While We're Far Apart (22 page)

“You may bring it down here and leave it in my oven, if you would like.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I am sure.”

“Thanks. I guess that’s better than leaving it in the oven with no one home, isn’t it? And you’re welcome to join us for dinner in repayment. There’s plenty of food.”

“I need no repayment. Besides, I cannot eat meat unless it comes from a kosher butcher shop.”

“Oh.” She looked so hurt that Jacob regretted mentioning it. Even if the meat was kosher he would not feel comfortable intruding on their reunion that way. “Please, Miss Goodrich. Bring your roast down here and I will watch it for you.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll be right back.” She smiled for the first time and there was something different about her that he couldn’t quite place. Maybe he hadn’t gotten such a good look at her the last time they had met, but tonight she looked very pretty. Was it for Ed Shaffer that she wanted to look so special?

Jacob didn’t know his tenant very well, but the man couldn’t be much older than Avraham was. How long would a military leave last? A week, perhaps? The children would want to spend all of that time with their father, and by the time he went away again, the cast would be off Jacob’s arm. He wouldn’t need the children’s help anymore. From now on he would begin to put more distance between himself and his tenants. He never should have become so attached to them in the first place. And now this – baby-sitting their roast in his oven? Who knew what he would be doing for them next?

Miss Goodrich returned a minute later, carrying a hot roasting pan swaddled in kitchen towels. The aroma made Jacob’s mouth water. He led the way into his kitchen and set the oven temperature for her.

“Thanks so much, Mr. Mendel. If we’re not home by seven o’clock, you’d better take it out of the oven.”

“I will do that.”

He heard the family leave a few minutes later and was happy for them. The children had missed their father. He sat down at his desk again to finish listening to the news. Every night he compared the battle reports on the radio with the maps he’d cut from the newspaper. He seldom heard news of Hungary, but since the war was now worldwide, a battle in one nation affected all the others. He spread out everything on his desk, tracing the Allies’ path since the invasion of Italy a month ago. Their progress seemed slow. How long would it take to rescue all of Europe from those madmen?

Jacob had lost all track of time when the doorbell rang, interrupting him. Were his tenants home? Had they forgotten their key? He went out to the foyer and opened it to find two middle-aged men in hats and suits and ties standing on his porch. He glimpsed a police car parked out front and felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach. The last time the police had come to his door, it was to tell him that Miriam Shoshanna had been killed in an accident.

“Mr. Jacob Mendel?”

“Yes.” His heart thumped so violently he could hardly breathe.

“I’m Detective O’Hara and this is Detective Flynn. We would like you to come down to the police station with us and answer a few questions. We have a car waiting to drive you there.”

“To the police station? Why? For what purpose?”

“We need to ask you a few questions about the fire across the street. Inspector Dalton from the fire marshal’s office has turned the case over to us.”

“Am I being arrested?”

“Should you be? Have you broken the law, Mr. Mendel?”

“Of course not. I am merely asking what is the purpose of taking me to the police station. If it is simply to talk, I can answer any questions you have right here.”

“We would prefer it if you came with us. We’ll discuss the details once we’re down there.”

Jacob’s anger boiled, but he knew he must control his temper or they would use it as evidence against him. As he tried to think what to do, he suddenly remembered that he had his neighbor’s roast in the oven.

“I cannot go anywhere with you, I am sorry. I have food cooking in the kitchen and I cannot leave the oven turned on. If I turn the gas off, the meal will be ruined. You will have to return another day.”

The men looked at each other. “In that case,” Detective O’Hara said, “may we come inside and discuss this?”

Did Jacob have a choice? If he refused, they would come back another day. Why prolong this? Why not get it over with, find out what they wanted? “Very well. Come in.” They would smell the roasting meat inside his apartment. At least they would know he was telling the truth.

Detective Flynn gestured to Jacob’s sofa. “Have a seat, Mr. Mendel.”

“You are telling me to sit down in my own apartment?”

“Sorry. Force of habit.” Flynn sat down instead, but O’Hara remained standing, as if guarding the door. Both men scanned the living room, while Jacob turned off the radio and sat down in his desk chair, turning it to face the detective.

“So, this is about the fire?”

“Yes. I’ll be frank with you,” Flynn said. “We think you got into an argument with the rabbi, went home and got a can of kerosene, put it inside a paper bag, then came back and set the place on fire. We think you decided to save the scrolls so your friends would think you were a hero – which is exactly what they do think, by the way.”

“That makes no sense. I was carrying the paper bag when I talked to Rebbe Grunfeld. It contained my dinner – a can of soup and some crackers. Ask him.”

“We have asked him. He claims that he saw you carrying a bag, but he can’t identify the contents. We know you keep kerosene in your apartment.”

“So do hundreds of other people in Brooklyn. Why harass me? Why would I start the fire?”

The two men exchanged glances as if they knew a secret that Jacob did not. They reminded him of schoolyard bullies, closing in on their prey. “Inspector Dalton from the fire marshal’s office has uncovered several possible motives,” Detective O’Hara said. “We know that you were estranged from the congregation, so he thinks you did it to regain their favor.”

“That is ridiculous. Rebbe Grunfeld has asked me repeatedly to return and say prayers with him. I have many friends there. I am always welcome.”

“If that’s true, why haven’t you attended in more than a year?”

Jacob wanted to tell them that it was none of their business. He hated sharing his personal life with anyone, much less these arrogant detectives. But he feared they would continue to harass him unless he answered their questions. He cleared his throat. “My wife was killed in an accident more than a year ago. I have not gone to the shul since then because I have not felt very much like praying.”

“So you admit that you’re mad at God? What better way to get even with Him than to burn down His synagogue?”

Jacob stifled a groan. He had made things much, much worse by telling the truth. He should not have said anything at all. He cleared the lump from his throat again and tried to answer calmly. “I would never do a thing like that. To deliberately burn all of those holy books would be unforgivable.”

“Look. Just tell us the truth so we can settle the insurance claim and your people can get on with rebuilding the place.”

“I am telling you the truth. I did not start the fire.”

“Can you prove to us that you didn’t?”

“Can you prove that I did?”

“Not yet, Mr. Mendel, but we will. We will.”

Jacob was thoroughly angry now. He had thought he would be free in America, that Jews would no longer be falsely accused of causing every misfortune. Why leave your family and travel thousands of miles and struggle to start a new life in America if things were no different here?

Jacob rose to his feet. “I have nothing else to say. You have called me a liar to my face and accused me of committing a terrible crime. I think you should leave now.”

Detective Flynn stood and took a step closer to Jacob. “We know you’re guilty, Mr. Mendel.”

“How dare you!”

“It’s only a matter of time until we find the proof we need or a witness comes forward. You will pay for your crime.”

“Kindly leave my home.”

Jacob closed both doors behind them, trembling with fury. He must talk to Rebbe Grunfeld immediately and straighten this out. He grabbed his hat and coat from the front closet and got as far as the foyer when he remembered the roast in his oven. He came back inside, threw his hat and coat onto a chair, and sat down to wait. He didn’t have to wait long. The family from upstairs arrived home a few minutes later, and Miss Goodrich knocked on his door.

“Is everything all right?” she asked. “When our taxi pulled up there was a police car out front. We were worried.”

“Everything is fine. I hope your dinner is fine, as well.” He led her out to the kitchen so she could retrieve her roast from the oven.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join us?” she asked.

“Thank you, but I need to pay a visit to someone this evening.”

“Oh. I hope we didn’t keep you from going out. Have you been waiting a long time for us?”

“Not at all.” But Jacob put on his hat and coat and hurried out the front door before she reached the top of the stairs. He need not have bothered with his coat. The fall evening was warm, Rabbi Grunfeld’s apartment only a short walk away. Jacob’s hands still trembled with rage as he knocked on the door.

The moment the rebbe opened it and Jacob heard the laughter and saw all the people gathered inside, he remembered what day it was. Of course. The rebbe and his family were celebrating Sukkot. Once again the warmth of home and the aroma of food overwhelmed Jacob, reminding him of all that he’d lost. He slowly backed away.

“I am sorry for disturbing you. I will return another time.”

“Oh no, you won’t.” Rebbe Grunfeld draped his arm around Jacob’s shoulder and drew him inside. “Look, my dear,” he called to his wife. “Yaakov Mendel is here. He has changed his mind and has accepted our invitation after all.”

There was nothing Jacob could do but join them. He needed the rebbe’s help with the police and he couldn’t risk offending him by refusing his hospitality. He started to remove his hat and coat, but the rebbe stopped him. “You might want to leave your coat on. We have built our booth outside, and we are just about to sit down and eat.”

Jacob followed him to the back courtyard, where a festive table had been set beneath a canopy of branches. The rebbe’s family members gathered around, taking their seats. “See? We have just put the food on the table. Please sit down, Yaacov.”

The rebbe’s son and daughter-in-law hurried to add an extra chair and another place setting. Jacob noticed that they used kerosene lamps outside for light. Why hadn’t the fire marshal accused Rebbe Grunfeld of starting the fire?

Jacob’s anger and fear had time to cool during the meal. In their place, sorrow and grief began to seep into his heart once again. Sukkot was a feast of joy, celebrated with laughter and singing and sumptuous food. The familiar traditions made him long for the past and ache for his own family. Would it be asking too much of Hashem to bring Avraham and his family safely home? He was so weary of being alone.

Jacob tried to forget about the policemen’s accusations and join in the celebration, but worry prevented him from eating much. It was late when the meal and the blessings ended, and Rebbe Grunfeld led him inside to his study to talk. Jacob told him about the visit from the police detectives.

“No, no, no. That cannot be true,” the rebbe said. “The fire inspector never spoke a word of these suspicions to me. Are you sure you aren’t reading more into their visit than you should?”

“You think I am making this up? The police came into my home, Rebbe. Two detectives. They wanted to take me to the police station to question me, but I refused to go with them. They looked me right in the eye and said, ‘We know you are guilty. You will pay for your crime.’ They accused me in my own house!”

“That is unbelievable.”

“Go down there and ask them yourself.”

“Tell me their names and I will do that.”

“Detectives Flynn and O’Hara. The fire inspector has turned the case over to them.”

“I will talk to them first thing tomorrow and straighten this out. No, wait. Tomorrow is
Simchas Torah
. It will have to be the next day. But you must come back tomorrow and celebrate with us. When we dance and rejoice over the Torah this year, we will have you to thank for saving our scrolls.”

Jacob simply shook his head. No. He could not rejoice.

“Listen, Yaacov, I’m sorry for not keeping up with the fire investigation, but I have been so busy with my meetings with the American Jewish Congress. I never dreamed the police would accuse you. But I will go there and tell them how wrong they are.”

“Thank you. I will leave you to your celebrations now. I am sorry for interrupting. Thank you again for the dinner.”

“No, don’t leave yet. Please, sit down. I want to tell you what has been going on in Washington behind the scenes. You will keep it confidential, yes?”

“Of course.” Jacob sat down on the edge of the chair, unwilling to get too comfortable.

“It seems that several highly respected men in the Roosevelt administration have drafted a plan to help rescue European Jews. The plan was first proposed in June, and now they are very close to creating a new government agency with funding to specifically help Jewish refugees.”

“That is wonderful news.” Yet even as he said the words, Jacob was afraid to believe it. “What can I do?”

“They will need money from Jewish organizations and individuals in America to help fund this new agency. Of course our congregation is planning to help. Please, Yaacov, come to the meeting with me after Sukkot and learn more for yourself. You were always so much better than any of us at organizing things and raising funds.”

Jacob closed his eyes. Did he dare to believe that something was finally going to be done for the Jews who were trapped in Europe? He felt a sliver of hope for the first time in four years.

“I will help any way that I can. Tell me where and when.” He stood to leave, but again the rebbe stopped him.

“There is so much I want to say to you, Yaacov . . . and I don’t know how to put it into words. I know how much you are suffering – losing Miriam Shoshanna, worrying about Avraham, and now this terrible business with the police. I understand how difficult it must be to rejoice with such a heavy heart. . . . But I pray that you will allow Hashem to speak to you through our celebration of Sukkot tonight. The flimsy booths that we live in and eat in during this time remind us once again that our lives here on earth are a journey and not our permanent resting place. Our protection and security don’t come from what we build on our own, but from Hashem.” He paused, but Jacob didn’t reply. “I worry about you, my friend. I fear that the walls you are building to shelter yourself from hurt may end up walling you off from life.”