Part 47 (2/2)

CHAPTER 59.

It was a bl.u.s.tering, dreary, February day with remnants of a recent snow on the streets and walkways. Chava Sims, in full winter ensemble, trudged to the local market just three blocks from her home, the wind a.s.saulting her face. She berated herself for not having called for a delivery.

She had been home alone-the girls were in school and Pinchas was at work-and had needed to get out. The weather had kept her indoors for days, and though the house was large, richly decorated, and comfortable, to her it was confining.

It was a new home for them, purchased just the previous year, after Alfred had given Pinchas a sizable raise. It seemed Alfred was becoming more generous with age, or perhaps more penitent. Either way, it was a perfect dwelling for their needs, a one-family limestone row-house, primely located on the south side of Eastern Parkway, just two blocks east of the Lubavitcher main headquarters and synagogue. It was a dream-house, one any woman in the neighborhood would be happy to live in, yet Chava was miserable.

Once she turned southward from Eastern Parkway onto Kingston Avenue, the buildings s.h.i.+elded her from the easterly gusts. She was winded, but had only one short block to her destination. She pa.s.sed a row of stores, each under Lubavitcher proprietors.h.i.+p, noticing the posters hanging in virtually every window, pictures of the Rebbe smiling and waving, with bold lettering underneath, Mos.h.i.+ach Is Coming!

She recalled how a year earlier she had gone to the Rebbe for a blessing, and had stood in line for hours with hundreds of others, waiting to encounter the leader's magical presence. And when her turn had finally come, she was quickly ushered past him, people standing both in front and behind her, as he held up his hand, mumbled some words she couldn't hear, smiled, and handed her a dollar bill.

The dollar bill, which the Rebbe personally handed everyone who came before him, was a token of G.o.d's beneficence, a reminder that the Rebbe was G.o.d's messenger on earth. Chava had taken hers, and had placed it in her jewelry box for safe keeping, and for hope. Yet, a year had pa.s.sed since that day, and the blessing still eluded her.

Her marriage a sham, her parents practically impoverished, and her mother's manic depression worse than ever, Chava was finding it impossible to maintain her faith. She wasn't merely having misgivings, nor was she in a state of disbelief; she simply stopped trusting G.o.d. She no longer relied on Him, or harbored any pretense that the future held even the slightest promise. Her world was dest.i.tute, and any chance of salvation seemed dubious.

She entered the market, and was surprised-though she shouldn't have been-to find it crowded with young women. The neighborhood was inundated with new families, lots of children needing milk, diapers, and whatnot; lots of mothers unable to wait for a delivery. Chava took a hand-basket and went about her business.

It was a small grocery, but well-stocked with essentials. The owner, a large, overweight, balding Hasid, stood behind the checkout counter, listening to Hasidic tunes being played on WEVD, an AM radio station with afternoon Jewish programming. He seemed a happy sort, appreciative to have a store filled with customers on a day such as this.

Suddenly the man yelled out, ”Oh my G.o.d, Oh my G.o.d,” and all the women turned to see what was happening. His face was red, he signaled for quiet, and raised the volume on the radio. An emergency report came over the air: Chaya Schneerson, the 86-year-old wife of the Rebbe, had just died at New York Hospital.

The man began to weep, and one of the women near Chava gasped and fainted. Chava rushed to the woman's side to help, as did some of the others. It had all happened so quickly, it was too much to fathom. The Rebbetzin was dead.

The woman regained consciousness. Chava helped her sit up, and offered her some juice. The woman was grateful, but still distraught and breathing heavily. Chava continued to try and calm her.

The Rebbe and Rebbetzin had no children, which was one of the reasons many believed the Rebbe to be the Messiah. Since there was no heir to his position, he must surely be the last and, ipso facto, the Mos.h.i.+ach. Now, with the Rebbetzin's death, the final redemption was undoubtedly at hand, and Chava Sims, tears rolling down her cheeks, felt flames of remorse for ever having doubted.

Rachel Weissman removed her coat from the hallway closet and glanced at herself in the mirror on the inside of the door. She had been in for days with what had seemed to be the worst cold ever, and she looked haggard. The coughing and fatigue were unrelenting, but the Rebbetzin's funeral was not to be missed.

”I still say you shouldn't go,” Hannah said, putting on her own coat. ”You need to stay home and rest.”

”I'll be okay,” Rachel insisted, coughing with the words. ”It only happens when I talk,” she added.

Hannah looked at her, knowing nothing would change her mind.

Rachel feigned a smile. ”Please, Mama, don't worry so much. I'm a big girl.”

”A big girl who doesn't take care of herself. At least promise me you'll go to the doctor if that cough doesn't clear up in the next few days.”

”I promise,” Rachel said, hoping it wouldn't come to that. Hannah had been noodging her to see a doctor since the ”cold” had started, but Rachel had been resistant. ”It's just a bug,” she had insisted. ”I'll get over it.” She'd had enough of doctors.

They got downstairs, and stepped out into the chilling wind. Rachel placed her scarf over her mouth and walked silently with her mother. She tried to suppress her coughing so as not to alarm Hannah, but she couldn't. Hannah, feeling helpless, put her arm around her, trying to warm her.

They turned on Kingston Avenue, and were joined by a parade of hundreds walking towards the Rebbetzin's home on President Street, where the funeral procession would start. As they drew closer to their destination, they noticed the streets teeming with thousands of mourners. The crowd was at a standstill; this was as far as they would get. They stood and waited.

Many of the mourners were reciting Tehillim, Psalms, as was customary in such situations. Trying to forget the cold, Rachel reached into her pocket for the small leather-bound book her father had given her when she was a child. She opened it to what she considered an appropriate pa.s.sage for the circ.u.mstances, Psalm 130, and began reciting softly, ”A song of ascendance, from the depths I called out to You, G.o.d. Lord, listen to my voice, may your ears be attentive to the voice of my pleas. If you preserve iniquities, G.o.d, my G.o.d, who could endure . . .” It was a prayer of desperation, one with which she had become all too familiar.

She tried concentrating on the words, despite her coughing, and was managing until she suddenly began to feel breathless. She tried to relax, but it didn't work. She was gasping, and became frightened. Hannah noticed, and asked if she was okay.

”Yes, but I think you were right. It's too cold for me to be out. I'm going back home.”

”Come, I'll help you,” Hannah said, taking her arm.

”That's okay, I'll be fine. You stay here.” She didn't want to worry her mother, and she was hoping she'd feel better as soon as she got in from the cold.

”Are you sure?”

”Yes, I just need to rest. I'll be all right.”

Hannah was reluctant to let her go on her own, but Rachel insisted that at least one of them should attend the funeral. She rea.s.sured Hannah again, then went on her way. Although she walked the few blocks slowly, she had to stop twice to catch her breath. When she finally got home, she went directly to her room to lie down on the bed. She rested for an hour until she felt a bit better, got out of bed to go to the bathroom, and as soon as she took a few steps, she found herself short of breath again. There was no denying it, something was wrong.

Marcia Schiffman stood pensively, scrutinizing the X-ray for the umpteenth time, knowing in her mind and heart that the diagnosis was inescapable. She had already delivered the news to Rachel a few hours earlier, yet she kept looking and searching, hoping that she'd misread something. It was late at night and the office was empty, but she couldn't go home. She couldn't budge, couldn't take her eyes from the film.

She was never one for helplessness or desperation, but at this moment both were all she could feel. She had done her best to remain upbeat and positive when she'd explained it to Rachel and Hannah. ”It's a cancerous nodule in a lobe of the left lung, but it's operable. The mammogram shows no changes in the right breast, the blood work is fine, so we have good reason to believe it's contained to this area.”

It was always important to hold out hope for the patient. But it was also important to tell the truth, especially to a friend. So in response to Rachel's question about the possibility of future metastases to other places, she had responded, ”We don't know,” adding, ”I wish I could tell you more than that, but I can't.”

It had been the most trying dialogue she'd ever had with a patient, yet whatever she was experiencing, it was nothing compared to what lay ahead for Rachel. That much, she knew for certain. She also knew there was little she could do to protect her friend, beyond the usual medical treatment, the efficacy of which was equivocal, to say the least.

Marcia Schiffman thought about the future as she stared at the X-ray, and began to quiver. For the first time in many years, she felt a vulnerability she had thought she had overcome back in her childhood. And for the first time ever, she began to pray.

CHAPTER 60.

Although on the other side of Brooklyn, the neighborhood of Bensonhurst might just as well have been a million miles from Crown Heights. Bordering the Belt Parkway and Gravesend Bay on the southern edge of the county, its spotless, tree-lined streets were protected by an unwritten code, prohibiting ”undesirables,” and levying harsh penalties for even the slightest infraction. A final stronghold of mostly Italians, resisting the swells of integration hitting other neighborhoods, nothing occurring within its borders could bear the slightest relevance to the tempestuous happenings around it. Not until the night of August 23, 1989.

Joshua didn't learn of the incident until the following morning on his way to the office. It was a pleasant start to a summer day, mild but unusually dry; a welcome reprieve from the heat wave that had been plaguing the city for almost a week; more than enough reason to feel good.

He stopped at a newsstand, grabbed a paper, handed the proprietor a dollar bill and waited for change. Always with a smile and a hearty ”good morning,” the proprietor was a pleasant old black man-tall, thin, and gray. Joshua had patronized the same stand every morning for at least ten years, and hadn't spoken more than four words to the man. Today, it was different.

”You're really gonna like that one,” the man said sarcastically, pointing to the front page. ”Gonna like it a lot.”

Joshua looked down at the headline: Black Youth Killed by Whites; Brooklyn Attack is Called Racial. ”Holy s.h.i.+t,” he said, just loud enough for the man to hear. He started reading the article: A sixteen year old black youth was shot to death Wednesday night in an attack by 10 to 30 white teenagers in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, the police said.

”I told you, you were gonna like it,” the man said.

”Yeah, sure,” Joshua reacted, not even realizing what he was saying. He was in a daze and began to walk away, his eyes still on the article. He b.u.mped into one of the magazine piles, turned back, and said, ”Sorry.

”It's okay, nothing fell.”

<script>