The Killing Kind

To avoid the rush hour traffic I took the subway from Central Park West as far as Broadway and East Houston, which left me sweating again, then strolled along Houston, past Katz's Deli and storefront operations selling garbage masquerading as antiques, until I came to Norfolk Street. This was the heart of the Lower East Side, a place that had once been full of scholars and yeshivas, of anti-Hasidic Lithuanians and the rest of the first wave of Russian Jews, who were regarded by the already settled German Jews as backward Orientals. It was said that Allen Street used to belong to Russia, there were so many Russian Jews there. People from the same town formed associations, became tradespeople, saved so their kids could go to college and better themselves. They shared their neighborhoods uneasily with the Irish, and fought with them on the streets.

Now those times were largely gone. There was still a workers' co-op on Grand Street, a few Jewish bookstores and skullcap manufacturers between Hester and Division, one or two good bakeries, of course, and Katz's, the last of the old-style delis, now staffed almost entirely by Dominicans, but most of the Orthodox Jewish community had moved to Borough Park and Williamsburg, or to Crown Heights. The ones who were left were mainly too poor or too stubborn to retreat to the suburbs or Miami.

The Orensanz Center, the oldest surviving synagogue in New York, once known as the Anshe Chesed, the People of Kindness, seemed to belong to another, distant time. Built by the Berlin architect Alexander Saltzer in 1850 for the German Jewish congregation, and modeled on the cathedral of Cologne, it dominated Norfolk Street, a reminder of the past still extant in the present. I entered through a side door, walked along a dark entrance lobby, and found myself in the main, neo-Gothic hall among elegant pillars and balconies. Dim light filtered in through the windows, turning the interior to the color of old bronze and casting shadows over flowers and white ribbons, the remnants of a wedding held some days earlier. In one corner, a small man with white hair, dressed in blue overalls, was sweeping paper and broken glass into a corner. He stopped his work as I walked over to him. I produced my ID and asked if there was anybody who might be willing to talk about Yossi Epstein.

“Nobody here today,” he said. “Come back tomorrow.” He resumed his sweeping.

“Maybe there's somebody I can call?” I persisted.

“Call tomorrow.”

I wasn't getting very far on looks and good ma

The old guy with the broom had disappeared. Instead, there were two men waiting for me. One was young, with a red skullcap that looked too small for his head and a head that looked too small for his shoulders. He wore a dark shirt and black jeans and, judging by his expression, wasn't one of the people of kindness. The man beside him was older, with thi

“Are you the rabbi?” I asked him.

“No, we are not co

“Does that make me anti-Semitic?”

“No, but carrying a gun into a synagogue might.”

“It's nothing personal, or even religious.”

The older man nodded. “I'm sure it's not, but it pays to be careful-with such matters. I understand you are a private detective. May I see some form of identification, please?”

I raised my hand and slowly reached into my inside pocket for my wallet. I gave it to the young guy, who handed it in turn to the older man. He examined it for a good minute, then folded it and handed it back to me.

“And why is a private detective from Maine asking about the death of a New York rabbi?”

“I think Rabbi Epstein's death may be co

“He's dead, Mr. Parker. What more do you need to know?”

“Who killed him would be a start, or doesn't that concern you?”

“It concerns me a great deal, Mr. Parker.” He turned to the younger man, nodded, and we watched as he walked from the hall, closing the door softly behind him. “What is this case you are investigating?”

“The death of a young woman. She was a friend of mine, once.”

“Then investigate her death and leave us to do our own work.”

“If her death is co

“The man,” he repeated, emphasizing the second word. “You seem very certain that it was a man.”

“I know who he is,” I said simply.

“Then we both know,” he replied. “The matter is in hand. Steps have been taken to deal with it.”

“What steps?”

“An eye for an eye, Mr. Parker. He will be found.” He drew closer to me, and his eyes softened slightly. “This is not your concern. Not every unlawful death is fuel for your anger.”

He knew who I was. I could see it in his face, my past reflected back upon me in the mirrors of his eyes. There had been so much newspaper coverage of the deaths of Susan and Je

“The woman is my concern,” I said. “If the rabbi's death is co

He shook his head and gripped my shoulder lightly.

“Do you know what tashlikh is, Mr. Parker? It is a symbolic act, the casting of bread crumbs onto the water, symbolizing the sins of the past, a burden with which one no longer chooses to live. I think you must find it in yourself to lay aside your burdens before they kill you.”

He began to walk away, and was almost at the door when I spoke.

“ ‘This was said by my father, and I am the atonement for where he rests.’ ”

The old man stopped and stared back to me.

“It's from the Talmud,” I said.

“I know what it is,” he almost whispered.

“This isn't about revenge.”

“Then what is it about?”

“Reparation.”

“For your father's sins, or your own?”

“Both.”

He seemed to lose himself in thought for a few moments, and when the light returned to his eyes a decision had been made.

“There is a legend told of the Golem, Mr. Parker,” he began, “an artificial man made of clay. The Rabbi Loew created the first Golem, in Prague, in fifty-three forty. The rabbi formed him from mud and placed the shem, the parchment bearing the name of God, in his mouth. The rabbi is justified in legend for creating a creature capable of defending Jews against the pogroms, against the wrath of their enemies. Do you believe that such a creature can exist, that justice can be served by its creation?”

“I believe that men like him can exist,” I replied. “But I don't think justice always plays a part in their creation, or is served by their actions.”

“Yes, perhaps a man,” said the old Jew softly. “And perhaps justice, if it is divinely inspired. We have dispatched our Golem. Let the will of God be done.” In his eyes I could see the ambivalence of his response to what had been set in train; they had sent one killer to track another, unleashing violence against violence, with all of the risks that such an act entailed.