Faye Kellerman - The Ritual Bath

“This is only a fraction of my collection,” the Rosh Yeshiva said. “But it contains the choicest pieces.”

“Truly incredible, Rabbi.”

“Someday, when we both have more time, I will show you my Hebrew manuscripts. I can’t keep them out in the open because over-exposure to the elements will cause irreparable damage to the parchment.”

“I’d like to see them when time permits,” said Decker.

“Yes. Come and let us see what you’ve brought. The hour is late, and an old man’s eyes are getting tired.”

The rabbi glided over to his desk, opened the first carton, and pulled out a prayer book.

“I don’t think I have anything really valuable. Not like these pieces.”

“Nonsense, Detective. Quite the contrary. One siddur is priceless because it contains the name of Hashem .”

He pulled out another book and leafed through it.

“These are in good to very good condition. If you were to put them up for auction, I would say they’d be worth fifty to two hundred dollars apiece. But they are worth much more to me personally. The thought of them sitting in an irreligious environment is very disconcerting. I will pay you fair market value if you’re thinking of selling them.”

“I wasn’t. But I’ll tell you what. You may have them as long as I can visit them from time to time.”

The Rosh Yeshiva smiled.

“Agreed.”

“Do they have any historical significance?”

“Only to a Jew from the area. Most are from Germany.” The rabbi unloaded the volumes onto his desk. “Rina Miriam told me these belonged to your ex-wife’s grandfather. He must have been a German Jew.”

“Look at this one here, Rabbi. The book is Hebrew, but the inscription is in another language, and it doesn’t look like German.”

The old man’s eyes lit up.

“This is Polish.” The Rosh Yeshiva shook his head. “I can’t understand her family’s complete disregard for their heritage.”

“Some people are less sentimental than others,” the detective said, picking up the megillah. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

The rabbi took the scroll and studied it.

“It’s of Polish origin also. This is worth a substantial amount of money: upward of three thousand dollars. The text is exceptionally clear and well preserved.”

“How about if you display it in your collection? I’m not hard up for cash right now.”

“You’re a good man, Detective.”

Decker shrugged and gave him a half smile.

The rabbi opened the next box and rummaged through newspaper.

“Rina told me those were Jewish law books,” said Decker.

“Yes, my good friend, that is exactly what they are,” the rabbi said, unwrapping a leather-bound text. “Jewish law books-a complete set. We can always use a set of shass . Thank you.”

The old man turned away from the books and faced the detective.

“It’s astounding what finds are tucked away in dusty old attics and basements. I will take good care of your valuables, Detective Decker.”

“I know you will.”

“Tell me something, Detective. When did the grandfather die?”

“Right before we filed for divorce. Must have been about five years ago.”

“Interesting. And where was he living at the time of his death?”

Decker smelled more than just simple curiosity on the rabbi’s part.

“Los Angeles. Why do you ask?”

“I’d like you to explain something to me, Detective. How is it that these books are wrapped in a New York Times that is dated just two years ago?”

What a cagey old man, Decker thought. He said nothing.

“I have extreme difficulty believing that your in-laws are complete and utter philistines. Would you care to amend your story regarding how these came into your possession? Or at least, make the fabrication consistent with the dates?”

Decker gazed out of the window.

“Why don’t you sit down?” the rabbi offered.

The detective remained motionless.

“Where did you acquire these?” the old man asked softly.

“From my father,” the detective said, still staring outward. “Not my real father, my biological father.”

He locked eyes with the old man.

“I’m adopted.”

“Your biological father was Jewish,” the rabbi said.

“And so was my biological mother. And that makes me Jewish. But you see, I don’t consider myself Jewish. I consider myself the product of my real parents-the ones who raised me. And I was raised Baptist, although I’m not really anything now. As Rina said to me the other day, it takes a lot more than just an accident of birth to make someone a Torah Jew.”

“She said that?”

“Yep.”

“Good for her. Then she knows about your origins?”

“No. I thought about telling her but decided against it. It would be too big a distraction at this point. We both have work to do. I need her to concentrate on a rapist, not on me. Besides, I could never spit in my parents’ faces and suddenly declare myself a Jew, like my ‘real’ parents. It would upset them tremendously.”

“So how did you come to have these books?”

“I was curious about my background. There were no open records when I started searching twenty years ago, but since I was a cop in the state where I was adopted, I was able to pull a few strings. To make a long and boring story short, I found out my mother was a religious girl from New York who was shipped down to Miami after getting herself into a little fix when she was fifteen. She’s in her fifties now with five kids and a load of grandchildren. I’m not about to barge in on her and disrupt her life.

“The records also contained my father’s name. He was a different story. Older. Never married, lived alone on the Lower East Side of New York in one of those projects. One day I got up enough nerve, flew to New York, and looked him up. We talked. He was a nice man, a retired diamond cutter, a big man like me, with big hands. I looked like him. It was a strange experience to resemble someone. Very strange. He kept trying to console me, as if I were mad at him for some reason, telling me over and over that he and my mother weren’t meant to be. He kept saying it wasn’t basheert , repeating that word. I gave him my address and told him to keep in touch. I wrote. He never did. Finally I gave up.

“A couple of years ago, I received these books and a couple of other personal items of his-a prayer shawl, phylacteries, a kittel . No note. I called up the NYPD and asked them to check the obits. Sure enough, his name was there. It said he died of a stroke. What a bunch of baloney. The package was dated a week before he died. I know he killed himself. The M.E. was incompetent and didn’t pick up on it.”

“Or maybe, Detective, he knew he was about to die.” Decker smiled.

“That’s a little romantic, Rabbi.”

“You need to think a lot more like a Jew. Hashem can do anything, Detective.”

“Maybe.”

Decker sat down on a leather chair and lit a cigarette.

“I’ve never told a soul. I trust you’ll keep this confidential.”

The old man sighed heavily.

“Detective, your ex-wife didn’t know you were Jewish?”

“I’m not really Jewish.”

“I mean that you are Jewish biologically. I don’t want to quibble with semantics.”

“No.”

“Were you married in a Jewish ceremony?”

“We had a combo wedding. A reform rabbi and a Unitarian minister. It was pretty unusual.”

“Do you remember anything about the Jewish part of the ceremony?”

“I’ve tried to repress the whole thing.” Decker smiled and thought. “I gave her a ring and said something about Moses. Oh, and I stepped on a glass. They gave my wife a wedding certificate that I signed. I don’t know what happened to it. Why are you asking me this?”