“You two know each other?” Sara is surprised.
“I met Malka the day of the funeral,” I say.
“You did not say you were a reporter,” says Malka.
“I know,” I say. “I should have. I apologize.”
This seems, oddly enough, to satisfy her. Or else she is simply distracted. “Is it true Saul Katz has been arrested?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“I suppose it was inevitable,” says Sara. “I’m no fan of Leiby Bronner, but…”
“You know about that?” I ask.
Sara smiles. “Word travels. And the community is very divided over the issue of sexual abuse.”
“There is not division over the issue of sexual abuse,” says Malka, looking cross. “Everyone agrees it is averah. A sin. There is division over the proper response.”
“Yes,” says Sara. “Of course.”
“He wasn’t arrested for the assault, though,” I say. “They’re saying he obstructed the investigation into Rivka Mendelssohn’s murder by talking to me.”
Sara shakes her head. “Poor man. He’s always been solemn. Navigating the worlds he lives in, so many years of not belonging anywhere. No real family. And then when his son, Binyamin, died…”
“His son died?” I ask. Saul didn’t say that. “When?”
“Recently,” says Sara. “During the fall. October, I think.”
“What happened?”
Sara lowers her voice. “It was suicide. He had a wife and three children, but… he was gay. And when it was discovered, he was forced to leave his teaching job. He rented an apartment in Kensington and that’s where he was found. Hanging from the ceiling. He’d been for days. Neighbors called the super because of the smell.”
“Oh my God,” I say. I cross my arms over my stomach and wince. “Saul told me he’d been molested.”
Sara nods. “Yes,” she says. “That is what I was told as well.”
“Binyamin Katz went to yeshiva with my brothers,” says Malka.
“Oh!” says Sara.
Malka is staring into the middle distance.
“Saul said it was a rabbi,” I say. “And that the indictment failed because people wouldn’t speak out.”
Malka’s eyes return to the table. “That is accurate,” she says.
I’ve never seen a woman quite like Malka before. Her features are tiny and her white skin smooth, like a porcelain doll. And like a doll, she is completely expressionless. The most her face has moved since I sat down is to blink. It occurs to me that she would make a great soldier or spy. Not even Al Qaeda could get her to talk if she didn’t want to say anything.
“But this isn’t why I asked you to meet us,” says Sara. “Remember when we talked I told you that the reason Rivka Mendelssohn came to me was she had endured the death of a child? After we talked I called Malka. Malka?”
Malka looks me in the eyes for the first time since I’ve met her. “The baby was murdered,” she says. “She was hit on the head. Like her mother.”
The way she says it, it seems almost as if she is posing a challenge. I take out my notebook. It’s now or never.
“I need this on the record,” I say.
She nods, her gaze steady. “My name is Malka Grossman,” she says, looking at my pen. “Two s’s. I prepared the bodies of Rivka Mendelssohn and her infant daughter for burial. I believe both died of massive head wounds.”
It takes me a moment to start writing, and then I begin to scribble: m grossman prep R and inf d ‘massive h wounds’
“Sara, you said Rivka told you the girl had an asthma attack?”
“She did tell me that. Apparently she was not telling the truth.”
“Do you have any idea why she lied?”
“I suppose it’s possible she didn’t know for certain,” Sara says slowly. “Or she wanted to keep the details to herself.”
Or, I think, she was hiding something. Or in denial.
“Did anyone else see the bodies?” I ask Malka. “I’m just wondering if I can confirm…”
Without a word, Malka pulls two neat manila envelopes out of her bag and places them in front of me on the tiny round table. “These are copies of my notes.”
“Do the police have these?” I ask.
“No.”
“Have you ever been interviewed by the police?”
Malka shakes her head. “I thought my notes were going to the police when I handed them over.”
“Handed them over?”
“To Joel Yazbek. Of Borough Park Shomrim.”
“And he was supposed to give it to the police?”
Malka nods. “But I have since learned he did not.”
“Were you alone when you prepared their bodies?”
“In Rivka’s case, I had an assistant. But I will not allow her name to be used. Absolutely not. I made a decision to come forward. She did not and I must protect her.”
“Fine,” I say. “I won’t even ask her name. But if I need to check something later, can you put me in touch?”
Malka considers this. “I can. As long as she remains anonymous.”
That works. I unfold the top of one of the manila envelopes and finger through the contents. Paper and photos.
“So you prepared these yourself? What exactly is your… title?”
“My family owns the Mandel Memorial Funeral Home and my husband is the manager,” says Malka. “I am the bookkeeper and volunteer preparing bodies. You are Jewish?”
I nod. She’s about to tell me something I should “know”-but of course I don’t know.
“So you know. A woman must prepare a woman for burial. So she can rest with dignity.”
“Tell me about the little girl,” I say.
“Shoshanna was brought in by Shomrim. I was told she was dead when they arrived at the home. It’s all in the report.”
“What about Rivka. Did you give those notes to anyone?”
“I’m giving them to you,” says Malka. She pauses, then speaks again. “This is not a decision I came to lightly. I’m sure you find our way of life strange, perhaps even repellent. But there are many things you do not know. And many people who tell lies about the way we live. Most Haredi in Brooklyn are descended from Holocaust survivors. My mother’s entire family-six brothers and sisters, her parents and grandparents-were murdered by the Nazis in Poland. We know intimately how quickly our goyish neighbors can turn on us. We know that to survive we must rely on one another, we must support and protect our fellow Jews. We do not do this because we do not believe that sin should be punished. We do this because the strength of the community is vital to our survival. You look at us and you see black hats and wigs and you think we are to be pitied. You think you know better. But you do not see more than you see. You think the prohibition against men and women touching is misogynist. You don’t see the tenderness, or passion, with which a husband touches his wife after she is niddah. You think that clothing that exposes your flesh makes you free. But in my modest clothing I am free from the leering stares of men. I am free to be judged by my intellect and my actions, not my body.”
Malka pauses, then continues.
“Did you know that in Borough Park and Williamsburg and Crown Heights, Orthodox shopkeepers allow many of their customers to shop on credit?” asks Malka. “They fill their baskets with what they need and their purchases are simply logged in an account. It is called aufschraben. No Jew goes hungry in Brooklyn. No child goes without clothing or formula, because families like the Mendelssohns pay the grocery bills of those who are less financially fortunate. If the community were more integrated with those outside, such a system would not be possible.”
“I didn’t know that,” I say. “That’s really interesting.” Maybe, I think, I could write about that, once this is all done.
“It is important to me that you understand all this,” says Malka. “I do not wish to invite scrutiny by people who do not respect our way of life, but the secrets have to stop. The community can heal, but individual people, boys and girls, they cannot. They need protection. Someone murdered Rivka Mendelssohn and her daughter. That person did more damage to the strength of the community than a thousand newspaper articles.”