Chapter 3

13891 Words
Success isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, I thought as I stopped before the smoked glass door to my grandfather’s office that read: FRANK WOLF DETECTIVE AGENCY. It was 9:55 AM. A year before, Zaida, using the Yiddish word for grandfather, had with a bit of my assistance solved the murder of Joseph Stein, a butcher in the Boro Park section of Brooklyn, and so saved New York Mutual a $100,000 life insurance payout to Stein’s family. If you want some details, you can find them in the May 19, 1972 issue of the New York Times. FRANK WOLF DETECTIVE AGENCYNew York TimesI was sure that when word got around the orthodox Jewish communities in Brooklyn and perhaps beyond, business would really pick up for Grandfather. “That’s all he needs,” my mother had lamented when I shared my enthusiasm. “I don’t know if it was the Stein case itself or something more, but your grandfather seems tired to me. He says he’s fine, but I’m worried.” My mother could have saved herself the worry. Business hadn’t picked up and may have even dropped. Although he went daily to his office near Brooklyn’s Boro Hall to wait for the phone to ring or a client to walk through the door, he had only a case or two a month come his way: a check on a future business associate, background on a proposed partner in an arranged marriage, or an investigation of suspected infidelity. Grandfather wasn’t surprised when I brought it up. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses, and in his elegantly accented English commented: “I expected this result. I have angered many in our community who believe I violated a certain code by helping the insurance company ‘against one of our own.’ I stand indicted for depriving Joseph Stein’s widow of the money that would have bolstered her after her husband’s death, regardless of the claim’s illegitimacy.” “Are you sorry we took the case?” “Not at all, Yoeli.” That was Grandfather’s pet name for me. “When I took on this honorable profession, I committed to seeking justice with no favor nor disfavor to the rich or poor, the weak or the powerful. I am greatly sorry the outcome negatively impacted Mrs. Stein, but New York Mutual also deserves justice. I ask of you, what would have occurred if the original police report had remained indicating that Stein was killed by a youth g**g that included various minorities? Suspicion, hatred, revenge all arise when justice fails.” Just a few hours earlier, I had been fast asleep after completing my second year law school exams the day before. I wanted to sleep late and spend time with my new girlfriend, Aliya, for the next two weeks before I started my summer clerkship at the Brooklyn DA’s office. Although I dreamily heard the phone ringing in our Flatbush apartment where I lived with my mother and grandfather, I was jolted fully awake when Mother knocked on my door. “Joel,” she said tensely. “That was Zaida calling. He wants you at his office by 10:00.” “By 10:00!” I sputtered. “But why, and what time is it now?” “It’s now a few minutes past 8:00, and I don’t know why. But Zaida said it is ‘critical’that you come by 10:00, and when he uses the ‘critical’ word, it’s something very important. So you’ll get up and rush over?” “I guess,” I answered half-heartedly, sitting up at the edge of the bed. “Is there any coffee?” “Yes.” My mother came over and stroked my hair. “I also must run to open the store on time.” She meant the jewelry store that she managed in Manhattan. “There are some hard-boiled eggs in the refrigerator that you can eat quickly with the coffee.” She kissed me on the cheek, and as she was about to leave, turned toward me, looking worried. “I hope your Zaida hasn’t gotten himself into anything dangerous.” I felt sorry for my mother. I knew that the six years she spent as a young girl in hiding with my grandfather in the Austrian countryside during the h*******t, her mother dying during that time, and my father’s early death when I was 14 had left her constantly fearful. “I’m sure there’s no danger,” I said in a soft voice and got up from bed. “I’ll get dressed, eat quickly, and hurry over there.” When I entered my grandfather’s office, I saw the back of a heavyset man seated facing my grandfather. A large black velvet skullcap sat over the man’s short, cropped hair. He glanced my way when I entered. “Joel,” my grandfather called out. “This is Avi Raskin from the Williamsburg Shomrim Society. A little boy is missing in Williamsburg. He is here to ask our assistance in finding him. Mr. Raskin, this is my grandson and at times associate, Joel Gordon.” Mr. Raskin stood up and shook my hand. He was stocky, about 50, with glasses, had a few days of stubble, and wore a white shirt that showed stains around the neck. The shirt was badly tucked into dark trousers, and knotted ritual fringes or tzitzit dangled on both sides of his pants pockets in the manner of some orthodox Jews. tzitzitI indicated to Raskin to resume his seat. I moved to the side of grandfather’s desk. “Shomrim Society?” I asked. “Yes,” Raskin said eagerly. His accent was half Yiddish and half Brooklynese. “We are a Jewish civilian patrol in Williamsburg. We are unarmed and patrol mainly at night to prevent muggings, burglaries, vandalism, and domestic violence. We also help to locate missing people.” My two years of law school provoked a sense of law and order being circumvented. “But shouldn’t these matters be left to the police?” I asked sharply. Raskin answered calmly. “We are not vigilantes. We don’t make arrests, and we immediately call the police if we come across criminal behavior. Many Jewish families in Williamsburg were victimized and murdered by fascist or communist police and military units in Europe. It’s not just they have no trust in the police; they also fear the police. So we serve as intermediaries between the community and the police.” My grandfather rarely was impatient, but he became clearly so, “And a little boy is missing now two days. The Shomrim are assisting the police, and we must also try to assist.” Grandfather handed me a few pages of stapled papers. “Mr. Raskin brought us the police report. Joel, please make a quick perusal.” I thumbed through the reports quickly. Eight-year-old Yosele Rosenstock disappeared around 4:00 in the afternoon the previous Monday. Raskin had also brought a photo that showed a wispy looking boy, slight for his age, with wiry dark hair cut short, ear locks, and piercing eyes. He was last seen leaving his yeshiva, a religious school, at 95 Boerum Street and never arrived home. His older brothers at the school, Shimon 12 and Levi 10, explained that Yosele was not permitted to walk alone, but when they came to meet him at the school’s entrance, they learned that he had already left, heading west down Boerum toward Leonard in the direction of the family’s apartment. They ran to catch up with him so as to avoid their mother’s anger if Yosele showed up by himself. Looking in all directions, they hurried two blocks down Boerum to Union Avenue and a long block up Union, turning a short left to 468 S. 5th Street, where they lived in a second floor walkup. They asked boys playing punch ball on the street if they had seen Yosele, but the boys said no. Hoping that Yosele had eluded notice and was in the apartment, they ran upstairs, but no Yosele. Their mother Leah said she immediately ordered the boys along with their older brother, Reuven, 17, to join her out on the street to look for Yosele. Sister Dinah, 15, was left at home in case Yosele appeared. They searched to no avail. When the father, Yaacov Rosenstock, came home at 6:00, first unleashing his verbal fury on Shimon and Levi and then the other family members for not finding Yosele, he contacted the Shomrim, who also took up the street search after notifying the nearby 90th Police Precinct. The Williamsburg Jewish Community Relations Officer, Sgt. Max Fink, along with a canine search unit, came within minutes. But it had turned dark, the stores along the route were closed, and the search dog picked up no scent. The next day, Tuesday, Fink’s team worked with the Shomrim to question every merchant and resident along Boerum and Union. No one remembered seeing Yosele. Boys at the school confirmed what his brothers had reported. Was he carrying anything? Yes, he had his usual ragged, plastic backpack. The K-9 once again sniffed out the route. Nothing. After finishing my reading of the report, I addressed Raskin: “But what can we bring to the search that the police or you can’t?” “A good, important question,” Raskin acknowledged. “Your grandfather is an experienced investigator in the Orthodox Jewish community, and we hope his knowledge and analytic skills will lead us to the boy, as we are totally baffled. Your solving the Stein case may have caused resentment in some of the community, but we in the Shomrim, when we learned of your work and understood how you unraveled the intricacies of the death, we were struck by the brilliance of the detective work. “And,” here Raskin stopped and looked at my grandfather who signaled permission to go on, “we looked into your grandfather’s background and learned that he knows the Rebbe, the spiritual leader of the missing boy’s family, Rabbi Moshe Koenig. We’ve arranged for Mr. Wolf to meet the Rebbe and ask him to direct his community to cooperate with the investigation. Right now, there’s very little they’re telling us, including the boy’s own family. Rebbe“So around 5:00 yesterday, I decided to contact your grandfather. The first 24-48 hours are critical with missing children. I called the number here, but there was no answer. I took a chance, and at 7:30 this morning, I was at your door. Mr. Wolf thankfully arrived 15 minutes later.” After a few more minutes of conversation, Raskin left. I then asked Grandfather: “How do you know Rabbi Koenig?” Instead of answering, Grandfather stood up with more energy that I had seen over the last year and pointed to papers on his desk that were maps of Williamsburg. “A little boy is missing, and there is much to do quickly. I will explain more about my relationship with Rabbi Koenig later, but now let us gain an understanding of the boy’s neighborhood and the facts behind the case, yes?” I had plans to go into the City with Aliya, but I had rarely seen Grandfather this agitated. I didn’t know Aliya very well yet, but I would call her and hope she understood. “What do you want me to do, Zaida?” “Thank you, Joel, for your support. It will be of immense help in our endeavor.” He then opened a desk drawer and took out a Polaroid Land camera and two rolls of film. I had no idea that he owned a Polaroid. Sensing my surprise, Grandfather handed me the camera and film: “A modern detective must obtain information quickly and also document environments. A modern detective cannot wait for the film to be developed. The Polaroid is a great advance in the technology that supports my work.” “And I’m to take pictures of what, exactly?” “Ah,” Zaida responded with a twinkle in his eye that always charmed me as a child, “have you ever been to this particular Williamsburg neighborhood?” “No. What would have ever brought me to that neighborhood?” I immediately realized how childish I sounded, as if I were casting a neighborhood of Brooklyn no more than five miles away from where I lived as some forsaken habitat into which I never would have tread. I’m sure my grandfather noticed my conceit, but he let it go. “Good then, since the area will be new to you, why do you not let your curiosity guide you? Certainly, we need pictures of Yosele’s school, his home on S. 5th Street and the immediate neighborhood, and the route he was expected to have taken between the school and his home. In addition, if you find something of interest, take a picture. Good?” I nodded. Hopefully Grandfather’s trust in my sense of curiosity would be well founded. “And you want me to go right now?” “Yes, yes, quickly, a little boy is missing. No time should be lost. Use up both packs of film, which will give us 24 photos. It is now half after 10:00. I will meet you at Epstein’s delicatessen where Broadway and Union Avenue come together at 2:00 for a quick lunch, and you will show me the pictures you have taken. Then we will walk over to Rabbi Koenig’s dwelling on Harrison Avenue. Mr. Raskin has established a 3:00 appointment for us. It will be of a short duration. No more than 20 minutes.” Grandfather reached into his suit pocket for a skullcap. “You will wear this kippah when we are eating and during our visit to Rabbi Koenig, yes?” kippah“Yes, of course,” I answered quickly. I was amazed how well my grandfather knew Williamsburg. I was about to head out when Grandfather added, pointing to a location on a map: “And Joel, there are additional activities on our schedule. At 4:00, you are to meet with Sgt. Fink, the Williamsburg Community Relations Officer at the 90th Precinct just here at Division and Lee. He will have materials for you to review. While you’re at the precinct, I will do my own perambulation of Yosele’s neighborhood.” “Wow, is that all we’re doing today?” I asked. “After my time at the precinct, we meet up and head home together?” “No,” Grandfather smiled, suddenly hurrying me toward the door. “At 5:30, every member of Yosele’s family is to be present at the Precinct for interviews. I will speak to each individually and expeditiously. Mr. Raskin is also making this arrangement with the family. Immediately after the interviews, we will determine our next actions.” I walked out of the underground Union Avenue exit of the Broadway Station into bright sunlight. The temperature in the window of the Williamsburg Savings Bank read 90 degrees, unusually hot for late May. Dozens of posters littered the street or were attached to lampposts, mailboxes, garbage cans, storefront windows, and entrances to apartment buildings. I picked one up and saw the same picture that Raskin had given us in Grandfather’s office, a little boy’s face smudged with a city’s grit along with “missing” and the Shomrim’s’s contact information. The poster promised a $500 reward for his safe return. I stuffed a poster into my shirt pocket and walked a short distance south to Boerum Street intending to make my way to Yosele’s school and then retrace the path to where he lived. While I noted a mixed ethnicity, particularly of Hispanics, Blacks, and Asians with a mélange of languages, my eyes and camera that I carried at my ready were on the ultra orthodox Jews that heavily populated Williamsburg. Pictures I later reviewed with Grandfather showed a man walking determinedly alone, head and back bent forward, looking neither to the left or right, as if he were shielding out distractions to his mission. Another caught two men facing each other in heated discussion. I got close enough to hear their conversations in Yiddish, which I understood much better than I spoke. They were discussing the price per pound of used clothing shipped out of the country. Two other men nearby were in passionate Talmudic debate which I could not follow at all. Neither pair took notice of me. Most of the men wore large black fedoras over curled ear locks, some to the chin, and full beards. Despite the day’s heat, black frock coats over fully buttoned white shirts came down to their knees over baggy black pants and black shoes, quite a contrast to my floral shirt and stovepipe pants that were tight to my knees and slightly flared at my ankles. Married women appeared in groups of at least three and wore coiffed wigs under kerchiefs or dark berets. Each, for the sake of modesty, was outfitted in a long-sleeved blouse and ankle-length skirt that barely exposed stockinged legs. Some rocked baby carriages or dealt with the tugs of young children as they discussed food prices, children’s ailments, or the plight of certain still-unmarried friends. There were no school-aged children with them. After all, it was late morning on a school day. The women also took no note of my picture taking. But at Boerum and Lorimer, my eyes and camera lingered on a group of five girls in what I pegged as their late teens or very early twenties. Each wore white, long-sleeved blouses buttoned to the neck and black or navy skirts falling below the knee to stockinged mid-calf. Each had pinned long hair of different hues, not wigs as Grandfather later explained, which was required only after marriage. When I eased close enough, I heard them speaking giddily in a combination of English and Yiddish about marriage prospects of various acquaintances. I found each attractive. I never shared this thought with Grandfather, but I arrogantly romanticized their falling for my alluring modern look and escaping from arranged marriages to the pale, old world-looking young men who passed by. When I pointed my camera and took the picture, one of the girls with shiny red hair noticed and pointed me out to her friends. Immediately they linked arms and walked in the other direction from me. As they did so, the red head turned and glared contemptuously at me. Embarrassed, I increased my pace and headed east the few blocks on Boerum to Yosele’s school, taking photos of a mixture of structures along the way: high-stooped brownstones that were probably grand decades before, a hardware store, a grocery, a fruit market, a three-story building claiming to be the Breslau Pickles Building, and a four-story apartment building. As I crossed Leonard Street, on the north side of Boerum, a decaying large structure with a large sign hanging over a façade of broken windows exclaimed Williamsburg Can Co. Breslau Pickles BuildingWilliamsburg Can Co.But what stopped me right before Yosele’s school was music pulsating out of a double-spired brownstone church with a high, brightly colored sign indicating Life of the World Church—Pentecostal Puerto Rican and right below, faded but still visible, the etching of First Methodist Church of Williamsburg. Probably as part of a mid-week service, the blend of guitars, maracas, and piano filled the street, and with my high school knowledge of Spanish, I made out the repeated lyrics of “Dios abre nuestros ojos”—God open our eyes. Life of the World Church—Pentecostal Puerto RicanFirst Methodist Church of WilliamsburgAs I moved just a bit further east on Boerum to the edge of the building that housed Yosele’s school, the church music and the hum of a few hundred voices in Talmud study played against each other, neither vying for center stage. The school’s three-story light brown brick building looked well maintained. Concrete steps with a rail in the middle rose to a first-floor entrance framed by thin Doric columns. A half-moon window sat over two closed oak doors. and over that lay a white sign giving the name of the school. I glanced at my watch and saw it was noon. Then the doors burst open, and a swarm of boys ran down the steps. Some stopped to eat their lunch along a railing that fronted the school almost to Manhattan Avenue, while others took over the street to play punch ball. Dodging cars and sometimes causing them to come to sudden halts, they ran to bases designated by certain parked cars. I was an avid baseball fan, and having often played punch ball in my Flatbush neighborhood, I smiled hearing the slap of a ball followed by a call in Yiddish of “Leif, Moti, leif,”—“Run, Moti, run.” I wanted to join in their play, and as I snapped a picture, I became distracted from why I was there. But that distraction didn’t last long. I felt a large hand on my right shoulder from behind. I spun around to look at a bear of a man, well over six feet and probably around 300 pounds. with a black, bristly beard, ear locks, and black fedora. “What are you doing here on this block, and why are you taking pictures?” he asked in unaccented English. His voice was not at all threatening, but it didn’t have to be given his size compared to my 5’8” and 135 pounds. “I’m part of a criminal investigation,” I answered looking up and trying to exude coolness. Extending my hand, I added, “My name is Joel Gordon.” Later at the deli when I recounted what happened, my grandfather complimented me on my quick thinking. I was afraid that he would ask me for identification, but instead, after shaking my hand, he nodded, turned, and walked away. Grandfather was sure that the man thought I was a police officer looking for the little boy and did not want to appear obstructionist nor overtly helpful. “It is their way,” Grandfather explained. “You will come to understand more fully as our work progresses.” I headed back toward Broadway and Union, passing by Lindsay Park on the right. The park took up a whole block between Leonard and Lorimer Streets. I entered the park and took two pictures of older boys playing handball and basketball, mothers gathered in clusters around children and strollers, men on a grassy area kicking a soccer ball, and young couples sitting closely together on park benches. Later, at the deli, I pointed out to Grandfather that there appeared to be no ultra orthodox Jews in the park. “Yes, that’s a good observation, Joel. The park is issur, out of bounds for the ultra orthodox. They especially do not want their children exposed to, let us call it, the more liberal behavior of others.” issur“So they reject all the advances that modern life has brought us?” Grandfather did not hesitate, and his voice rose. “What advances, they would counter, pointing to the s*******r of millions just 30 years ago in the h*******t?” At Boerum and Broadway, I took note of Epstein’s Deli, where I would meet Grandfather. I replaced the first roll of Polaroid film and turned right for a hundred yards and then north on Union. Since I had only 12 shots on my second roll, I decided to conserve my picture-taking to Jewish establishments, a total of eight. Each Jewish establishment announced itself in English and Yiddish: a combination kosher butcher and market with a neon sign blinking “GLATT KOSHER; ” a women’s wig store; a women’s dress shop with hats prominently displayed; a large men’s clothing emporium with double-breasted suits in the window and advertising “100% wool”; a caftan store with its wares presented in black or gray gabardine or worsted; a men’s hat store that featured mostly fedoras but also shtreimels, rounded fur hats worn by some ultra orthodox Jews on the Sabbath and holidays; a religious bookstore with large tomes in the window along with ritual items; a linens mart emphasizing tablecloths and lace embroideries. shtreimelsThinking Grandfather would want a full inventory that also included non-Jewish establishments, I took from my knapsack a notebook and Bic pen and wrote down: A Russian Orthodox Church with three onion spires that took up a quarter of the street’s west side near S. 5th; a candy store, a bodega, multiple fruit and flower markets, an insurance agency, two law firms, one specializing in visa cases and the other personal injury, a liquor store, a Chinese take out, and a small Bohack Super Market. S. 5th hit Union at a 60 degree angle, so I turned left and made my way to 468 on the right side. It was a three-story edifice with four rectangular windows facing the street on both the second and third floors. Rusted steel fire-escape ladders hung down from the far right windows. Both sides of the street, up to the Hewes intersection, had similar looking apartment buildings of three or five stories. The street and sidewalks were fairly clean for Brooklyn at that time, with a smattering of graffiti on the bottom floor of some of the buildings on the left side of the street. Things were very quiet, unlike the bustle described by Yosele’s brothers when they arrived home on the day he went missing. Here, S. 5th was a one-way street, with few cars passing from Hewes to Union. I noted two elderly women pushing wheeled shopping carts and several more mothers with young children. I took photos and found myself relaxing, but Grandfather’s crackling words of “a young child is missing” brought me back to my task and to my watch dial. It was 1:40, time to head back to meet Grandfather for lunch. I had hoped to discover something that had been missed. But nothing. It was as if Yosele Rosenstock had disappeared into thin air. I arrived ten minutes early, but Grandfather was already at Epstein’s, seated in a two-person vinyl booth. He saw me in the doorway and motioned me to put on my skullcap. At the height of lunch hour, all of the tables were taken, mostly with Jewish diners, but I also spotted a few Black and Hispanic workmen. The retail counter had salamis, bolognas, pastramis, corned beefs, and stuffed dermas hanging from ceiling hooks, and its glass case held an assortment of prepared foods. There was a long line of customers holding paper numbers. I slid into the booth opposite my grandfather. The pickles and sour tomatoes piled into a steel bowl in the middle of our table took my appetite from hungry to ravenous. While we talked, I devoured a corned beef on rye with two Dr. Brown’s cream sodas, but Grandfather ate his turkey breast on wheat with lemoned water much more slowly. I handed Grandfather the 24 Polaroids which he sorted into three piles. Shuffling through the first pile, Grandfather pronounced: “In these photos, you are showing me pictures of the few blocks Yosele would have traversed between his school and where Boerum meets Broadway. I take note that all of the pictures are of the Boerum’s north side. Is it possible you may share with me what went into your judgment not to show the south side? That aside, what do you remember of the south side?” Even though Grandfather had spoken gently, I was stung and answered rapidly and testily. “Well, Raskin’s report said that children at the school saw Yosele bolt down Boerum on the north side, and I was thinking he had no reason to cross the street, which would have delayed his getting home. Besides, the south side between his school and Leonard didn’t have anything to draw him over. Just a few apartment buildings, an auto repair garage, and a large, empty lot. Make sense?” Grandfather maintained his gentle tone. “At this time, very little makes sense to me. But is that not the way good detective work progresses? Do we not at first gather the information upon which our critical analysis skills are employed? Our immediate problem is that we have so little time. A little boy is missing. And as we assess, can we be sure that Yosele’s intent was to go directly home? “Also, Yoeli, there are no pictures of Broadway past the Union Avenue. Did you happen to walk further in that direction in case Yosele missed the turn to Union and found himself lost shortly after?” I hadn’t, and I was now caught twice with my thinking-pants down. Picking up the second pile of the Union to S. 5th pictures along with the written list of non-Jewish establishments, Grandfather nodded approvingly. He explained that the men’s clothing store advertised “100% wool” to assure compliance with the Orthodox injunction against mixing fibers, which I knew by myself, but I didn’t resent his explanation. “Good, Yoeli, good.” Grandfather smiled, setting down the Polaroids and note paper. “But I doubt Yosele disappeared along Union Avenue. According to Raskin’s report, every establishment and resident was interviewed. Of course, I may be wrong, but unless something is being hidden, someone would have seen the boy running at a time when so many shopkeepers were at their storefront encouraging customers to enter.” I nodded. “That makes sense.” Grandfather picked up the third pile of photos. “Let us move on to Yosele’s neighborhood, yes.” I had taken three pictures of the Rosenstock building from first floor to roof line and one picture of the three-story 469 S. 5th building across the street to show how similar both sides of the street looked. “Do you think so?” asked Grandfather. “Look carefully.” He spread the four S. 5th Street pictures before me. “Is there not one remarkable difference between the building at 469 and all the buildings on the right side of the street?” Of course, now plainly staring me in the face, I saw it. “The 469 building has a TV antennae on it,” I said enthusiastically, “and as I remember, so did the other buildings on that side of the street, but the buildings along the right side of the block where the Rosenstock house is situated, none has an antennae.” “Yes.” Grandfather beamed. I felt like kicking myself for not picking up something so obvious on my own. “Everyone who lives on the right side of the block doesn’t watch television? Could that be right?” It seemed incredible. “Yes, you are correct,” Grandfather replied giving me back some of my dignity. “Where the little boy lives is a mixed block, with one side ultra orthodox and the other side not so. If you go around the surrounding neighborhood, you’ll see some other streets mixed just like this one, some all ultra orthodox residents, and some without any ultra orthodox. And if one did not wish to spend much time observing this phenomenon, then the presence of TV antennae provides an indication.” “And why no TV watching,” I asked even though I mostly knew the answer. “Ah, because it is the firm belief of the ultra orthodox leaders that television provides unwanted secular distractions that tempt one away from the prescribed religious path. Like the Amish, they believe to survive in a vastly secular world, they must maintain their differences or succumb to assimilation.” Grandfather’s explanation washed over me, making sense and not making sense. But before I could react, he looked at his watch and said: “Shortly, we must leave to see Rabbi Koenig. But let us take five minutes for you to share your thoughts with me. Then, on the way, I will tell you how I am acquainted with Rabbi Koenig.” “My thoughts?” I came back plaintively and a bit uneasy. “But I haven’t put anything together yet.” “Ah Joel, I did not ask for conclusions, which your instincts correctly are declaring as premature. Tell me what paths might we pursue to find the boy.” “Ok, here goes,” I began marshaling my focus. “On his way home, he was somehow stopped and abducted?” “Yes, possibly, and for what purpose?” “Well, for one, ransom, but I guess no ransom demands have been made. So no.” Here I stopped, perhaps because I felt uncomfortable or that I might make Grandfather uncomfortable about my next conjecture. “Something else?” Grandfather prompted. “Yes, there are perverts in the world. Maybe he was lured away for that purpose.” “You are referring to p********a,” Grandfather said calmly. “That possibility did enter my mind, yet without coming to a conclusion, how do you assess the probability?” “Low,” I responded quickly. “If Yosele was motoring his way home with his brothers on his heels, he wouldn’t be an easy target to stop. Just a few minutes’ delay would have allowed his brothers to spot him. As we said, the streets were full of people at that time in the afternoon. Even a p*****t wouldn’t take such a chance.” Grandfather reflected for a moment. “Yes, I agree, but let us not at this point rule out any possibilities. Those you term as “perverts” are known to take risks. What else is on your mind? I still felt sheepish for my failure to take Polaroids of Boerum’s south side and Broadway past Union, so I threw out: “He was observed running down Boerum on its north side, so as I said, I don’t think he crossed over because there’s nothing there that would have tempted him. But maybe he never turned up Union from Broadway and instead kept going, got lost, and fell into bad hands.” The thought of p********a reentered my mind, and I shuddered inside. “It is possible as you now suggest that Yosele continued on Broadway, but why? Raskin’s report indicates the addresses of all Rosenstock relatives, and none is located to the west of Union. Why would he deviate from the route he had taken hundreds of times since he began school? I have a notion why he left on his own, and I will verify it when we speak to the family tonight. But just in case, let us call Mr. Raskin from a pay phone on our way to Harrison Avenue and ask him to send men to ask questions on Broadway west of Union. Again, what else?” “One more hypothesis, Zaida. I saw statistics that the case of a missing child is usually solved close to home. Maybe Yosele did make it home and encountered a violent reaction from his mother or father. A smack to the head that unintentionally killed him? I know the police went through the Rosenstock apartment and basement and found nothing, but in the few hours the family say they were looking for Yosele, maybe they found a way to dispose of the body.” “Certainly a possibility,” Grandfather acknowledged, looking sad. “But any other thoughts, Yoeli?” I shook my head, even though I felt that Grandfather had dismissed my last conjecture too quickly. Grandfather rose, removed his skullcap, and put on his fedora. “Then let us proceed to Rabbi Koenig’s residence. We have just enough time to arrive without being late.” Linking his arm through mine as we walked, Grandfather recounted. “I grew up with Rabbi Koenig in Leopoldstadt, a very Jewish section of Vienna, then home to many of the ultra orthodox. Moshe was the third son of Rabbi Herschel Koenig, the fourth generation leader of a Hasidic movement with adherents not only in Vienna but also throughout Hungary and northwest Rumania. “Since he was the third son, there was no thought that he would inherit the leadership position upon his father’s death. Therefore, after much imploring by Moshe, his father permitted him to attend university under three conditions: he would focus his studies on mathematics and the sciences; he would spend a minimum of four hours a day studying Jewish texts assigned by his father; he would be quizzed regularly and accept rabbinical ordination if worthy. To this Moshe readily agreed and kept his word. That is where I became friends with him, during both of our studies at the university. “He earned a degree in electrical engineering and soon became the head of the Vienna Electrical Power Commission. He was credited with bringing reliable lighting to every neighborhood and electrical energy to every store and factory. By 1930, widely recognized for his achievements, he left Vienna’s employ to become an electrical consultant to cities throughout Europe including Berlin, Frankfurt, Paris, and importantly for what I am telling you, Geneva, where he, his wife, and two children found themselves on March, 12, 1938, that terrible day, when the Nazis marched into Vienna. “During the short period of time in 1938 and 1939 when the Nazis permitted Austrian Jews to emigrate, Moshe brought out his two younger sisters, but his father, believing the events to be just another episode in the millennial history of hatred directed at Jews, would not leave, saying he must stay with his adherents until this latest phase of Anti-Semitism receded. His two older brothers refused to abandon their father and mother. “Of course, no receding occurred, and soon World War II and the full h*******t ensued. Moshe’s family in Vienna was sent to Dachau and Buchenwald, where they were murdered.” I reflexively squeezed Grandfather’s arm guessing that the Rabbi Koenig narrative must have brought back awful memories of Grandfather’s own tragic experience during the War. But Grandfather went on in a steady voice. “After the War, Moshe started hearing from remnants of his father’s adherents around the world, especially a few hundred in Williamsburg. Some asked, some begged, some demanded that as the remaining son of their rebbe, he assume the mantle of leadership. Whether he agreed willingly or reluctantly, I have no knowledge. He arrived in the United States in 1949 and settled in Williamsburg. Today, his adherents are projected to number around twenty thousand.” rebbeWe reached 62 Harrison Avenue, Rabbi Koenig’s residence, and Grandfather stopped speaking. I had not said a word during the seven-minute walk, as I usually didn’t when in those few instances Grandfather or my mother spoke of the h*******t. As much as I wanted to say something, ask questions, I didn’t know how. Two ailanthus trees, one in the front and one to the right, set off Rabbi Koenig’s building. The trees’ light grey bark, reddish twigs, and bronze leaves complemented the immaculately maintained purplish-gray masonry of the three-story brownstone. The windows of the basement and first floor and the front glass double doors displayed decorative bars that muted the reason for their installation and a sense of danger. As Grandfather and I climbed the stone steps to the front door, Grandfather stumbled slightly, but he waived me off when I extended my hand. I rang the bell, and a stooped, elderly man opened the door and asked of my grandfather in Yiddish: “You are Velvel Franck?” my grandfather’s name in Europe before he came to the United States and changed it to Frank Wolf. Grandfather nodded, and the man opened the door wider to let us in. Later, Grandfather explained that the man was Rabbi Koenig’s ‘beadle,” an old fashioned term even back in 1973 for being the rabbi’s administrative assistant, especially in regulating the flow of visitors constantly seeking an audience with the Rebbe. Rebbe.His adherents would come for various reasons: blessings for an upcoming marriage; prayers for the birth of a child after a few years of what was called back then, “barrenness”; problems with children; mediation of business disputes; answers to complex religious questions; blessings for medical recovery; depression; challenges of faith. We entered a long, dimly lit vestibule. Spindle-back wooden benches lined both sides of the hallway with an oak door straight ahead. “Come with me,” the beadle directed. A young couple, about my age, dressed in the ultra orthodox fashion and wearing wedding rings, sat on a bench to the left near the oak door. They looked up with anticipation. Without stopping, the beadle said, “You will be next.” At the door, he knocked and stuck his head in. “Velvel Franck and his grandson have arrived.” Seconds later, he opened the door wider and motioned us through. The door closed behind us. Rabbi Koenig sat in a large green armchair. He was a big man with a long, flowing white beard and curled ear locks that came down almost as long as his beard. But what I remember most was that he wore no glasses, and his grey eyes exuded a pleasantness that drew me to him. Although it was mid-afternoon, the large window at his back was enclosed in heavy drapes and several lamps provided ample light. The large desk behind him was heaped with books. Packed bookcases lined each wall from floor to ceiling. Everywhere my eye passed, I took in religious works—biblical texts, various publications of the Talmud, and countless tomes of commentary. One smaller bookcase in the far right corner of the room held multiple volumes of the Encyclopedia of Science, 1972, texts with German titles, and (because I owned my own similar looking copy), John F. Kennedy’s Profiles in Courage. Encyclopedia of Science, 1972, Profiles in CourageRabbi Koenig did not rise when we entered. Instead, he threw his hands open wide in greeting and pointed for us to sit on two smaller chairs that flanked him. “Velvel, we have not seen each other since before the War.” The Rabbi spoke softly to Grandfather in Yiddish. “You suffered greatly and lost Rivkah. I heard and I am sorry.” He then smiled at me and in barely accented English said. “This is your grandson, your daughter Malkeh’s son, I assume? He looks just like her.” “Yes, Moshe, this is my beloved grandson, Joel. And he does look like Malkeh.” “Then Joel, I hope you also have your mother’s soul, which I had the honor of watching flourish when she was a child.” He then turned from me, looked at Grandfather, and reverted back to Yiddish. “Nuh Velvel, from a professor of philosophy in Vienna to a private detective in Brooklyn, how does it happen? And if I may add, an excellent one. I heard of your success in finding the truth about the death of the butcher in Boro Park. A tragic occurrence.” Sadness spread out from my grandfather’s eyes. “The Nazis, may their deeds be blotted out forever, destroyed the records of every Jewish faculty member at the university. So when I came to this golden land, I could not demonstrate the required credentials to teach. I at first worked as a guard at the 42nd Street Library and then found a profession that best matched my love of Yiddishkeit, philosophy, the exploration of the human mind and soul, along with the use of critical analysis skills. And that profession for me is being a private detective.” YiddishkeitGrandfather’s sadness carried to Rabbi Koenig’s eyes. “And here you are after all these years to see me in your official capacity as a private detective assisting in trying to find Yosele Rosenstock. I am certainly glad to see you, but how can I help?” Grandfather got right to the point. “First, Moshe, if you know anything about what happened to Yosele, you will tell me? A precious little boy is missing. I feel he is still alive, but time to save him may be running out. Second, please put out the word to your community that they are to cooperate in the investigation. The Shomrim went store to store and house to house, and your followers hide, are silent, or are angry that there is possibly an insinuation that he has been harmed by someone in the community. Third, I will be interviewing Yosele’s family at 5:30. Please tell them to be fully open.” I couldn’t believe Grandfather had spoken so bluntly, and I watched Rabbi Koenig intently. I expected a burst of anger in response, but instead Rabbi Koenig’s eyes expressed acceptance. “I give you my word, Velvel, that I have no knowledge of what happened to the boy. And that my community also does not know. They believe he fell prey to an outsider. But I had lived in the greater world beyond these few Williamsburg streets and know that any individual or group can perpetrate an evil act, including my own. I promise, I will immediately request full cooperation be given, and I will personally call the Rosenstock family.” Rabbi Koenig halted and put his hand out for Grandfather to shake. “It was nice seeing you again, Velvel, even under these circumstances.” Rabbi Koenig then looked toward me and said in English: “I wish you luck, happiness, and prosperity.” The Rabbi remained seated and once again threw his hands open, this time to indicate our need to leave. “If you will excuse, there is a young couple waiting to see me who have been married three years without the joy of a child joining them. I must speak to them.” Once outside, Grandfather and I separated. I headed to Division and Lee, and Grandfather walked back towards Union and Broadway. Stopping to take in the red, three-story terracotta 90th Precinct building, I guessed it was built in the late 19th century with eye catching artistic features of ironworks, stained glass windows, and gargoyles both catching rain at the roof edge and sending signals to miscreants. With what must have been an attempt at historical preservation, the driveway to the left of the building through which police cruisers were steadily moving contained an archway that read “To the Stables.” As I walked up the six concrete steps to the weathered wooden doors, I was buffeted by streams of people going in and out. Inside, a din of plaintive voices filled a long hallway with men, women, and children sitting along benches oddly like those in Rabbi Koenig’s home. Victorian wall sconces, peeling, yellow paint, and two chandeliers lit the way toward a high reception desk with two officers dealing with a long line of people. I stopped at the end of the queue. It was already 3:50. How long would it take to ask for Sgt. Fink? I need not have worried as seconds after I began my wait, I heard, “You, back there, Mr. Stovepipe Pants, are you Gordon?” When I shouted, “Yes,” a rotund officer behind the desk beckoned me forward. “Sgt. Fink is waiting for you!” he barked at me, already looking at the next person in line. “His office! Room 29! Second floor!” He gestured toward a curved, ornate staircase. A short man, around 40 and built like a weight lifter, opened the door to my knock. The name plate on Room 29’s door indicated that this was the office of Sgt. Max Fink, Community Relations Officer. “Joel, right?” Fink greeted me and handed me a manila folder. “C’mon in and have a seat. That’s the Rosenstock family file I prepared for you.” He had a wide, clean shaven face, was crisply dressed in a police uniform, and exuded cologne popular in those days. I liked him instantly. I liked him even more when he said: “The way you and your granddad figured out the Stein killing last year, that was brilliant. My friend Marty Kramer over in the 66th in Boro Park told me that it saved them a good deal of money and energy chasing down bad info and irritating the hell out different ethnics. Well done, and I’ll tell your granddad myself when he comes by a little later to do the Rosenstock interviews.” I was emboldened to ask, “Before I start reviewing the file, what does a community relations officer do?” “Well, it’s something new the department introduced a few years ago, basically to help us understand the people in our precinct and to help them understand us. There’s a couple of us in the 90th, and my focus is on the Jewish community, which now is basically the ultra orthodox, what most officers call ‘the bearded ones’.” “‘The bearded ones.’ Huh. Hard job?” Fink chuckled. “Yes and no.” “Can we start with the ‘no’?” Fink sat down behind a small desk and motioned me to sit across from him. “Sure. You see, there’s no real crime coming out of the communities I deal with, and I say communities because there’s probably ten ultra orthodox groups, each loyal to its rebbe. There are no gangs, juvenile delinquencies, robberies, surface violence, p**********n, or numbers running. They hardly bother us with any conflicts which they take to their rebbes. We’ll get involved when they suffer assaults or break ins by those they’re sure are outsiders.” rebberebbesAnd here Fink smiled broadly. “And some times we get involved when we come across a fistfight on the street between men or even groups of kids—different factions all worked up about some interpretation of Jewish law or perceived insult to a rebbe. But nothing will come of it because no one ever presses charges or blames the other for starting the row.” rebbe“And the ‘yes’?” “Well, when something like this happens, they retreat into themselves. It’s as if they don’t know whether to be more afraid of us or criminals. When we make inquiries, apartments go dark and knocks on doors aren’t answered. If they do answer, we get one-word responses. And I often think because I’m also Jewish and not as observant as them, they hold me in disdain and clam up even more.” I nodded. “I see.” “One other thing. You notice I said ‘surface violence’?” I hadn’t but covered myself with, “I think so, please go on.” Fink pointed to the file I was holding. “Stuff always goes on behind closed doors, and we know domestic violence against women and children occurs within the ultra orthodox—as in any society. But with them, it’s never reported or acknowledged even when it clearly happened. Take a quick look through the Rosenstock file and tell me what jumps out at you.” The folder contained copies of a few documents: a 1955 Brooklyn marriage certificate in the names of Yaakov Rosenstock (born in Hungary in 1930) and Leah Lavonsky (born in Rumania in 1935). There were two traffic citations for Yaacov, a slew of unpaid parking tickets, and a summons for Yaacov to appear in traffic court to pay outstanding tickets and court costs. But what stopped me cold were records of visits to the Kings County Hospital emergency room by Yosele Rosenstock in 1970 and 1972 and an attempt by Miriam Bender, MSW, to visit the Rosenstock home following Yosele’s second emergency room visit. In the first, Yosele was treated for a broken arm that the mother—with Yosele’s confirmation—said occurred “when he slipped in the tub.” The second, also claimed by mother and child, was for a concussion incurred by “jumping from a couch while playing and hitting his head.” The report also indicated that a Dr. Pasquale referred the injury to Children’s Protective Services for possible child a***e. On Children’s Protective Services letterhead, Miriam Bender wrote in long hand: “Tried to visit on: 3/20, 3/22, 3/24, 1972. No answer to buzzer request for entry. Spoke to neighbors who said they did not know the Rosenstocks.” “I looked up. “So you think Yosele was hit each of these times, probably by his father?” Fink looked angry. “Yeah, I think. But like I said, they never come forward and let us help them. Really frustrating.” I thought for a moment. “Obviously, the father has a car.” “Yep, a ’69 Buick station wagon. That’s in the traffic documents.” Coming back to the theory I had earlier shared with Grandfather, I said: “So the father may have lost his temper when he found out Yosele scampered home by himself, hit him too hard causing his death, and then hid his body in his car and dumped it in, say, Red Hook.” Fink snorted out a laugh. “You’ve been reading too much Daily News. I don’t know about Red Hook, but yeah, what you say is possible.” Daily News “So Yaacov Rosenstock is your main suspect?” Fink looked resigned. “I guess, since I don’t have another one. Let’s see what your grandfather can get out of them.” I heard a knock on the door and looked up. It was Grandfather with Avi Raskin. “If it is acceptable to you, Sgt. Fink,” Grandfather said, “I’ve asked Mr. Raskin to both watch the interviews, which will proceed at a rapid pace, and then deliberate with us after as to next steps. An idea is crystallizing in my mind that will require immediate action if what I suspect is confirmed in the interviews.” “Of course,” Fink said springing up to lead the way to the interview room. “Avi is certainly welcome.” The interview room was also on the second floor away from Fink’s office. As we approached, we could see the Rosenstock family in the hallway, the father Yaacov pacing angrily, his wife Leah and daughter Dinah close together on one bench, Dinah clutching her mother’s hand, and the brothers Reuven, Shimon, and Levi sitting on an opposite bench. Reuven, tall with long legs tucked awkwardly under the bench, was wispy thin, his face pale with down fuzz. His eyes were riveted on a tiny, leatherbound book, to which his lips moved and his body rocked back and forth. He did not look up as we neared. Shimon and Levi, both dark haired and solidly built, were spitting images of each other except for Shimon being two-years bigger and already showing some face fuzz. They were poking and elbowing each other until they spotted us and quickly became still. Yaacov Rosenstock met us head on. In broken English, he sputtered looking at Grandfather. “We have received the call from our rebbe, and we will answer your questions.” And looking between Raskin and Fink, Rosenstock spat out: “But why are you standing here and not catching who took our Yosele. You must know it is an outsider, so I do not understand what you want with us. We already answered your questions many times.” Also in English, Grandfather responded. “Thank you for your coming and bringing your family. I think within a half hour, I shall be done speaking to all of you. Mr. Rosenstock, if you will, you first.” And looking at the rest of the family, Grandfather added: “When Mr. Rosenstock comes out, separately Mrs. Rosenstock, then Reuven, and after Shimon and Levi together, and last Dinah.” Grandfather pointed to a door to an interview room and motioned Rosenstock to follow him in. Fink nudged me and said, “this way,” so I followed him and Raskin to an adjoining observation room with a two-way mirror. Before entering, I looked back at the family and noticed a petrified expression on Dinah’s face. She clutched her mother more tightly. Reuven kept to his book, but the younger boys glared at Dinah as if she were a traitor in their midst. After Grandfather and Rosenstock were seated across a metallic, rectangular table from each other, Grandfather addressed Rosenstock in Yiddish, but more the street variety than the high Yiddish Grandfather had conversed in with Rabbi Koenig. “Please tell me, Mr. Rosenstock, who are the outsiders you believe took your child?” Rosenstock was immediately angry and flustered. “Who, who, you need to ask me who?” Grandfather paused for a moment. “Yes, I must hear the answer in your own words. Is it possible you mean non-Jews in the neighborhood? Might you also mean other Jews not in your community?” Rosenstock’s eyes spewed venom. “You are the famous detective that took away a poor woman’s money. Everything is possible, no?” “Yes, I agree with you. Everything is possible. Good then, to help me. Better, Mr. Rosenstock, if you will tell me about Yosele.” Rosenstock looked perplexed. “What is there to tell? He is a little boy, a wild little boy who doesn’t listen to his parents and teachers. I wouldn’t be surprised if he is at least partly the cause of what we’re going through.” Grandfather took a minute to thumb through the file Fink had put together. I smiled to myself. It must be for the sense of drama; Grandfather had looked at the file quickly when he had arrived. Grandfather returned the file to the table. “So, there are times you had to discipline the child, yes, even with paches, hitting him on different parts of his body?” paches“Paches never hurt a child; they only make him better,” Rosenstock snapped. Paches“And did Yosele become better after you sent him to hospital including giving him a concussion?” I held my breath when I heard Grandfather’s question. Surely Rosenstock would deny it. But he didn’t. “The boy is a wild creature. A few times I was too angry, but he recovered, did he not? And if you’re thinking I beat him Monday and killed him, you are not right and not much of a detective. I have no idea why the Rebbe insisted we meet with you. A waste of time.” RebbeI looked at Fink, who nodded as to say, “I got it for future action.” Grandfather was unfazed: “Then I thank you for your time, Mr. Rosenstock. Would you please ask your wife to come in?” Leah Rosenstock trudged into the interview room looking around wildly as if expecting some danger. As soon as she sat down opposite Grandfather, both of her hands fastened to the desk’s edge as if she feared being dragged away. Grandfather also addressed her in the same Yiddish. “A big thanks for your coming. You are safe. Our talk will not take long. Please, Mrs. Rosenstock, tell me about Yosele.” Mrs. Rosenstock did not hesitate. “He is a little boy, my baby, and I want him back. Please find him.” “We are trying, Mrs. Rosenstock, we are trying very hard, and you can help us. Again, please, tell me about Yosele. For instance, is he a happy child?” “I can help you by telling you if Yosele is a happy child!” she responded, looking bewildered by the concept. “He likes to play, a little too much, and he makes jokes, and he doesn’t like to study. I mean, he doesn’t like to study the religious subjects, but he enjoys the non-religious, which causes him trouble.” “And by ‘trouble,’ you mean with your husband, who beats him?” Mrs. Rosenstock’s hands gripped the table more tightly, and without looking at Grandfather said with little conviction: “All children need a pach from time to time.” pach“Paches that send your little child to the hospital with a concussion?” Grandfather retorted with an edge of anger. PachesMrs. Rosenstock looked around as if ready to flee. “They were accidents, I tell you. Yaacov didn’t mean he should hit his head. Accidents.” “And was there such an accident Monday night when your husband came home and discovered Yosele had run home by himself.” “No!” she shrieked in tears, “Yosele never came home. I swear to you and would not lie to you. The Rebbe instructed us not to lie.” Reuven’s interview took about five minutes. He walked in slowly, his head down, and stopped just beyond the threshold. Upon Grandfather’s urging, Reuven took a seat and returned his gaze to his prayer book. Not for one second did he take his eyes off the prayer book nor stop rocking. Grandfather said nothing for about 30 seconds, and then sticking to Yiddish, asked, “You are reading from Psalms?” Reuven nodded agreement. “Why Psalms and which one?” Grandfather inquired. Reuven’s rocking intensified. “Psalm 91, for Yosele’s safe return.” “‘There shall no evil befall thee,’” Grandfather quoted a line from the psalm, first in Hebrew and then in English for the benefit, perhaps, of Sgt. Fink. The Hebrew was easy to understand, even for me. Grandfather pushed on: “I see you worry for your brother. You like your brother, I imagine?” Reuven’s voice remained flat, as if all of his emotions were contained in his rocking. “No, he is a heretic. He does not walk in the path of righteousness.” “Thank you for answering honestly, and it would help me to understand if you told me why you believe he is a heretic?” “He does not like to study the right things, and he listens to profane music.” “Reuven, please tell me, your father sometimes hits him?” Reuven’s face showed momentary wonder as if he was filled with amazement that he had to say the obvious. “Yes, of course, because he is a heretic.” “Did your father hit Yosele Monday night for running home by himself?” Although he did not look up, for once Reuven answered emphatically: “I’m telling you, Yosele never came home on Monday!” Grandfather’s interrogation of Shimon and Levi was also completed quickly, as the boys sat nervously twirling their ear locks. Grandfather leaned toward the boys and spoke to them in English. “Children, please tell me the best you can, when you would walk to school and back with Yosele, how did he behave most days?” Shimon answered first with fury. “He’s a brat. He wouldn’t stay with us. He would run ahead.” “Or,” Levi interjected with equal vehemence, “he would stop and just stare at things, and we would have to wait for him.” “Ah, this is helpful,” Grandfather said enthusiastically. “And children, in particular, would he stop at any one place?” The boys caught Grandfather’s enthusiasm. “Yes,” both answered simultaneously. “At the entrance to the park, always at the entrance to the park,” Shimon continued. ‘What are you looking at?’ we would shout. ‘There’s nothing for you to see. It’s issur for us to enter. You know that.’” issur“Sometimes we would have to poke him to keep walking,” Levi added. “Thank you, children. You are good boys and very helpful to us in bringing your brother back home. Thank you. And now, would you be so kind as to please ask your sister to come in.” Dinah was shaking when she sat down. Grandfather broadly smiled at her and also in English said: “My child, you are bravely helping us find Yosele. You care for your brother, yes?” “I do, very much, and he for me. The others don’t know, but when we are alone, we talk about so many things, we laugh, and we sing.” “Ah, you sing together. What type of songs do you sing?” We could see Dinah relaxing a bit. “Oh, mostly religious songs.” “You say mostly, but I understand your family considers Yosele an apikores because he listens to profane music. I promise I will not tell your family, but I wonder, do you also sing non-religious songs?” apikoresDinah reddened. “Sometimes, he would hum beautiful tunes when we were alone, and I would ask him to teach them to me. I would ask him where he learned them, and he would say, ‘in walking around the neighborhood.’” “Ah, I am much interested. Do you remember any tune in particular?” Dinah did not think for long and began to sing in a gentle voice: “Hey Jude, don’t make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better. Remember to let her into your heart, Then you can start to make it better.” When she finished, she added: “Yosele may only be eight, but he feels so much. He said it was like a religious tune. He said Jude is the Jewish people waiting for the Messiah, and we can hasten his coming by not doing bad things and letting the good in.” “Yosele is a very clever boy, and in his way, he is also a very religious boy, no, Dinah?” “Yes, I believe he is,” she answered strongly. “And what you sang, it is a beautiful song by the Beatles, yes?” Dinah appeared surprised when she replied, “The Beatles, yes.” Grandfather leaned back and coupled his hands. “And so, my child, I have just one last question. Do you have a washer and dryer in your building?” Dinah looked as if she had just heard an odd question. She shook her head no. “Then where does your family do laundry?” “At the Laundromat on Montrose.” “Between Lorimer and Union?” Grandfather clarified. “Yes.” Grandfather stood and motioned Dinah that she could leave. “Thank you again. You have helped greatly in finding Yosele.” It was 5:50. In the hallway again, with the Rosenstock family departed, the three of us had many questions as Grandfather approached, particularly about the laundry. But we never asked as Grandfather immediately took charge with rapid bursts of his own questions and instructions. “I am sure Yaacov Rosenstock did not harm his son Monday evening,” Grandfather stated right off. “I have a strong suspicion as to what happened, but now quickly let us proceed to Sgt. Fink’s office, where I can share my thoughts and request information to support my premise. While I believe I know how Yosele disappeared, I do not know if he is still alive. Minutes are of the essence.” We were hardly through the door into Fink’s office when Grandfather addressed Avi Raskin: “You know the laundromat Dinah mentioned on Montrose?” “Yes, the Washomatic, why?” “Do you know who is the owner?” “I do, Arthur Reichman. He owns 24-hour laundromats all over Brooklyn and Queens. Why?” “Then Mr. Reichman would not be the daily operator of any one of his particular laundromats. Do you know the operator at the Montrose location?” “Yes, actually. His name is Moti Weiss. He’s at the laundromat good parts of each day and night, six days a week. The only day he doesn’t work is the Sabbath. He is known around the neighborhood as a meshugener, or,” and Raskin looked directly at me, “what you youngsters call a ‘nut case.’ meshugener“Here’s what I’ve heard said about him, some of it scuttlebutt, and its accuracy, I can’t attest to. Supposedly he was a nebishy, recluse of a kid who had a severe head injury when he was 10. Hit by a car, fell off a bike, and there are other versions. He couldn’t concentrate in school on religious or secular studies and didn’t get along with any family member, especially his father. Never completed high school and has gone from job to job until he stuck with managing the Washomatic a few years ago. He bounces around from one rebbe to another, denounces ultra orthodox Judaism as primitive and choking, and then seeks a rebbe’s forgiveness. He’s been married three times, orthodox mail-order arrangements, each for not more than a year. rebberebbe“And I seem to remember one time the Shomrim were called to mediate a dispute with neighbors. They claimed not only was he playing profane music but also playing very loud. He agreed to lower the volume, and that was that.” “And where does Mr. Weiss live?” asked Grandfather. “That I don’t remember,” Raskin responded reaching for the phone on Fink’s desk. “I wasn’t on that dispute visit. One quick call is all I need.” As we listened to Raskin’s conversation, Grandfather paced, which I rarely saw him do. “That’s right, Sruli,” we heard Raskin say, “a Moti Weiss, where does he live?” After a minute, “Yes, the one who runs the laundromat on Montrose.” Suddenly Raskin looked up amazed. As he wrote, we heard him say, “452 S. 5th. His father owns the whole building, and he has the basement apartment.” Raskin hung up the phone. The three of us looked at each other, and then at Grandfather. I couldn’t contain myself. “Zaida, that’s just down the block from where Yosele lives. You think this guy has him? How did you get on to him?” Grandfather moved toward a large street map of Williamsburg hanging on the wall behind Fink’s desk. “Very quickly I will explain.” “The interviews reinforced what in the business is called a ‘hunch,’ something viscerally experienced by the detective that must be corroborated with testimony and facts. “Joel, when we parted company, I slowly retraced the route between the school and the Rosenstock home and thought about Yosele’s character based on the police report. If he was headstrong, if he was curious, if he wanted to demonstrate independence, what might he do to elude his brothers?” Grandfather pointed to the map, his finger settling on Boerum Street at the entrance to Lindsay Park. “Yosele may not have known the formal principles of geometry, but he may have intuitively cut diagonally through the park to the Montrose Avenue to both evade his brothers and make it home before them. “So I tested my hypothesis and walked diagonally through the park and came out at Montrose and Lorimer. I then walked west on Montrose toward Union, and something struck me. There were no Jewish establishments on that block. What if Yosele had become disoriented? To whom would he turn? “I backtracked to each establishment and noticed a bearded man of about 40, thin, with a polo shirt with Washomatic lettering, fringes, and skullcap smoking a cigarette outside of the laundromat. Washomatic“I walked up and told him I was new to the neighborhood, and could I look inside at what machines are available. He stamped out his cigarette and walked me in. Toward the far end of Laundromat, there was a room marked PRIVATE. I walked as close as I could toward the back, and even with the din of the machines, I could hear the Beatles song Let it Be coming from the room. Let it Be“You know the Let it Be song?” I interrupted stupidly. Let it Be“Sha,” Grandfather snapped at me. He then resumed. “‘May an elderly man use your bathroom?’ I asked, pointing to the room. Had he let me in, my suspicions would have been assuaged. But he said firmly, ‘the facilities are only for staff, boss’s rules.’ So you may comprehend why with this encounter and now after the interview with Dinah, my suspicions fall heavily on this man?” Sgt. Fink rose quickly and picked up the phone. “I’ll get a SWAT team out there immediately.” Grandfather put a hand on Fink’s shoulder. “Please, do not Sergeant. While I am 95% certain Weiss is involved, I cannot take a chance that I am wrong. If a swat team rushes in and the man is innocent, nothing will convince the community that he is guiltless. Please, might just you with haste drive the four of us to the Laundromat. If he has Yosele, even, God forbid the boy is no longer alive, Weiss will not put up a resistance.” “Ok.” Fink pressed a button on his phone. Two minutes later we were outside of the precinct on Division Street getting into an unmarked black sedan. It was 6:05. When we pulled up in front of the laundromat, a man that fit Grandfather’s description of Weiss was at the entrance smoking. He eyed us warily as we got out of the car, obviously noting that Fink, in uniform and with g*n belt, was an officer. “Please,” Grandfather asked softly yet firmly of Fink before leaving the cruiser, “permit me to approach the man. He does not look armed or dangerous.” “Ok, but you never know,” Fink agreed, his hand on the g*n holster. “Avi, see if there are any customers inside and tell them it’s a police action and to leave immediately. I’ll keep watch out here.” Raskin dashed in without giving Weiss a look. Weiss made no attempt to stop him nor said a word. Within seconds, Raskin came out with two customers, who distanced themselves from the building. Grandfather walked up to Weiss, keeping eye contact with him. Fink, Raskin, and I were a few feet behind. Weiss just kept smoking and did not move an inch. “You,” Weiss exclaimed matter-of-factly. “I knew there was something suspicious about you.” Grandfather disregarded Weiss’ statement. “The little boy, he is still alive?” Weiss took several drags on his cigarette and sullenly looked away like a disobedient teenager. As the tension in me was about to explode, Weiss said: “It’s a good thing you came back when you did.” “Why Mr. Weiss?” Grandfather replied steadily. “Because,” and now he looked squarely at Grandfather and then at the three of us. “I would have killed him tonight. I didn’t know what else I could do.” You didn’t know what else you could do! I nearly erupted but kept silent. You didn’t know what else you could do!“And he is in the back office? The little boy is unharmed?” again Grandfather asked steadily. Weiss took another drag. “Yes, he’s there, handcuffed to the heavy desk.” Upon hearing, Fink motioned to Raskin to head back into the laundromat. Raskin was about to charge in when Weiss told him to stop as he took two keys out of his pants pocket and handed them to Raskin. “You’ll need these. The large one’s for the door, the smaller for the cuffs.” Raskin rushed in, and I moved away from Fink to stand closer to Grandfather. For a few minutes, no one spoke, and we heard the sounds of sirens approaching. Then Grandfather said: “Tell me Mr. Weiss, if I have surmised correctly, you were previously acquainted with Yosele, yes?” Weiss nodded. “I am guessing he had been to your apartment on various occasions where he became enamored with the secular music you played, yes?” Again agreement. In a soothing tone, Grandfather went on: “You have been lonely, and you enjoyed his company, but he never would stay long at your apartment, yes?” Weiss looked at Grandfather as if his secret self had been exposed. “After a few minutes, the kid would get nervous and want to leave. He said he was afraid he’d be found out and get a beating. I’d say, ‘stay just a little longer,’ but he’d always leave after a few songs.” “And last Monday afternoon, rushing home alone, lost, he bumped into you, did he not? How did you lure him into the back office?” Weiss showed no remorse nor hesitancy to answer. “There was no one else in the laundromat. After he told me what he was up to, I said I have some new Beatles songs if he’d like to hear them and then he could hurry home. That’s all it took. But when he got up to leave, this feeling of being left alone began strangling me, and I tried different ways to convince him to stay. But he insisted that he had to go. I had a pair of handcuffs in the desk drawer that I’d monkeyed with since I was a kid. Wasn’t hard, he’s so little. I grabbed him and cuffed him to the desk. He cried and begged me to let him go, that he’d be in big trouble, but I just I kept saying, ‘I’ll take good care of you, I will, I will.’” Like a child seeking self-exoneration, Weiss went on. “And I did. I got him a whole bunch of tuna sandwiches which I know he loves, but he didn’t eat much. I made him drink. I bought a brand new toothbrush and made him brush his teeth. Made sure he went to the bathroom regularly. And placed a cot by the desk so he could sleep. I slept in the armchair nearby. “I thought a day or two, and he’d get to like me a lot, that he would want to stay. But he kept whimpering and begging me to let him go. And then you showed up. Who are you, anyway?” “My name is Frank Wolf.” Weiss eyed Grandfather scornfully. “Like the private eye Frank Wolf who solved that Boro Park murder last year and cheated a widow out of her insurance benefit?” I could have slugged the man. Grandfather did not debate Weiss’ assessment. “Yes. But tell me, why would you have killed the boy tonight?” “Because he wasn’t going to love me, and I don’t mean in a sick way, after two full days, I wouldn’t have been able to explain why I didn’t bring him home. When you showed up earlier, my gut said I didn’t have much time left. So late at night, I was gonna suffocate him after he fell asleep, when he wouldn’t know what was happening, put his little body in a bag, and dump it some place far from here. That’s it.” “Yes,” Grandfather sighed, “that is it. It is often that simple.” Just then Raskin came out carrying Yosele, who was pale and shivering despite the warm evening. He squinted into the early evening light. “The boy is shaken,” Raskin said, “but I think ok.” He put Yosele down and bent toward the boy. In Yiddish, Raskin said: “Everything is now good. You’ll soon be with your family.” “An ambulance will be here soon to take him to Kings County for a once-over,” Fink let us know. Two police cars pulled up, and four officers rushed over. Fink informed Weiss that he was under arrest for the k********g of Yosele Rosenstock and read him his rights. Weiss was then handcuffed. As I watched him being led away to a car, I was taken aback by the presence of dozens of ultra orthodox, men, women, children, standing on the sidewalk onto the street. When they saw Weiss being taken away, I heard various epithets in English and Yiddish being hurled his way. As the ambulance pulled up, the Rosenstock family arrived, shouting Yosele’s name. Yosele staggered forward and climbed into his sister Dinah’s arms. A roar of satisfaction came out of the crowd. “Mr. and Mrs. Rosenstock,” Sgt. Fink called loudly as the family started walking toward the ambulance with Yosele, “expect that charges of child a***e may be filed against you with the District Attorney’s office. Someone from Social Services will be at your house tomorrow. Don’t pretend not to be home.” Fink turned to Grandfather and me, shook our hands, and said: “Thank you both. That was incredible detective work. The least I can do is get you home. An unmarked police car will be here in a few minutes.” Grandfather made as if to wave off the gratitude. “A little boy was missing. It was imperative we help. But suddenly weariness has overcome me, so if my young colleague concurs, we will accept your offer.” Raskin came over and bear hugged both of us. “May you be blessed and go from strength to strength in the work that you do.” I mouthed a quick thanks, and Grandfather nodded sheepishly. In the car with a partition between the back seat and the driver, we sat silently for a few minutes. I knew from last year not to be effusive about solving the case. I’m not very good about silence at such times, so I offered: “This was a tough one like last year, right Zaida? But at least Yosele is alive.” Grandfather placed his hand on mine. “Yes, in this case, a little boy in a grown man’s body was lonely to a point of desperation. One impulsive act almost led to taking the life of another lonely, missing child. Such tragedies often entail not grand planning, not mad scheming, not greed, not revenge, just a momentary impulsive act.” Grandfather squeezed my hand and sighed. “But yes, we can be joyful for a moment. Also, I am sorry I snapped at you in Sgt. Fink’s office when you asked about my knowledge of the Beatles. Every second the little boy was missing pressed on me. Of course I know the Beatles, since I am curious about all of your interests. I find that the Beatles are extremely talented. Perhaps after dinner, and with your mother home, we may listen to an album together?” I blushed and answered, “I’d like that.”
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