Hill of Secrets: An Israeli Jewish mystery novel (19 page)

"Who is that?"

"She was like a sister to Hanni. They met in the Civil Service and became a pair of kindred spirits. If there’s anybody who could tell you what Hanni was going through, it's her."

"Where does she live?"

"She lives in Raanana. There are a lot of Anglo-Saxon Jews there. Iris's husband came to the country from England with his parents twenty years ago." She dictated Iris's cell and home phone numbers to me. The name and number looked familiar.

"Is it possible that Iris is out of the country right now?" I remembered that when I was going through the phone records, Iris's number came up, and when I tried to call it I was asked to type in a secret code.

Aviva thought for a moment. "Yes, of course, how could I forget? She called me during the
Shiva
. They went to visit her husband's family in England—some cousin got married. They should be back right after the holiday."

Aviva left the interrogation room thinking Meir was innocent. I felt this line of thought made it a bit easier for her. Meir was her son-in-law for years, and it's hard for people to see their relatives as vicious killers, it's easier to get caught up in a fantasy about an anonymous murderer. I would also be happy to discover that it was a different killer. The thought of a father shooting his children like that is beyond understanding, but I knew the chances of that were slim. The evidence was unequivocal and the chances of faking them, tiny.

Thursday, 5.28.2009. Shavuot Eve

Yinon called in the morning and said he was stuck at work and would come pick Tsumi up the next day. I explained to him that I had to leave early because I was going to the Inbal Hotel in Jerusalem with my family, a fact that I thought was well known to him, since it was the reason I asked him to watch Tsumi over the weekend. I had the feeling he was doing everything he could to not see me again, after what happened the week before. He probably thought there was a chance for us getting back together and was very hurt when I made it clear to him that was a mistake that would not be made again.

He promised to pick Tsumi up in the afternoon and let me know he’d bring him back at noon on Saturday, before I got back. On the one hand I didn’t like the fact that my ex-husband still had the key to my apartment, but on the other hand it was very convenient. I didn’t feel like seeing him either. I’m not made of steel.

*

When Yinon and I were married and my parents invited us over for a holiday or Shabbat at a hotel, we would always leave a minute before the holiday began and leave the hotel before it had ended. My parents didn't like this, but they'd rather we come, and desecrate Shabbat, than not come at all. Now, divorced and alone, I left for my parents' house at one o’clock, a solid five hours before the holiday began.

I never liked going out of town and of all the places in the country, the one I least liked going to be Jerusalem. That city confused me. In the absence of a husband or driver, I had to go with my parents, who refused to go into Tel-Aviv in order to pick me up.

There's something a little sad about sleeping in a hotel room alone. I’d been living alone for several months, but it felt far less lonely surrounded by all of my personal objects. The neat, cold, hotel room made me feel lonelier than ever, and I decided to go down for a dip in the pool.

I passed through the lobby, which was filled with guests who had come to celebrate Shavuot in Jerusalem. All of the guests, without exception, were religious, most of the of the knit skullcap variety. The Haredi Jews, who stay in hotels on the three high holidays (Sukkot, Passover and Shavuot), aren't the average Haredim. Most Haredim live more or less around the line of poverty and can’t afford a long weekend in a five-star hotel in Jerusalem.

The few that came to these hotels were usually wealthy pilgrims from the United States. For the knit skullcaps it's a social event, which is meant to categorize you socioeconomically. Those staying at the King David Hotel were the elite, the cream of the crop. All the rest stayed in the other hotels around the walls of the old city in the direction of the Armenian quarter.

My parents booked us rooms at the Inbal Hotel, which was an excellent hotel near Gan Hapaamon. It was also horrendously expensive (but not as expensive as the King David Hotel), a price many pay in order to be part of the social elite of the Religious Zionist community. In short, if you weren’t there, you didn't really exist.

In the past, my parents insisted a bit more on coming to these social events in Jerusalem on Shavuot. It was when we were still very young and it was important to my parents that we were well known in society. Just like in Jane Austen novels, in the Religious Zionist public there was a need to present the girls who have come of age to the "High Society." A substantial part of the hotel guests were families whose kids were over eighteen, and this was an effective and elegant way of fixing up young people.

Even if you didn't leave with a date or a phone number, it was always possible that someone had spotted you and could tell someone else who was looking for a match. When you explain this whole operation to a secular person (say, Yinon), they're pretty shocked.

The Religious Zionist public was perceived by the secular public as open and liberal, and the fact that most couplings came to be made by way of matchmaking astounds them. The word
Shidduch
(matchmaking) was associated with the Haredi world, where a guy is matched with a girl and after three dates in a coffee shop, a wedding hall is booked. For the knit skullcaps,
Shidduch
is the most effective way to meet a partner. No has an expectation that the couple will get engaged after three meetings.

Just like in the secular world, the knit skullcaps also go on dates and get to know the partner before they make fatal decisions.  If the Haredim need two or three dates to decide, among the knit skullcaps there's a whole range of customs surrounding this, from those who observe
Negiyah
[abstaining from touching the opposite sex until marriage] and will meet only in public places (so as to avoid being alone together—
Yichud
) to "Religious lite" who, in some cases, may marry not as virgins.

The need for
Shidduch
stems from the simple fact that those wearing knit skullcaps are completely integrated in the secular social life. They don't work and study only within the community, hence the difficulty of meeting a religious partner in everyday life.

In short, a long weekend in Jerusalem was a great way to see and be seen. The modest and humble daughters of Israel arrive wearing their finest attire and tear up the lobbies of all the hotels in the area. When I walked through the lobby on my way to the swimming pool, I was glad I wasn't there anymore, inside that boiling pot. Not that I ever really belonged.

The hotel pool was relatively empty for such a weekend, which usually houses many knit skullcaps. The knit skullcaps could be divided into several movements of pool goers: those who won’t go to a mixed gender pool on Shabbat or holiday, those who won't go only on Shabbat, those who’d go on Shabbat, but not in a hotel where so many religious people are staying and of course the "Religious lite" gang, who are only slightly different than completely secular people. My parents belong to the third group: whenever we went to Eilat for a family vacation, they had no problem with us going to the pool even on Shabbat, but when we went to Jerusalem for Shabbat, when it was clear that everyone around us would be religious, my mother didn't even pack my swimsuit.

Once, on Shavuot, when I was sixteen, I really wanted to sunbathe and I was annoyed with my mother because she took away the bathing suit I had stowed deep in my bag. While my parents were sitting, chatting with their friends and Shira was doing what was expected of her, I decided that in the absence of a bathing suit, a bra and underpants were the solution. I thought (and I still think) that there's no real difference between a bikini and a matching bra and panties set and I proceeded to tan on the balcony adjoining our room. Ayala and Evyatar, who were then ten and twelve years old, were horrified to find me lying on the balcony, reading, in my underwear.

"Aren’t you ashamed?" Ayala cried out.

"Of what?"

"Lying like that!" she said, pointing at me.

"What's the problem?"

"You're outside! Dressed in a bra and panties!"

"Who's looking?"

"They are!" Evyatar whispered and pointed to a group of boys who were enjoying their view of my balcony.

Ayala ran inside and returned with a heavy wool blanket that she threw over me. I flung the blanket of in anger.

"Are you insane?"

"No," she said. "You are!"

"Aren't you embarrassed that the boys saw you in your underwear?" Evyatar asked.

"They didn't see anything they haven't seen on the beach or at the swimming pool right below us."

I made my two little siblings swear they wouldn't say anything to my parents. It cost me quite a bit, but it was worth saving the lecture I would have received. Of course, I told Shira and she relished the story.

"You crazy bitch," she laughed. "All the girls walk around the lobby dressed and made up to the nines, and you take your clothes off and get all the boys!"

When I returned to my lonely room, I saw that my mother had tried to reach me on my cell phone approximately ten times.

"Did something happen?" I asked her in an impatient tone when she picked up the phone, half asleep.

"Where have you been?" My mother is the world champion, or at least the Polish champion of answering a question with a question.

"In the pool."

"Are you insane? You could catch cold. This is Jerusalem, not Tel- Aviv! It isn't summer yet."

"The pool is heated… "I tried to calm her down, knowing that the chance she would, when it had to do with me, was slim.

"Are you in your room right now?"

"Yes," I answered.

"I'm coming." She hung up and was in my room a few seconds later.

"Show me what you brought," she commanded.

"What?"

"Come on…” she also had an impatient tone. "Show me what clothes you brought."

"Mom, I'm not looking for a husband,” I calmed her.

"Very funny." She didn't laugh. "First of all, you never know,"
(she's got that right
) "but I want to know that you came with normal clothes and not something we'd be ashamed to sit next to in the dining room."

I put my trolley case on the bed, and began taking out the clothes I’d shoved into it in disarray.

"If you can't pack properly, you can ask me to pack for you," she said and picked up a shirt. "Look, everything's all wrinkled. Why didn't you put it on a hanger as soon as you got in the room?"

"It's a pajama top." I tugged the shirt from my mother's hands, "besides, nothing’s wrinkled." I scattered the clothes I had brought with me on the bed and my mother examined them carefully.

"You're not leaving the room wearing that -" she pointed at a shirt with cutoff sleeves, "and that—" she pointed at a flared trousers that I had bought with her two years ago, "—it just doesn't fit you well. Where’s the second suitcase?" she asked and I looked at her in wonder.

"Don't tell me that's all you brought?" she said, panicked, "There are clothes here for two-three meals, tops. You remember this is full board and there are six meals from tonight until Saturday noon."

"There are clothes here for two days, maybe even three," I ruled. "I never change outfits three times a day and I don't intend to begin to this weekend."

"Hadas'ile…" My mother started speaking slowly and quietly. "If it's hard for you to spend money on yourself because…" she began stuttering, "uh…well…you know, because you're a cop, then tell me and I'll take you clothes shopping."

"Thank you, mother." I strained all of my facial muscles to produce a smile. "Even when I was working as a lawyer I didn't buy clothes as a hobby. You know very well that shopping’s torture for me and that even if you bought me half the mall I would still only wear maybe two items."

She shook her head in disagreement, knowing I was a lost cause. "It's such a shame, with a body like yours, to walk around like something from
Les Miserables
."

"I'm hardly a
Miserable
," I said and held up one of the shirts I had brought, a shirt I had purchased three years ago, a purchase which my mother praised me for, which hardly ever happens. "Look what a nice shirt this is." I tried to pry a compliment out of her.

My mother was on the verge of tears. "Ayala wouldn't wash the floor with that shirt."

"And what about this shirt?" I pulled out a shirt I really love.

"I wouldn't even use that shirt as a rag."

Eventually, I was lead, head down, to my parents' room; my father was sitting on the couch, perusing the holiday and weekend papers.

"What have you done now?" he asked me with a smile when he saw my mother's grouchy face.

"Just like I told you would happen," my mother answered for me, "she brought all of her rags just to spite me."

"Why do you love getting your mother upset?" he looked at me over the rim of his glasses. "You know she just wants you to look good."

"Really?" I answered angrily. "I thought she was just ashamed to be seen in public with me."

"Oh, come on," she said and pulled a bag from her favorite boutique out of the closet. "Since you've been avoiding my calls all week…"

"I'm in the middle of an investigation," I tried to explain and she shushed me.

"I didn't take the risk," she explained, "and I bought some shirts and a skirt for you at Zehava's."

I looked over the clothes, nothing I would choose for myself, but I really didn't have the energy to spend the holiday and Shabbat arguing. I decided this weekend would be the short and inexhaustible substitute for the vacation abroad I had planned on taking.