Monthly Archives: March 2016

Welcome to His Brother’s Keeper, a fictional mystery series set in 2000, in New York. I’ve decided to periodically lend my blog to a friend, Eva Hirschel. Eva doesn’t have a social media presence but she does have a mystery that she wanted to publish serially on-line, so I’m giving her a hand. (If you’re just tuning in now, use this Table of Contents to start at the beginning). Here is Part II, Chapter 6. Enjoy!

Chapter Six

He talked and talked and talked. For a man who had been described as quiet and private, he had a lot to say. Outside, the rain continued to pour, unabated. Planes sat motionless on the runway. A peculiar silence, undisturbed by announcements and takeoffs. enveloped the terminal. My attention was so riveted by what I was hearing that I didn’t have time to worry about Hannah or feel guilty that I wasn’t home, and mercifully, Simon didn’t call. It was as if time was just stopped, like we were suspended in an infinite moment out of time. I was sure that if I looked at one of the large clocks over the bar, the hands wouldn’t be moving.

“Yankeleh is dead. If there is one thing I know for sure in this world, it is that Yankeleh is dead. I don’t know who this other man is, but Yankeleh is dead. You have to try to understand what it was like,” he began, still looking down at his hands. No longer weeping, a sense of calm had descended upon him, the kind of peace that comes with acceptance. “It was a time of total chaos, all normal rules of civilization were gone. You did what you had to do to survive. And try to understand my anger and confusion. I was about to be thirteen. It should have been my bar mitzvah, the biggest event in my life so far. Even though life for Jews had been getting worse and worse for some time, I had been sheltered from most of it. I was a little prince, the heir apparent, the future Halizcher rebbe. I was pampered, protected, praised for my scholarship. I was the rebbe’s brilliant grandson, the center of the universe, or so I thought.

“Somehow I was sure that God would save us, that the God who had saved Abraham and Isaac and Jacob would step in and make everything okay. How could it be otherwise? I was so selfish, so blind. It barely mattered to me that thousands, that millions of Jews had already died. They weren’t Halizchers—they didn’t have my grandfather’s special connection to God. I was sure we would be spared.

“You see, I was completely naive. Suddenly my world fell apart. We were rounded up and transported. Earlier, my grandfather had had a chance to save all of us, not just the family but the whole community, if only he had permitted himself to see what was going on. He had connections, he knew people, we could have all gotten out. But what did he do–he trusted his God! He condemned everyone I knew to death. He condemned me to death, me, his beloved! And my father, my father the weakling who could never stand up to my grandfather or my mother. And my mother, who thought her father actually was God. And my brother Yankeleh, and my grandmother, and my aunts Chayale and Sura. He could have saved me, he could have saved all of us, but he chose not to!

“And then they came to my grandfather, his Chasidim, with all the money and jewelry they could collect. Most of them weren’t rich people, but they gave him everything they had. Understand, not so they could save themselves, it was already too late for that because they had made the fatal mistake of listening to their rebbe. But so that they could save my grandfather, and so that they could save me. So they could buy our freedom, and have a future through me. And in the end, he could have saved me even without money. My uncle came to see him. I didn’t remember ever meeting my uncle before because they left for Palestine when I was young. But he got back into Poland and he came to save us. He had a plan. Would it have worked? Who knows? But attempting it would have been better than doing nothing. And in the end he did save many Jews, even some of the other rebbes. Turns out my uncle the Zionist, who did the unforgivable sin of taking my aunt away from my grandfather, turning her into a Zionist and taking her to the land of Israel, turns out he had a soft spot for Chasids after all. But my grandfather had no soft spot for him. No, he only had trust in his God, his God who allowed everyone I knew to die. Matters of life and death were not for us mere mortals to decide. It was all up to God.   My grandfather used to tell a story about a rebbe passing through a town in a train. As he passed through, his Chasidim who lived in the town came to see him. One was clearly distraught, and so the rebbe asked him what was wrong. He told his rebbe that his factory had burned down and his home had been destroyed and he had nothing left. What did the rebbe do? He comforted the man and told him that at least he still had his faith, and that was more important than any material assets. The rebbe told this man not to worry, that as long as he had his faith all his material goods would soon be restored to him, and miraculously, it was just as the rebbe had predicted. This is how I grew up, believing that faith would solve everything, but by this time I had already learned that isn’t so, that the story in reality had a very different ending. In my version, not only did the poor man lose every possession he had in the world, but he and his family were taken away to Treblinka and died. All his faith meant nothing.

“I turned thirteen in Treblinka. I didn’t read Torah that day, and never have since. There were those inside who knew who I was, who tried to help me, some because they revered who I was, and some maybe because they thought I had the money hidden away. There were old men who tried to befriend me and give me the glory I once thought was my birthright. Old men my grandfather’s age came to me for blessings, for advice, for wisdom. But I was a child, for God’s sake, a child! I didn’t want to be their leader, I only wanted to be safe. I knew my father was dead—he didn’t survive the trip to Treblinka. My mother and grandmother died before we’d even arrived. I saw my grandfather die in front of me. I didn’t know what had happened to my aunts but I had no hope I would ever see them again. And I could see that my brother was dying. I was the younger brother, but he was always the smaller one, the weaker one. I did everything I could to help him. Any extra food or clothes that came my way from the Chasidim, I gave to Yankeleh. I slept with my arms around him for warmth. I did my best to make him not look so sick. At roll call I secretly pinched his cheeks to make them look pink. But I knew he wasn’t going to live. So I made a choice. It was simple, really. I decided to survive, just for spite. To see what the world was like after God. I wasn’t going to be the rebbe, I wasn’t going to be a Halizcher, I wasn’t even going to be a Chasid. But I would prove to my grandfather that life would go on despite God and despite the Halizchers. To prove that I could be anyone and anything I wanted to be. So when my brother collapsed one day, he was just a skeleton by then, and was beaten almost to death by a guard, I knew the end was near. There was nothing I could do to save him, and no miracle was going to happen.”

He paused in his telling, taking a deep breath, and then plunged ahead. “You see, I loved Yankeleh with all my soul. We were very different, yes, but we were like twins, two sides of the same person. He was brilliant, but it was a quiet brilliance. He wasn’t a showoff, a showman like I was. It wasn’t the kind of brilliance that drew people to him, but he was so good, so kind, so gentle. Ever since we were little I was the one protecting him, watching over him. He was otherworldly, naïve, acquiescent. When someone disagreed with a point he made in cheder, he would back down immediately, and agree that he had been wrong. His humility went unnoticed, and people simply thought he wasn’t a good student. But many of my “brilliant” insights came from him. That was my deep, dark secret as a child. Many of my Talmudic gems were Yankeleh’s. I was just a more convincing speaker. And he didn’t seem to mind. He was too busy studying the next page.

“But then during the time in the ghetto he began to change. He had become even more removed, distant, withdrawn. My parents and grandfather worried about him, worried that he was getting himself into trouble with people he shouldn’t be associating with, worried that he wasn’t studying enough. We were sure it was for a good reason, we never doubted his intentions, he must have felt some good would come out of it, but we were scared for him. He seemed so vulnerable. I worried that he wouldn’t know how to take care of himself if he got into trouble–he was always so pure in a way, so removed from the hard realities. My grandfather made me promise that no matter what happened, I would take care of him, that I would keep him safe and out of trouble. Yankeleh was my responsibility. Even though I was younger, he told me that I was smarter and stronger, and that Yankeleh needed my protection. So there, in the camp, my job was to save Yankeleh, and I couldn’t do it. Some of the Halizchers in the camp tried to help me. But some were just glad it wasn’t me dying. Can you imagine how I felt?

“So, finally, one day we are told we are going out of the camp. The guards joke that we are going on a vacation. Hah. They march us along a road, with ill-fitting wooden clogs on our decaying feet, miles, miles, in the cold, I cannot describe that march. And the whole time I am almost carrying Yankeleh. So many times he stumbles and falls. He is running a high fever. He tells me to let him go, that he is already dead. But I won’t. The person on his other side also takes an arm, and somehow, somehow, we get there, and he is still breathing. They give us shovels and tell us to dig. Anyone who can’t dig will be shot, and they provide examples. We dig and we dig, and of course, we know these are our graves. All around me I hear Jews praying under their breath, asking for help and salvation, reciting the shema and making their last confessions. Fools, I think to myself. But then I too am filled with thoughts of my parents, my grandfather, my aunts. I dig and I dig, for both of us, because Yankeleh is too weak. But I prop the shovel in his hand so that it looks like he is working and soon enough it doesn’t matter because we are in the hole and the guards can’t see. They’re busy joking and laughing and smoking. And Yankeleh’s breath is labored, slow, and I know he’s slipping away. I am getting not scared, not sad, there’s no room for that, but very very angry. How dare anyone do this to my brother. How dare my grandfather not have saved both of us? But I also know in my heart of hearts that he had never even considered saving Yankeleh. All the whispered conversations had only been about saving me. And I knew that I would not have left Poland without Yankeleh, not while he was still alive. And so as I know that Yankeleh is about to die, I also know that I am about to have a chance to take my fate into my own hands and change it.

“The guards come and decide that we have dug enough. Quite a few people have died during the digging, but what do they care? They line us up in front of the pits, and I know right away what is going to happen. Among the swaying and the praying, I hear shots, and quickly, quickly, right away, before the bullets come my way, I fall. I fall right onto Yankeleh. And I realize I have to do exactly as he is doing. He has stopped breathing, and so must I. And I do. Don’t ask me how. I don’t know. I don’t believe in miracles, but there it is. I stopped breathing, only I’m not dead. I can’t describe what it was like lying there, on top of Yankeleh, entangled in a multitude of other corpses. But mostly there was anger. They walked over us, making sure we were all dead. And I did just like Yankeleh, I didn’t breath or move or make a sound. They brought other prisoners afterwards to cover us with dirt, but it had started to snow and the guards were cold, so they called it off before we were covered with more than a thin layer of dirt. As the last lorry left, I took a deep breath. I closed Yankeleh’s eyes, and I kissed his face. And then I noticed he had something in his hand. My grandfather’s kiddush cup. I don’t know how he’s managed to conceal it all that time, and where. But he must have brought it with him, concealed in his clothes, because he knew he wouldn’t make it and he wanted me to have it. I know it sounds impossible but it’s true, somehow he managed. And it was like a message from him telling me to escape. So I took the cup, got up out of the pit, and ran into the forest.”

He paused to take a deep breath and wipe his forehead with a handkerchief. There were so many questions I wanted to ask, so many things I still didn’t understand, but I didn’t want to interrupt. I waited patiently, and after a few moments, he continued.

“Both of us died there in that pit. I couldn’t live as myself anymore, so I became Yankeleh. Leib was gone, that arrogant little boy who thought he was going to be the next king of the Jews, or at least the Halizchers, gone. But Yankeleh could live on in me, his humility, his goodness, his gentleness. I became Yankeleh. If I’d really been smart, I would have changed my name entirely, I would have thrown away Gelberman and become, I don’t know, Smith. But I couldn’t think that far ahead. So I became Yankeleh, and I survived. I lived alone in the forest, foraging for roots and berries. I was starving, and cold, but it was no worse than in the camp, and I was free. I was found by a farmer’s widow, who for some reason didn’t turn me in, with my fair hair and blue eyes maybe she could pretend to herself that I wasn’t a Jew, and she hid me for some time. During the day I hid curled up in a hollowed out space under the hay. I stunk but who cared? And at night I would help her with repairs, things she couldn’t do herself. I think she liked having a “man” around. She didn’t seem to notice that I was so young, and whatever she wanted me to do, I learned quickly. She fed me fairly well, so all in all I was lucky. But then she got scared and I had to leave. Eventually I came across a group of young Jewish partisans and they took me in. They had all grown up in secular homes, so my name meant nothing to them. By then the allied troops were already on their way. I went from there to a D.P. camp in Italy.

“In the D.P. camp I came across some of the surviving Halizchers. But no one recognized me. I had grown, my body acting in defiance of the reality of those years, just as my soul had done. And through my contact with the Americans and the Red Cross volunteers, I met a soldier named Jack. He had the healthy, bright red cheeks of someone who had grown up well-fed, and this cheery optimism despite what he’d seen. To me he embodied America. The name Jack sounded strong, solid, new world, brash. And of course it was short for Jacob, or Yaakov, Yankeleh’s real name. So Yankeleh quickly became Jack. It was easy. And none of the Halizchers realized who I was. It was terrible for me to see them. Most had died, and those who hadn’t were broken. Everyone had lost so much. Yet they still believed in miracles, in their God. They still had faith, and they still wanted a rebbe. I made sure to stay far away from them, but I heard from others that both the Gelberman brothers had died in a pit outside Treblinka. Good, I thought. Good. That world is dead, and Yankeleh is dead, and Leib is dead. I am Jack, and Jack is going to America.

“I learned English there in the camp, while I waited for papers to go to America. I volunteered with the various agencies there, translating and trying to be of help. One day, I heard two Americans talking about a woman in the infirmary section of the camp, how no one knew what to do with her or how to help her, and that they didn’t know where to send her. She had no home to go back to, no relatives they could find, and that since she was clearly mentally ill, America wouldn’t take her. Israel, of course, wasn’t yet taking in refugees legally, because this was before 1948. They spoke about how this woman, who they could tell had been young and beautiful but was now an empty shell, had been kept as a mistress by a prominent Nazi, and had undergone unspeakable horrors. Apparently one of the Jewish doctors had surmised that she might have come from a Chasidic family, because while she wouldn’t speak, she sang Chasidic niggunim. At that point I interrupted their conversation, and volunteered to go speak to the woman. I knew that I was risking something by associating myself with Chasidut, since I had worked so hard to keep away from any connection, but her story sounded so utterly sad, and I felt compelled to help, if I could. So one of the American nurses took me to see this woman.

“I walked into the makeshift infirmary, and they brought me over to her. I realized right away it—it was Chayale. You can’t know, you can’t imagine. My joy at finding a family member alive, my horror at what had happened to her. She had been like Yankeleh in so many ways, so delicate, unprepared for hardship and suffering. I wanted to grab her and take her away, but I couldn’t. I had no way to help her, other than to be with her, to spend time with her. She recognized me, and we embraced, but she never spoke. She only sang, over and over, the songs from her childhood. She was my aunt, but she was only four years older than I was. Now, after the war, she was much older than I would ever be, and much younger than I can ever remember being. She was a child in an old woman’s shattered body. But I couldn’t leave her. Every day I went, I talked to her, I sang with her. Every day I cried. I hadn’t cried over all the deaths, but over Chayale I cried every day. Then one day I got word that I could be sponsored to go the United States. I didn’t want to go to New York, or to some big city where I might encounter Chasidim and be recognized. But this was perfect. They wanted to send me to some godforsaken part of the country, to western Pennsylvania. I didn’t know where it was, but it didn’t matter, it wasn’t New York or LA or Chicago. But I couldn’t take Chayale. I didn’t have the resources, and they wouldn’t let her in as a refugee. So again, I chose myself over someone I loved, and I went, promising to find a way to bring her.

“After 1948, she was sent to Israel. They tried to rehabilitate her there, but nothing worked. She was institutionalized. Finally I had enough money, and I brought her here. At first my wife and I tried to keep her in our house, but that didn’t work. She needed too much care. We tried a facility in Pittsburgh, but that didn’t work either. She needed round the clock care in a facility where she could hear Yiddish and eat kosher food. We sent her to Jewish Memorial Home in the Bronx. We were able to convince them to take her even though she was really too young at the time. She’s been there so long that now she is at last an old woman. It’s hard because I can’t go often, especially now that I’m here. But she is happy there. Or she was, until recently. And I’m afraid that this is where you come in.”

I was beginning to feel exhausted from his story, emotionally and physically. But there were clearly many more pieces. How did the kiddush cup figure in? Jack Gelberman sat still for a few moments, gazing over my head at the storm outside. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, exhaled, and continued his story.

[To be continued…]

His Brother’s Keeper is entirely fictional. None of the characters or situations described in this series are based on real people or events. Copyright (c) 2015 by Eva Hirschel.

Welcome to His Brother’s Keeper, a fictional mystery series set in 2000, in New York. I’ve decided to periodically lend my blog to a friend, Eva Hirschel. Eva doesn’t have a social media presence but she does have a mystery that she wanted to publish serially on-line, so I’m giving her a hand. (If you’re just tuning in now, I suggest that you start at the beginning). Here is Part II, Chapter 5. Enjoy!

Chapter Five

There was another call from Simon on the hotel voice mail, telling me that Hannah was miserable, itchy, and whiny, but not to worry. I called back, and Simon assured me that everything was under control, but I could hear Hannah whimpering in the background. As soon as we hung up, I called the airline, then threw everything back into my bag, grabbed my laptop, my duffel and my purse, and left the room. The hotel clerk was ready to argue about the bill, but I managed to convince him that I was prepared to pay the full price, despite only having occupied it for several hours.

Driving to the airport, I noticed that it looked like more rain was coming. Wasn’t that what a hurricane was, I asked myself, a lot of rain and roofs getting blown off of trailer homes? As long as I got to the airport quickly and could change my ticket, everything would be fine.

After returning the rental car and getting over to the main terminal, I took a look around. My self-appointed guardian was nowhere to be seen. In any of the work I had done so far, nothing had ever gotten quite this strange. I couldn’t decide if I was more scared or flattered that someone was looking out for me. That is, if he was for real. As I stood on line at the airport waiting to confirm the availability of a seat on the next flight, my fingers reflexively formed a protective shield around the torn newspaper article in my pocket

The overly cheerful airline representative got me a seat on a to for LaGuardia that was supposed to leave in forty-five minutes, and I raced through security and on to the gate. Still no sign of Eli Yankovski. He must have either abandoned me entirely, or else he was a better chameleon than I had thought possible. Intent on acting as if everything was normal, despite the fact that my baby was home with chicken pox, my husband was panicking, and there was a large man following me, I pulled out my paperback mystery and immersed myself in Rina Lazarus and Peter Decker’s latest case.

I was deeply into my book when I heard my flight number being called. I stood up and grabbed my bag before I realized that no one else was getting up. In fact, they were all groaning. Dragging my bag behind me, I shuffled over to the counter, where a dour airline employee with badly dyed hair informed me that due to hurricane warnings, the airport was temporarily closed, all incoming flights were being diverted, and there would be no outgoing flights for some time.

“Make yourself comfortable until we know more,” she barked.

Comfortable! Comfort and airports were two words that had nothing in common. At home I’d be comfortable. In my hotel room I’d be comfortable. Waiting at the airport indefinitely, I wasn’t going to be comfortable. I didn’t want to make myself comfortable, I wanted to get home. Damn this hurricane! Several deep breaths later, I called Simon to let him know that I was trying my best to get there, though I now didn’t know when I’d be landing. Then I called Jack Gelberman.

The answering machine picked up after four rings. What a surprise. “This is 813-867-3229. Please leave a message.” Short and to the point.

I decided it would be a wise decision to play it polite and calm, instead of letting him know how annoyed I was. “Hi, this is Abby Marcus. I’m on my way back to New York, but I’d really like to finish our conversation.” Even though I’d given him my business card, I repeated my cell number, and hung up. This job was going nowhere fast. Here I was, stuck in the airport because of a hurricane, leaving with no more information than when I’d come, nowhere closer to finding Sarah Gelberman, having been followed by either a lunatic or my fairy godfather. Not to mention having to pay the hotel bills at two hotels, neither of which I had had the pleasure of sleeping in.

A television nearby informed me that the Yankees were winning, making it look like the subway series was going to be a sure thing. Simon must be elated, that is, if he had taken time out from the chicken pox crisis to watch the game. I spent the next twenty minutes shifting uncomfortably in my seat and trying to re-focus on my novel. Then the international news came on. I had been so involved all day in the Gelbermans that I hadn’t heard the latest about Israel. The news wasn’t good, fighting was still going on and the situation was looking bleak indeed.   After the international news, I decided to put my time to better use. My Frequent Flyer Club Card got me into the Aviator’s Club, with its free pretzels, sodas, and free wifi. Within minutes I was nestled into a corner workstation, surrounded on two sides by the jutting glass panes of the exterior walls and an unobstructed view of an eerily empty runway. Their coffee machine didn’t work, which almost caused me to completely lose my cool, but getting the better of myself, decided that caffeine in any form would do. A Diet Coke with lemon was now next to me, my laptop was plugged in and ready to go, and a bowl of pretzels was to the left of the computer. My notebook and pen occupied an empty seat, along with my purse. I was settled in for the duration.

A search on Leon Gelberman yielded the same Los Angeles phone number I had already called, which wasn’t surprising. I wrote down the number, but wasn’t yet ready to call. In a rush to gather as much information as possible, I didn’t allow myself to think about what it might mean if both Leib and Yankeleh were in fact alive, despite the plentiful stories of their deaths. It was too weird to be believable. Then on to Pinchas Seigel. There was no listing for a Pinchas Seigel in Los Angeles, also not surprising. He could be living with someone, or he might have another name. A search of the Los Angeles Times archives was unhelpful, and the website of the archives of the local Jewish newspapers was so poorly designed that it was impossible to get any actual information. Another search turned up a telephone number without an address for an Eliyahu Yankovski in Brooklyn, but no Eli Yankovski. I called the number for Eliyahu but it went unanswered. For now, it looked like I had hit a dead end.

I got up, stretched, and checked the departure screen. Nothing had changed since the last time I had checked. All incoming flights were delayed, and there was no new information. Outside, rain was coming down in great gusts, the palm trees swirling back and forth in the wind. This would have been a great night to curl up in bed with my novel and fall asleep with the lights on. Wary not to let myself get too sleepy, I exchanged my empty cup of Diet Coke for a new one, and settled back down at the computer. Itching for another task to keep me busy, I accessed my e-mail, and found several messages waiting. My mother had already written back—she and my father were still having a fabulous time eating, drinking and sightseeing their way across Europe. She reported that yes, I was right in remembering that I did have some Chasidic roots, yes, my father’s father had left Chasidism behind when he came to America in 1912, but no, she and my father had discussed it and were quite sure that his family didn’t come from Halizch. Leah had sent me the draft of her sermon for Friday night as promised, which I downloaded to read later, as I didn’t have patience right now for a sermon.

Then it was time to call Leon Gelberman.

“Yes,” a man answered when I asked to speak to Leon Gelberman. “Speaking.” I recognized the slightly accented voice of an older man from our previous conversation.

“Mr. Gelberman, hello, my name is Abby Marcus. I called you a few days ago, doing genealogical research. I want to make sure I understood you correctly. When I called, you told me you weren’t connected to the Gelberman family I was looking for. But having just read an article in the Los Angeles Times about your concern over a kiddush cup, I have to wonder what your connection really is to the Gelberman family of Halizch, Poland, and in particular to the Halizcher rebbe, Yosef Yehuda. Can you clarify this for me? Are you Leib Gelberman?

There was the sound of a throat being cleared, and muffled noises in the background.

“Yes, I am Leib. Yes.”

“The brother of Yankeleh?” I asked gently, knowing I was in danger of pushing too far.

“Yes, he was my brother.”

And before I could continue to ask questions, the line was disconnected.

I immediately called back.

“What do you want?” asked a brusque male voice. This voice was younger and smoother, with no trace of an accent.

“Leon Gelberman, please.”

“Yeah.”

“Mr. Gelberman?” I asked.

There was a moment of tense silence as I waited for a response.

“I’m Leon Gelberman. What do you want?”

There was no way this was the same man I had just spoken to, but two could play at the false identity game. “Mr. Gelberman, I’m Abby Simon, a reporter for the Jewish News in New York. We’re writing a piece on your conflict with the Skirball Museum. Would you mind clarifying a few points for us?”

His response was quick, almost too quick, conveying a sense that he was glad to get publicity, whether good or bad. “Sure, go ahead.”

“You are purported to have said that you are related to the last Halizcher Rebbe—”

“The late Rebbe Yosef Yehuda, zikaron l’vracha. Not the last, baruch hashem. Not the last.”

“I see. And how exactly are you related?” I asked, taking note of his repetition of the words “not the last.”

“I am his grandson, Leib Gelberman, son of Nossen Shlomo, zikaron l’vracha. I am all that is left.”

“I’m so sorry. How awful.”

“Awful is not the word.”

“No, of course not. I’m sorry. But can you tell me how you managed to survive?”

“They are many and they have evil on their side, but we have brains. Don’t you know that’s how Jews have always survived? Philistines, Edomites, Moabites, Romans, Greeks, Cossacks, Nazis, Hamas, whatever name they use, we have always survived. Are you Jewish Mizz Simon?” he asked, drawing out the Ms. as though it was painful to say, and continued on without waiting for an answer, his voice getting louder and more high-pitched. “Don’t you know that no matter what, we have always been able to outwit them? How else do we survive other than using our brains, our smarts, our yiddishe kups. Every day we place another foot in front of the other, it’s a victory, we’re spitting in their faces, pissing on their graves. Who’s alive and who’s dead, huh, Mizz Simon? We’re alive here, and Hitler is dead over there. And someday the world will know that that’s it, the Jews have had enough. But not yet, not yet, we’re not there yet, too many Jews are still trying to be like the goyim, still trying to make nice to the goyim so what, so they won’t kill us, won’t knife us in the back, won’t steal our possessions? But someday, tell this to your newspaper, someday we will rise up again, a strong, united people. We will give those dogs what they deserve. We will march with the Messiah into Jerusalem. We are the chosen people, and we must never forget that. That is my prophecy.”

I had never encountered a real life prophet before. This man was clearly disturbed, but passionate, and it was the passion that worried me. “How did you receive this prophecy?” I asked.

“How does one receive any prophecy? It came to me from God. But there are things I am not yet ready to discuss. Thank you for your time.” And with that, the phone went dead.

Anxiously chewing a piece of ice, I made notes of the conversation as I tried to make sense of it. The man I had spoken to the second time was definitely not Leon Gelberman, but who was this guy, and how dangerous was he? He sounded too fanatical to be taken seriously, but then so did Meir Kahana. Whoever he was, why was he pretending to be Leon Gelberman? I needed to get some background on Pinchas Seigel as fast as possible.

In the meantime, there was new e-mail in my in-box.

Meira was checking in, letting me know that she hadn’t yet uncovered anything definitive on the death or emigration of Ruchel Gelberman or her son, Leib. I almost spit out my Coke as I read that name in her e-mail.   Leib. Could there have been two Leib Gelbermans? Of course it was possible that two sisters had both named their sons after their mutual grandfather, especially since he had been an illustrious rabbi. It made perfect sense that there would be two cousins with the same name. But could it be the same boy? Could he have been smuggled out of Europe after all, maybe by his uncle, and raised as their son in Palestine? It had to be one of these Leib Gelbermans who was currently causing problems in Los Angeles. And then it hit me—of course! It had been right under my nose a few hours ago, but I’d been too focused elsewhere. I pulled the crumpled article out of my pocket, and yes, sure enough, the conflict with Pinchas Seigel in Los Angeles was over a kiddush cup. That couldn’t be a coincidence. After my perusal of the Halizcher Yizkor Book, I couldn’t help but admit that there was a connection that revolved around an obsession with a kiddush cup.

Before I could let my thoughts wander further, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around slowly, ready to scream if it was Eli Yankovski. But instead, I stared, speechless, at Jack Gelberman.

“I know, I know,” he began, speaking quickly. “I wasn’t very nice to you. But I had my reasons. Then, about an hour ago, someone slipped this under my apartment door.”

He handed me an envelope and I took it from him slowly, with hesitation.

“What is this?”

“Look at it. You’re the detective. At first I thought it was junk mail, or someone trying to harass me. That has happened from time to time. But when I saw what it was I thought I should come find you.”

A detective I wasn’t. If I had been a detective, I would have put on gloves and dropped it into a sterile ziplock bag. Instead, I turned it over. The envelope was addressed to Jack Gelberman, but there were no stamps. Inside was a newspaper article with a yellow post-it covering most of the text. The post-it contained my name, and the number and time of my flight, as well as the information that my flight was delayed and where I could be found. So much for thinking that I was no longer being followed. I tore off the post-it, and read the headline.

Mystery Surrounds Woman Found Near Gowanus Canal

An unidentified woman was found two days ago near the Carroll Street Bridge of the Gowanus Canal. A police car responding to a burglary came across the woman, who was dazed and appeared to have suffered minor injuries. The woman, who police estimate to be in her early twenties, was brought to Long Island College Hospital, where she was admitted and was being kept under observation. At approximately three o’clock yesterday afternoon she disappeared from the hospital. During her stay, the woman refused to speak to the police or any medical personnel. According to the police description, the woman is white, five feet five inches tall, weighs about 130 pounds, and has shoulder-length red hair. No identification was found on or near the woman, who police think may be a tourist. The woman was well-kept when discovered by the police and did not appear to be homeless. The police are asking the public to come forth with any information regarding the woman’s identity, or the identity of her assailants. The police are also looking for information regarding her current whereabouts, as she is in need of medical attention.

I looked up at Jack Gelberman, unsure what to say. There was not a doubt in my mind that this unidentified woman was Sarah Gelberman, and that it was probably my fault she was in trouble. In fact, given where she was found, she might have even been on her way to see me when she got attacked. The room swam and I swayed with it, my hand over my mouth, afraid that at any minute I was going to lose the contents of my stomach.

Jack Gelberman put a steady hand on my shoulder. He met my gaze, his blue eyes bright with fear but strangely also a sense of calm, of having long ago made peace with darkness and pain. Without a word, with only his eyes, he offered me support, strength and solace, a willingness to absorb some portion of my fear and suffering into himself. I felt my stomach loosen and relax, and the room stopped spinning. I took a deep breath that filled me to the soles of my feet, and exhaled. Then he sighed, let go of my shoulder, and looked out the window.

Suddenly the words and thoughts inside my head were chasing each other in their hurry to come out and I couldn’t stop myself from blurting out, “And there’s more—I think I found Leib.”

Now it was his turn to be surprised. His face registered terrible shock, becoming first tense and rigid, then completely slack, and ending in puzzlement. “What?”

“Leib, Leib Gelberman. Your brother, or maybe your cousin. Ok, I don’t really know yet who he is, but I know he’s part of this. You have to help me, we have to work together. This might not be your granddaughter, but you do know something about her. You know as well as I do that this is the young woman who came to me claiming to be Sarah Gelberman, otherwise you wouldn’t have come here. Someone has done something to hurt her, I don’t know why, and we need to stop this before things get worse.” I thrust the article from Eli Yankovski into his hand. “Read this.”

But he continued to stare out the window behind me, not looking at the piece of newspaper in his hand.   He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if wanting to be extra sure that he was getting it right. “Yes, I’m sure she is your mysterious visitor. Yes, that’s why I decided to come here and find you. Yes, we have to work together. But you can’t have found Leib. It’s impossible.”

“I know, I know, everyone says that he died, and no offense but everyone says that you died too, and here you are. I don’t really understand it all, but I’m sure that this Leon Gelberman is Leib. Or at least a Leib. It has to be.”

Again, Jack Gelberman sighed. “Sometimes people see what they want to see, or sometimes they even re-write history so that they can live with it better. Things aren’t always what they seem. Whoever this man is, he’s not Leib. Of that I’m sure.”

Even through the lenses of his glasses his eyes were more sorrowful than I’d ever known eyes could be, bluer than the bluest sky and as deep as an ocean, so deep that I was afraid to look at him for fear that I would be completely swallowed up, yet unable to look away. It was as if he had somehow magically locked my eyes onto his.   “You’ve figured out so much already,” he continued in a voice that was eerily calm, “I’m surprised that you haven’t figured this out yet. You seem to know all the legends about the Halizchers, but this you seem not to have noticed.”

Suddenly it was like a door had blown open and fresh air swept in to the room, and I understood. Yankeleh Gelberman didn’t have blue eyes. In fact, those blue eyes were such an important point in everything I’d read about the Gelbermans that I’d almost begun to think that the sole reason Leib was seen as the natural heir to the Halizcher dynasty instead of his older brother Yankeleh was because he, and only he, had his grandfather’s unique blue eyes.   But now I understood. Not only was Sarah Gelberman not the Sarah Gelberman who was the granddaughter of Jack Gelberman, but the man across from me wasn’t who he claimed to be. “Oh my God. You may be Jack Gelberman,” I said to the man across from me, “But you’re not Yankeleh. It was Leib who had the blue eyes. You’re not Yankeleh, you’re Leib.”

And the man across from me shifted his gaze downward, lowered his head, and began to weep.

[To be continued…]

His Brother’s Keeper is entirely fictional. None of the characters or situations described in this series are based on real people or events. Copyright (c) 2015 by Eva Hirschel.