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Authors: Rochelle Krich

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Chapter 5

There were two things Hadassah hadn’t anticipated: how much she would miss her family, and how much the lies would trouble her.

The secret had been enough, at first, to block out both concerns. From her waking moment on Sunday, the secret had enveloped her, had filled her consciousness, had made it difficult for her to think of anything else as her fingers flew across the keyboard, knowing that his fingers were on a keyboard just miles away, typing words that made her heart sing while she dressed and packed her bag and woke the boys and said good-bye to her mother.

See you tonight, sweetie.

Hadassah had worried, because how was it possible that no one would detect the excitement that surged through her like electricity? She must look different. She
felt
different. But Laban, she remembered learning in class, had seen Rachel and Leah every day and had detected no sign that his daughters were about to steal away with his son-in-law, Jacob, and their families and possessions.

And anyway, Aliza had been drunk with sleep and dashed hopes, and her mother had been oblivious. “Did the boys brush their teeth?” she’d asked.

Later that night, and early the next morning, Hadassah’s excitement had been muted with panic that buzzed in her head and tightened her chest until she was perspiring and nauseated with fear.

What had she done?

He had calmed her, the way he always did. It was natural to be nervous, he’d told her. She had never disobeyed her parents, had never made a decision on her own even though she was eighteen years old, legally an adult, something her parents seemed not to recognize. If they hadn’t kept her back a year, she would be making her own decisions, wasn’t that so? What she wanted to do with her life, who she wanted to marry?

Some girls her age were already engaged to men they’d known only weeks—less time than he and Dassie had known each other. And yes, both sets of parents had checked out the other family and the young man and woman, but that wasn’t a guarantee, was it? You never really knew someone until you lived with that person—what was truth, what was exaggeration or lies.

And Dassie’s parents wouldn’t approve of him, even though he loved her and cherished her. They would never think he was good enough for their daughter. A rabbi’s daughter. They probably wanted her to marry a rabbi’s son, someone like her brother, who learned Torah all day. They would lie. “Let’s wait until after Aliza is engaged, sweetheart.” And who knew when that would be? Two years, three? And in the meantime they would try to change Dassie’s mind, and set her up with young men they chose for her.

“You know that’s what will happen, Dassie.”

Unless Dassie didn’t love him? Or maybe, like her parents, she thought he
wasn’t
good enough? “If you’re not sure,” he’d said, “if you want to go home . . .”

Today had been bad. With each day that passed she felt more like a prisoner, though she understood that it was risky for her to leave the apartment, or go on the balcony, or open the blinds.

“My neighbors are nosy,” he’d said. “We have to keep a low profile until the time is right. . . .”

But she felt isolated and lonely, especially when he was away, sometimes even when he was with her. More than once she’d been tempted to phone her family, or Sara. It wasn’t a good idea, he’d told her. They would try to convince her to come home. He was right, of course. So she’d given him her cell phone.

“Only if you want to,” he’d said. “I’ll give it back whenever you say. The nice thing is, my charger works for your phone. Another bond,” he’d joked.

There was no other phone in the apartment. He’d moved in a few months ago and planned to get phone service, but he had his cell phone, so he was in no rush.

It was a nice apartment, nicer than she’d expected, and he’d tried hard to make it her home. He’d scattered rose petals on the large sleigh bed that first night. He’d filled the closet with clothes he’d bought her (some of the clothes weren’t to her taste, but she hadn’t told him) and stocked the fridge and small pantry with foods she liked. He’d bought several of her favorite CDs, which she’d played, keeping the volume low, on the sound system he kept in a teak wall unit in the living room. He had a large mix of CDs, classical to heavy metal. She found most of the ones he favored depressing, especially the sound track from
Romeo
and Juliet.
“I Would Die for You.” He played that song over and over and knew the lyrics by heart.

“That’ll be
our
song, Dassie,” he told her.

She would have chosen a different song, one that didn’t talk about death and twisting knives and bleeding hearts, but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

Also in the wall unit were hundreds of books and knickknacks, including a black marble owl that stared at her knowingly and a thirty-two-inch TV. During the day, while he was out, she spent hours watching TV, letting other people’s faces and voices fill her head so there was no room for her thoughts. Katie Couric and
The View,
and Ellen De-Generes and Oprah and Judge Judy, reruns of
Seinfeld, Friends, Will and
Grace—
so many shows that she’d seen at Sara’s or some of her other friends. Not at home. Her parents had never owned a TV.

She wondered what they were doing now. If she were home, she would be helping her mother, braiding the challas and brushing them with an egg wash after the dough rose. If she shut her eyes she could smell the yeast, and the dill her mother sprinkled into the soup. Chicken this week, last week it was split pea. Her father was probably at the dining room table, learning the week’s Torah portion with Yonatan and the other boys, unless he was at a meeting, or talking with Gavriel, who had barely said ten words to her when he was home in October for Sukkot, because he was always out on a date. Aliza was, too. Hadassah knew they were angry at her, would blame her if the
shadchonim
stopped calling because she had brought shame to the family.

And the lies, so many lies. One had followed the other. They nibbled at her now like tiny insects, made her face hot and her skin itch when she allowed herself to think about them.

“Sometimes you have to lie to protect yourself,” he’d told her. Abraham had told the king that Sara was his sister, not his wife. Isaac had done the same. And Jacob had conspired with his mother, Rebecca, and lied to his father to steal the birthright from Esau.

“You’re not stealing anything, Dassie, are you?” he’d asked.

Peace of mind, she had thought but hadn’t said. Trust. Things she could never return . . .

But she trusted him, too. And loved him. And he loved her.

Those
weren’t
lies.

Chapter 6

Thursday, November 18, 7:03 p.m. Along the 8100
block of Santa Monica Boulevard. A woman reported that an unknown Caucasian male thief
stole her wheelchair that she had left just outside a
store while making a purchase.

The Bailors lived on Cardiff in Pico-Robertson, an Orthodox Jewish neighborhood that, Zack and I joke, will soon have more kosher restaurants than residents. I parked in front of the two-story house, a dark gray stucco with a lighter gray trim and a narrow but tidy flower bed thickly planted with pansies. Aside from the addition of a black wrought-iron gate in the driveway and the two cars parked in front of it—a black Honda and a silver minivan— nothing had changed since the first time I’d been here fifteen years ago, when I was one of thirty-plus girls at a sophomore barbecue in the middle of Sukkot, the eight-day harvest holiday that starts five days after Yom Kippur.

At the time I had been Rabbi Bailor’s student for less than two months, but I’d had a crush on him since my freshman year. I wasn’t alone in my infatuation (I had to share him with most of the girls in my school), and I’d had to adjust my fantasy to include a wife and children. If I couldn’t have Rabbi Bailor, I wanted someone just like him.

He was in his early thirties then, younger than our other male teachers and, despite the bump on his nose, better looking, too—slim and broad-shouldered, with a square chin darkened by a perpetual fiveo’clock shadow, and straight, jet-black hair that he was always pushing away from his eyes. It was the eyes—dark brown, soulful—that held you spellbound and pinned you to your seat, eyes that made you squirm if you weren’t prepared and, if you were, made your heart soar when he smiled at you as though you were the only one in the room and said, “Very good,” in a heavy Brooklyn accent that conjured up the high school basketball court where, we’d heard, he’d obtained the nose bump and the small scar on his chin.

He was a restless man, always in motion. When he wasn’t attacking the blackboard with his bold, jagged script, he was striding between the rows of desks, sometimes backward, keeping us on our toes while he bounced on his, constantly adjusting the black velvet yarmulke that migrated to the side of his head, jiggling the keys in his pants pockets, tossing his chalk from palm to palm as he pondered an answer or a question. He spoke rapidly, too, and would wait for us to supply the missing word or syllables of a phrase or sentence, maybe because his mind was racing ahead to the next thought. I don’t think he was conscious of his trait or our contribution. The one time we let him flounder for several long, excruciating seconds, he looked confused until someone (I think it was Aggie) came to his rescue. He laughed goodnaturedly, but his face was pink, and we never had the heart to tease him again.

From the way he eyed me when he laughed that day, I think he suspected that I was behind the prank. I wasn’t, but peer loyalty and the horror of being a goody-goody prevented me from telling him so. I didn’t blame him for thinking I was the instigator. Unlike my two older sisters, Edie and Mindy, class valedictorians who had earned glory for the Blume name, I had earned frequent visits to the principal’s office, prompted by teachers’ complaints.

I was “excessively exuberant.” I was too inquisitive, too persistent. I was argumentative and lacked respect for authority. My appearance and behavior didn’t reflect the modesty of a true
bas Yisroel,
a daughter of Israel.

But in Rabbi Bailor’s class, I was a model student, and he was my champion. He not only tolerated my endless questions (about the Bible and Jewish law, about philosophy, about the temptations of the secular world) but encouraged them and my spirited arguments— some of which, I’ll admit, were a ploy to get his attention. If he didn’t have an answer, he’d say so and research the subject. And while I’m sure he disapproved of the brevity of my uniform skirt and the dark crimson polish on my nails, he never said anything—at least, not to me. His acceptance and honesty and dedication inspired me. I wanted desperately to please him, to make him proud. That’s why his betrayal was so devastating.

I tried not to think about that now as I sat facing the rabbi and his wife at the white-cloth-covered dining room table where, before things soured, I’d enjoyed several
Shabbat
meals. It was Thursday evening, and preparations for the Sabbath were in evidence. An eight-armed silver candelabrum and tray occupied one end of the table, and a mélange of aromas wafted in from the kitchen. Gefilte fish, beef seasoned with garlic and onion, dilled chicken soup, the yeasty perfume of freshly baked challa.

The room was as I’d remembered it. With the exception of a modest china closet that displayed an assortment of silver chalices, a Chanukah menorah, and other ritual items, the pale peach walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling dark wood bookcases crammed with gilt-lettered, oversized, leather-bound volumes of the Talmud and its commentaries. In the adjoining living room there were more texts on the coffee table, more filled bookcases. The furniture, mismatched, seemed incidental.

Rabbi Bailor had aged well. His black hair was streaked with silver, and there was more gray than black in the trim beard that hid the scar on his chin, but he was still handsome. I couldn’t remember when I’d first noticed the beard. Ten years ago? Twelve? Over the years I had seen him at a wedding or a funeral, in one of the kosher markets or bakeries. I’d avoided looking at him, and I suspect he’d avoided looking at me, too.

I had occasionally seen Mrs. Bailor, too. She had her runaway daughter’s vivid blue eyes, the strawberry-blond hair, the angular chin. In high school, after coming to terms with the fact that there
was
a Mrs. Bailor, I had liked that she was pretty. Rabbi Bailor
deserved
pretty. Now she looked tired and drawn, her pallor unrelieved by lipstick or blush, her eyelids puffy and red. Her hair was covered with a black crocheted snood instead of her usual wig, and she looked different. Younger, actually.

Many Orthodox married women cover their hair. I do it, for Zack. As my mother and Mindy had promised, it’s less cumbersome than I’d expected, but after eight months I’m still eager to remove my hat or wig the minute I’m home, and I miss feeling the wind in my hair, the sun on my head. And it isn’t second nature. Several times I’ve left the house bareheaded and have had to return for a covering.

I wear hats more often than my wig, which is almost identical to my shoulder-length highlighted blond hair, but that evening I’d opted for the wig, and a navy skirt that covered my knees, coupled with a long-sleeved cowl-neck gray sweater. Practically a school uniform, I’d realized as I finished changing from my travel clothes. Freud would have had a field day.

“My wife and I appreciate your coming here,” Rabbi Bailor said. “It’s good to see you, Malka.”

“Molly.”

Malka is the Hebrew for Mala, the paternal Polish-Jewish great-grandmother I never knew. I’m proud to carry her name, and it’s what all my Judaic studies instructors had called me, but I suppose I wanted to assert my independence.
I’m not your student.

He nodded. “Molly.”

His eyes, surrounded by a network of crow’s-feet, hadn’t lost their intensity, and the look he gave me—a little hurt, I thought—made me feel small. I was thirty years old, but I folded my hands in my lap and felt as though I were back in school.

“Mazel tov
on your marriage,” Nechama Bailor said, filling the awkward silence. “We were happy to hear your good news. That was six months ago?”

She didn’t sound happy. She sounded burdened with the effort of making small talk. I didn’t blame her.

“Eight. Thank you.” Zack had wanted to invite the Bailors to the wedding. I had nixed it, just as I had nixed inviting them to my first wedding.

“I’m glad you and Zack found each other,” Rabbi Bailor said. “I hear that his congregation loves him. I told him he had great potential, even though he wasn’t exactly serious about my class.” A half smile played around the rabbi’s lips. “I knew you had great potential, too, Molly.”


Did
you?”

“Yes,” he said, ignoring my sarcasm. “And I was right. You’ve had several books published. You write a weekly column.
Kol ha’kavod.”
Kudos.

“Thanks.”

There was another silence. Mrs. Bailor turned her attention to the wedding band she was twisting.

“I was so sorry to hear about your daughter,” I said. “You haven’t heard from her since yesterday?”

“We keep trying her cell phone. She doesn’t answer.” Rabbi Bailor’s voice had become husky. “We’re living a nightmare. Every morning I wake up and look in Dassie’s room, expecting to see her.”

“Was Hadassah upset lately? Did she quarrel with either of you or her siblings?”

He cleared his throat. “We have the typical father–daughter disagreements. Sometimes Dassie’s moody. Sometimes she doesn’t want to talk. That’s how teenagers are. Lately, she seemed
less
moody. And she’s never given us cause for concern. This is so out of character.”

“Why would she
do
this?” the mother said, her voice breaking.

Rabbi Bailor reached for his wife’s hand. She pulled it away. Above the beard a hint of color tinged his cheeks.

As a writer I found the scene revealing. As the rabbi’s former student I felt unsettled, witnessing an intimate moment, and I shared his embarrassment.

Rabbi Bailor passed me a yellow Post-it. “That’s the address and phone number for Sara Mellon, the friend Dassie told about the chat room. She’s willing to talk to you. I know you’ve just returned from San Diego, Molly, but if you could go there tonight?”

“Of course.” I glanced at the Post-it. The girl lived on Reeves, only blocks from the Bailors.

“Sara could have told us
weeks
ago.” The mother’s voice was brooding. Anger pinched her colorless lips. “If she had, Dassie would be home, not off who knows where with some piece of trash.”

“Dassie might have run off anyway, Nechama. And teenagers don’t tattle on their friends.” The rabbi’s weariness suggested they’d discussed this before.

“Even if the friend is in danger?” Her eyes flashed. “Dassie said she’s safe, but how do we know that’s true, Chaim? Who knows what this man is planning?”

The tension in the room was incongruous with the
Shabbat
candlesticks and the serenity they promised. We lapsed into another silence which Rabbi Bailor interrupted with a long sigh.

“Dassie knows chat rooms are off limits,” he said. “She understood why. This is so out of . . .”

“Character,” I finished for him.

“Yes.” He looked at me sharply. “He tricked her. He brainwashed her.” The rabbi’s hand formed a fist. “You have to find her, Molly. You have to convince Dassie that we don’t care what happened. We just want her home,
now.”

“You didn’t notice anything unusual about Hadassah that morning?” I asked. “Or during the days before?”

“That’s what we keep asking ourselves. I’m not home much. That’s not an excuse, but . . .” He looked at his wife.

“We have a busy household.” Nechama was prickly with defensive-ness, which she tried to soften with a tight smile. “The younger children need constant attention. Our two oldest are dating, and—well, you know what they say.
‘Kleine kinder . . .’ ”

I nodded.
Kleine kinder, kleine freiden; groisseh kinder, groisseh laiden.
Small children, small joys; bigger children, bigger sorrows.

“I try to give Dassie her space,” Nechama said. “But if something was bothering her, we would have known.”

From my own experiences as a teenager, I wasn’t sure that was so. “And Sunday morning?”

“Chaim was in
shul.
I saw Dassie when she was leaving for Sara’s. She got the boys ready for school and prepared their snacks. My weekly Mother’s Day gift, she calls it.” Nechama smiled again, more genuinely.

“Did she have luggage with her?”

“Her backpack and an overnight bag. My husband picked them up Monday night from Sara’s. Dassie said she was spending the night and needed her uniform for school the next day.” Nechama’s face clouded.

I could hear the hurt in her voice. “Speaking of school, your brother mentioned that Hadassah is eighteen. Was she kept behind?”

“Her birthday was in September. We thought it would be better if she was one of the older girls in her class, not one of the youngest. Also, with two grades between Dassie and Aliza, her older sister, there was less competition.”

Having two older, accomplished sisters, I understood about competition. “Was Hadassah having difficulty with her classes or with the other students?”

“Dassie gets along with everybody,” Rabbi Bailor said. “She’s doing well in all her classes. Not straight A’s, as she hoped, but it’s a heavy double schedule. We don’t expect A’s. Just do your best. That’s what we tell all our children. I don’t know if she believes us.”

“She
is
tense about school,” the mother said. “Term papers, midterms, SATs. All those applications.”

“Applications for seminary, you mean?”

Most Orthodox girls spend the year after high school in one of many Jerusalem all-girl schools. I had done it. So had my three sisters.

“And for college,” the rabbi said. “She plans to go after her year in Israel.”

“She might change her mind about college,” Nechama said. “She might meet someone.”

I sensed that she hoped her daughter
would
change her mind. It’s not uncommon for Orthodox girls to marry soon after their year of seminary, but it’s not typical of young women from Torat Tzion, which prides itself on the high number of graduates who get into the Ivy Leagues. I was surprised the Bailors had allowed their daughter to attend a school with a liberal philosophy and coed classes.

“Hadassah wants to be a defense attorney,” Rabbi Bailor said when I asked him about it. “She needs an academic program that will give her the best chance of getting into a top college and law school. And since I’m at Torat Tzion, that made the most sense.”

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