Hush (22 page)

“Do you remember what happened to the Wiesfeld family when they reported Sruli’s
rebbe
to the police?” my mother continued. “Shimon, do you remember? Look at them today! Look what happened to them! Nobody goes near them! They can’t find schools for their children. Forget about it. I don’t care what you say. Think about your daughter! What happened, happened. The child is gone already. There is nothing to do. I absolutely forbid you to talk to the police ever again.”

More mumbling, arguing, and then soft crying. I fell asleep again.

Devory came to me that night. She came to me and everything was white. I was blind and I couldn’t see anything except for her face twisting sideways over her shoulder, dead. But then she was alive. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe because she was choking me. She was choking me with my jump rope. Her icy dead eyes were staring out of her face and she never smiled never smiled never smiled—her mouth like a red-painted line silent and dead dead dead. I couldn’t close my eyes, couldn’t breathe, had to see the blue glass eyes falling from her face all over in front of me. She was choking me choking me choking me—dead eyes cutting me into a million pieces.

I screamed a lot after that. Every night and sometimes in the day I would scream, huddled on the floor, and could not stop. My mother would cry, wring her hands, but my father would say, “Let her scream, she needs to scream,” and he would stand over me until I stopped kicking and let him hold me on his lap.

My mother told me they would take me to a good psychologist who could take away those terrible dreams. She would stop the dead eyes from falling all over.

Dear Devory,

Please read this letter. Please don’t ignore it because you are dead. I know you are mad at me. I know that it is my fault, and you can never forgive me. I know I am terrible. What I did then was so horribly wrong. But I was only nine. Now I am almost eighteen. I will never ignore you again.

Your best friend,

Gittel

Dear Devory,

Devory.

Devory.

D e v o r y.

I like writing your name. It makes you feel real, like you’re still here somewhere.

Your best friend,

Gittel

Dear Devory,

My brother’s getting married in six months. My parents are getting calls every day about me from the
shadchanim
. Devory, I don’t think I am going to give evidence. Not now. I’m sorry.

Gittel

After Pesach, when I returned to school, everybody wanted to know about Devory. I said nothing, because just as I got off the van at school, my principal was waiting for me at the school gates. She told me to come to her office. I sat behind her desk, but she sat right near me and held my hand in hers. She said that she knew it was hard for me, and that I must be very sad after what happened. But one day I would be happy again and have new friends. Then, holding my hand tightly, she looked into my eyes.

“It is very important that you understand not to talk to anybody in the class about what happened. Nobody will understand and they will only bother you about it, and most of all it is
loshon harah
—evil talk—because everyone will talk bad about Devory’s family. And you know what a big sin that is.
Loshon harah
could ruin people’s lives, and there is nothing we have to be more careful about. You can talk to any adult you want, like me, or your mother or father. They will help you as much as possible. I’ll tell the girls in the class that I do not allow anyone to talk about it. Devory was a very sick and sad girl and that’s what made her do what she did.”

“It’s not true,” I said. “Devory did it because she hated her brother.”

My teacher cleared her throat and smiled hesitantly. “Gittel, we don’t really know why Devory did it. But I just want you to try to remember what I said. It is very, very important not to tell any girl in the class anything about Devory.”

She then gave me three chocolate-chip cookies and walked with me back to the classroom.

After
davening
, my teacher announced that Devory wasn’t coming back because she had been very sick and Hashem had taken her away to heaven, where she would be happy.

During recess, I was eating Super-Snack at my desk when Chani came over to me and said that she heard her mother saying Devory was a little crazy and that’s why Hashem took her away. Hindy heard and quickly came over and said,
nuh-uh
, her mother said that Devory was jumping when the jump rope got stuck on her neck and she choked. Rivky, who sat right behind me, told Hindy that she didn’t even know what she was saying, ’cause her father said that Devory died in the bathtub by mistake. Esty said it was
loshon harah
and her sister said that nobody was allowed to talk about it. I walked away.

When my father came to pick me up from school, I asked him why everyone said that Devory was very sick, when she had been perfectly healthy. He said that Devory was sick, but a different kind of sick. She was a very sad girl and didn’t know what to do with her sadness, until it made her do what she did. I said it wasn’t true. Devory was only very sad because she didn’t want to sleep in the bed with her brother. My father nodded and said that when I grew up I would understand, and for now we would just try to forget the whole thing as best as we could.

My father came to school because he was taking me to a psychologist. He told me that the psychologist was a very nice lady who would help me forget things.

The psychologist
was
a nice lady. Her office was pink and full of nice pictures. But she wanted me to draw, and I wasn’t interested. She then explained to me that I was a big girl and she would try to help me understand what happened to Devory.

“No.”

“Depression,” she explained slowly, “means a terrible kind of sadness.”

“Devory did it because she hated her brother.”

The nice psychologist looked at me quietly for a long time. “Do you want to tell me what is in your dream?”

I said nothing.

“Do you want to tell me what Devory told you?”

I said nothing.

For a long time there was silence. Then she told me that if I didn’t talk or didn’t tell her how I felt and what I was scared of, I would never be able to forget.

I said nothing.

Dear Devory,

Today we started seminary. Summer is over, and most of our class is attending
Bais Yaakov
Teacher’s Training Seminar to learn how to become teachers for our schools. Today we learned that people who kill themselves don’t get to heaven. Is it true? We also learned that children under eighteen can’t go to hell. Where are you then? I am only asking you because I have no one else who is Jewish to ask. So I don’t know.

Gittel

The Goldblatt family was moving to Israel.

“Yes, there were difficulties,” I heard my mother explain on the phone that evening while I slurped on my bowl of soggy Cocoa Pebbles. “But,
Baruch Hashem
, everything was taken care of.
Agudath Yisroel
got involved and Chaim Cohen had connections with the police. Shmuli is in Israel already. They put him on a plane two hours after the police tried questioning him. Yes, of course it’s a lie! You know the police, the first thing they do is open investigations, make up stories! I’m telling you, instead of sympathizing with this poor family, the only thing they could do is give them another heart attack. You should have seen the men yelling at the police when they came. They did a good job keeping them out.
Oy,
these goyim, may Hashem erase their name.

“Yes, yes, only Miriam stayed. She’ll live with Itty Green. Of course you know, the aunt on Sixteenth and Forty-ninth. Anyway, so she’ll stay there till she finishes her senior year.
Nebech, nebech
. What could one do? That’s right, only Hashem knows. I don’t ask any questions these days anymore. I just say, Hashem, You are the master planner, I don’t understand what You’re doing, but I guess You know. Yes, these days. I’m telling you.… There’s just nothing to say. But that’s it, these are the times before
Mashiach
, the Messiah, and we can only
daven
and
daven
that He should come already.

“
Baruch Hashem
, she’s fine. I have nothing to complain about.… Yes, of course I’m going to the wedding tonight. Zisi will never forgive me if I don’t show up.… No, no, I’m wearing the navy dress. I look much better in it.
Oy
, in the gray I look like a hippopotamus. What are you wearing? Okay, good-bye.
Be’ezras Hashem
, you too, you too.”

I couldn’t sleep that night. I sat on top of the staircase and listened to my parents arguing in the kitchen.

“I can’t believe it, I just can’t believe it.”

“It’s true.” My father’s voice was tense. “I spoke with Mrs. Weinberg herself. She told me that her son has never been the same since. And that the
Rebbe
is still teaching in the most prestigious
litvish cheder
. Who didn’t she speak to? The principal, the teachers, the
Rebbe
. Even the police told her that they couldn’t help her. They said gathering evidence of molestation in the Orthodox community was impossible and that she would lose the case. None of the parents dared to say anything. When she sent that last letter to the head of the
yeshiva
, she started getting threats. She just shut her mouth and that was it.”

The running water made small splashing sounds as my mother washed the dishes.

“Look,” she said. “You are just assuming things that we have no right to assume. Do you know how badly they beat up
Reb
Spitser because he agreed to talk to the police? Do you remember that other girl, how they kicked her out of school after she called the police for help from her father? Just forget this whole thing. I refuse to burden my children with suffering they don’t deserve. That child was emotionally disturbed, and that is that.”

There was silence for a few moments.

“Who would believe such things?” My mother sighed. “
Oy
, one hundred years ago, such things would never have happened.”

My father laughed bitterly. “And if it did happen, would we ever know?! They certainly didn’t record it.”

There was no answer, only the clanking of the dishes.

When my father came up, I was still sitting on the stairs. I told him that I was scared to go to sleep.

“I am taking you to the psychologist again next week,” he said, carrying me to bed. “You will like her better with time.”

“No, I won’t,” I said stubbornly. “I don’t want to go.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” he asked.

I nodded my head.

“Okay, I will go with you into the office. It is very important, Gittel. It will take a lot of time to understand. But you must learn to talk about how you feel.”

And that’s when I told him. I don’t know why.

“Totty, he came into her bed. I saw him. I saw how Shmuli came into her bed and pushed her under the blanket.”

My father turned white—white like my school paper under his curly, black beard.

“Oh, yes,” I continued angrily. “He came into her bed that night when Mommy was in Israel and I was sleeping in Devory’s room. I saw him. He pushed her inside the blanket, and I thought she was dead, Totty. Why?”

He turned his head away as if I had just slapped him hard. His beard quivered. He stared at me as if I were a ghost. And then he put his head down on his knees and cried.

I had never seen my father cry before. I never knew he had tears the way I did, that his cheeks could get wet, that his eyes could look so sad. He held me in his arms, my father. He held me in his arms, and he cried for a long, long time. That scared me most of all.