chilly for sitting outside, the wind damp and blustery, but Esther sat down on Mrs. Mendel’s glider just the same. She wished she could talk to Mr. Mendel again, but she didn’t have the courage to knock on his door. She knew he was home because she could hear music pouring from his radio, filling the vestibule and drifting faintly outside past his living room window. He liked orchestra music, the kind Miss Miller played in music class. Esther sat very still on the rusty glider, listening.

The music ended a few minutes later and the announcer began to speak. She had been listening with her eyes closed, scarcely daring to breathe. When she opened them she saw Jacky Hoffman pedaling toward the apartment on his bicycle. He had made good on his offer and had walked home from school with her and Peter a couple of times, but now she scrunched down, hoping that he wouldn’t see her. He pulled to a stop in front of the porch, brakes squealing.

“Hey, beautiful!”

“Go away, Jacky. I’m mad at you.”

“Why? What’d I do?”

“You and the other boys always act up in music class. You always spoil it for everyone else.”

His forehead creased in a scowl. “You like music class?”

“Yes! Miss Miller is one of the nicest teachers in the whole school.”

He grinned like a movie star. “Well, from now on I’ll be on my very best behavior. Just for you. And I’ll clobber anyone else who acts up, okay?”

He was being nice again, but Esther didn’t know whether to forgive him or not. She felt as wary of letting him in the door as she did Penny Goodrich, even though she longed to have a friend to talk to.

“Okay,” she finally said. “Thanks. And I noticed that the other kids haven’t been teasing my brother as much. You have anything to do with that?”