“I think that when she came to me, Rivka had been very unhappy for a very long time. She told me she’d never felt right about the way the family-and everyone else-treated Miriam. From what Rivka said, Miriam was a wonderful, sensitive friend to her, especially throughout the tragedies of her childhood. But what could she do?” Sara pauses. “Rivka started reading. Secretly, of course. She spent time in bookstores, in Manhattan, away from the community.” The Strand, I think. Like my mom. “She started reading religious philosophy, but quickly began reading about mental illness. She believed Miriam was very definitely bipolar, with borderline traits as well.”
“But she was never diagnosed? Or medicated?”
“That’s unclear. A few months ago Rivka mentioned she was considering a trip upstate to the hospital where Miriam had stayed. I think she suspected it wasn’t actually a hospital.”
“What would it be?”
“Some sort of home for inconvenient family members, perhaps. Run by a rebbe. Where she was kept but not really treated.”
“Do things like that exist?”
“Oh yes,” says Sara. “It’s informal, of course. Money is donated from the community.”
“Are they locked in?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been to one. It can’t be much worse than some of the state-run homes for the disabled. You’ve read about those, right?”
I have. Tales of violence and neglect; lots of hand-wringing, not much corrective action.
“Rivka was angry when she learned that what made Miriam act the way she did was something that was so out of her control. ‘Miriam wasn’t bad,’ she told me. It had been a revelation to her. She said it took several years, but that she finally convinced Aron to bring Miriam home to Borough Park. She’d felt pain about her friend as long as she could remember. The way the community dealt with Miriam’s illness-and Rivka’s father’s, probably-terrified Rivka. I remember her saying that it interfered with her love of Hashem. You’re Jewish?”
I nod.
“Then you know. Jews, we are all sons and daughters of Hashem, God. He is accessible to us through how we live our lives. Where I grew up, where Rivka Mendelssohn grew up, everything is about Hashem. From our hairstyles to our clothing to when we rise and where we go and what we eat and when we eat and what we do and do not have in our homes. It is very difficult to live this life without an abiding devotion to Hashem. And to the community itself. To the idea of living apart. To creating more Jews here and living our values.”
“What are the values, exactly?”
“What I described. Exalting Hashem, modesty, family, prayer, tradition.”
“And Rivka Mendelssohn rejected those values?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that. But she was beginning to reject how she felt she was forced to express them. And then she fell in love.”
Aha.
“And that changed everything that hadn’t already changed inside her. I think. She told me she didn’t mean for it to happen-and I knew that. I watched it! They were just drawn to each other. From the moment they met.”
“You saw them?”
She sighs again. “They met at one of my gatherings. Both were new. I never saw them alone together, but I could tell. When she told me, I knew who she was talking about.”
“When was this?”
“Last spring. It was just warm.”
“And when was the last time you saw her?”
Sara pauses. “It was… more than two weeks ago. We had coffee. Here, actually. She met me at lunchtime.”
“Did she seem…?” I don’t even know what to ask. I wonder if Rivka sat in this very Starbucks chair. I wonder what she ordered.
“Like she was worried she’d be murdered? No. She seemed relatively happy. She told me that her son had been chosen to sing in shul. Apparently he has a beautiful voice.”
“Did you know she was pregnant?”
Sara shakes her head. “Not until I read it in your newspaper. It is true, then?”
I nod. “So she didn’t tell you?”
Sara shakes her head.
“Is it possible the baby was… out of wedlock?”
“Anything is possible, of course,” says Sara. “But Rivka would know that sexual intimacy out of her marriage would mean… Well, it would mean the end of her marriage. Her husband would ask for a divorce immediately. The rebbe would grant it quickly and she would be out of her home. I doubt very much that her brothers would take her in. She would be considered a very bad influence, especially if they have children, which I’m certain they do. I don’t know if Rivka would be willing to risk all that could come from an affair. She was a cautious woman. She cherished her children, and she would lose custody in a divorce.”
“Automatically?”
Sara nods. “In Brooklyn and other Hasidic enclaves, family court judges are influenced by the wishes of the community. In a custody case, a rebbe and other powerful members of the community will testify that the children will be confused if they are exposed to a parent who is less religious. And even if they are granted some kind of visitation, very often the children are poisoned against the parent who left. Their family-even the family of the absent parent-will talk about that person as if she is dangerous. Children, especially young children like Rivka’s, become frightened. They do not want to upset their primary caregivers and so many begin refusing to see the less religious parent. I know many, many people who have lost all contact with their children after a divorce.”
I stare at Sara. I knew my mom came from an insular world; a world of rules with no easy path out. I knew how her world had fucked her up, and through her, me. But what I hadn’t known-what I hadn’t even suspected-was how the tentacles of that world reached into the secular systems that are supposed to be our great equalizers. Blind justice, my ass.
“Do you think her husband knew?” I ask.
“About Baruch?”
“Baruch?”
Sara purses her lips. “I did not mean to tell you his name. Do not put his name in the newspaper.”
“I won’t,” I say.
She is silent a moment, and I can tell she’s considering whether she should go on. I wait, and then ask another question.
“But the baby could have been her husband’s, right?”
“Yes,” she says “And Aron would have no reason to suspect it was not his… Unless.”
“Unless?”
“Unless he did have a reason.” Sara is considering something. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you find out about the pregnancy?”
“A source in the police department saw the body.” I’m not sure why I’m not telling her the whole truth.
“There was an autopsy?”
“Not officially,” I say. Sara looks puzzled: there either is or isn’t an autopsy, obviously. “No. The person in the department had gotten the information from someone at the funeral home.”
“Ah,” says Sara. “That makes sense.”
“How did you hear she had died?” I ask.
“I got a call that evening from… someone else in the group.” She’s talking about Baruch. “He said she was dead. He wasn’t making much sense. I called around and found out that a woman’s body had been taken from the scrap yard her husband owns. I prayed it wasn’t true. That it was just a coincidence. But…” She shakes her head.
“Were you surprised?”
“Of course! It was so… violent. So shocking.”
“Is murder unusual in the Hasidic community?”
“I’ve never known anyone who was murdered.”
“What was your first thought?”
“You mean about who might have killed her?”
I nod.
Sara is quiet for several seconds. She turns her teacup in her hands. “This is off the record.” I nod. She lowers her voice. “When I heard she was found in the yard, I did think of Aron. For no real reason other than, well, when a married woman dies, isn’t it often her husband who killed her?”