Redemption Street (20 page)

“The more difficult part of the equation was to work out a way for me to become un-self-conscious of my Jewish soul. How could I become like the Christians I was so jealous of? How could I free myself? Then it dawned on me to stop and pay attention to what was going on around me. I studied the civil-rights movement and the evolution of the Black Pride movement. It dawned on me that black people have a huge advantage over us. They can’t hide the way we can. They cannot pretend to be what they are not. Every mirror is a reminder to them of what they are. It is a blessing to them. So I needed a way to be Jewish in the way that a black man or woman is black.

“You have seen our people dressed as if they just walked out of the Warsaw Ghetto. Do you know that some of us have even tattooed numbers on our forearms? Some, not all. It is a personal choice. But this is not dress-up. It is our way of being conspicuously Jewish. Dressing as the ultimate victims of hatred serves a dual purpose. While on the one hand it proclaims our Jewishness to the world, it allows us to work through our own petty self-hatred. And make no mistake about it, if you take our way, there is no compromise. You will wear the yellow star on your clothing for the world to see. It is not for everyone. Many people leave us. Some don’t. Those who don’t can be set free. Don’t you want finally to be free?

“To paraphrase the late John F. Kennedy, we choose to do this thing not because it is easy, but precisely because it is hard. In conclusion, I want to set you straight on some issues. We are not concerned with your religiousness. It is almost beside the point. We are not the Hasidim. We are not here to be rabbis or parents. We are driven by a very reductionist view. If there is another Holocaust, would they burn you? Did you know that at the beginning of World War II many assimilated Jews served in every branch of the German armed forces? These were men and women who had a Jewish relative, people who never considered themselves Jewish. Yet, by the end of the war, many, if not most, were quite dead. They were victims of their own sleeping Jewishness. So, if you’ve married out of the faith, neither you nor your spouse will be protected, nor will your children. There is no immunity from your own essence. You are either a Jew or not. You are either a proud Jew or a tormented Jew. When you decide these questions, we will be waiting here for you. Thank you. Good night.”

The spotlights, all the lights, went off. When they came back up, only the seven of us in the audience were still in the longhouse. Judas and his apostles were gone. No one spoke. What was there to say, really? Much of what the man had said rang true—not the stuff about assimilation, but the stuff about self-consciousness was exactly right. For me, anyway. I could not speak for anyone else. Eventually, the six others drifted slowly out. I stayed behind, because, in the end, I was here about Arthur Rosen, not to be saved.

I figured if I sat around long enough I’d get somebody’s attention. Strangely, I felt I was being watched. I think I’d felt that way all throughout Judas Wannsee’s lecture. My mother used to say it was the eyes of God. She would point at the ceiling: “You can feel His eyes on you sometimes. He sees what you are doing and hears the things you say.” When I asked why I couldn’t feel His eyes on me all the time, my mom would say God was too busy to waste His time on such a good boy like me. She was such a charmer.

Unless God was using closed-circuit TV cameras these days, it wasn’t He who was watching. I found two surveillance cameras: one mounted in the corner to the right of the fireplace, one above the front door. I waited a few more minutes before flashing my badge at the camera above the door. Miraculously, the man who had met me outside the abandoned synagogue in town came through the door within several seconds.

“How may we help you, Officer?”

I produced two pictures of Arthur Rosen. One was a mug shot, the other an autopsy photo. “I need to speak to Mr. Wannsee.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be—”

“It’s all right, Jeffrey,” announced Wannsee’s voice over a loudspeaker. “Show the officer to my bungalow.”

Without hesitation, Jeffrey showed me the way. We walked to a bungalow hidden behind the two longhouses. It was about double the size of the other bungalows but in no better repair. My guide held the door open and did not follow me in. Wannsee sat behind a spare metal desk. On the desk were a microphone, a telephone, and several small TV monitors.

“Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing to a plain wooden chair facing the desk.

Wannsee was a handsome man in his late forties. He had a strong jaw, a full head of silver hair, and a smile like Burt Lancaster. He had the whiff of cheap charisma, the kind successful used-car salesmen possess.

I sat. Explained who I was, sort of. I guess I neglected to mention I no longer had any official standing. Even if I had, I was way out of my jurisdiction. Wannsee must have known that, but seemed disinclined to discuss it. Unfortunately, he seemed disinclined to discuss many things, one of them being Arthur’s stint as a Yellow Star.

“I have a reliable source who will testify that Arthur Rosen, the man pictured here,” I lied, pointing to the photos on his desk, “was a member of your group within the last several years.”

“First, Officer Prager, why should anyone be testifying about anything? What crime was committed, and by whom? We have no interest or responsibility in any of this. Second, as I stated previously, we are not a group, per se. The only group we recognize belonging to is the same group, presumably, you belong to. We are all Jews. Some of us are proud of that fact. Some, like yourself, are tormented.”

We went round and round like that for a few minutes. It seemed to me Wannsee was being intentionally confrontational. I just wasn’t sure why. If he had simply let me ask my questions about Arthur, I would have been out of there in five minutes. No, apparently he wanted to do some probing of his own, but didn’t want me to notice. He probably thought he was a real pro at it. Sometime I’d have to introduce him to my father-in-law. I decided to take the offensive.

“You chose your stage name quite carefully to elicit the maximum amount of discomfort from your audience,” I observed.

“Did I?”

“Judas, the Jew who betrayed Christ. Judas, the original scapegoat. Judas, who has served as the model for Jewish scapegoating throughout the centuries. I always thought it pretty interesting how the Romans escape culpability for the death of Christ, don’t you? But it’s the Wannsee I really admire,” I complimented. “It was at the Wannsee Conference, outside Berlin, where the details of the Final Solution were arranged.”

He stood and applauded. “Very, very good, Officer Prager. Bravo! You’re a well-educated self-hater, the worst kind. All your life you thought that if you could understand why the Nazis hated us you’d understand your own hatred. I bet you are fluent in Nazi trivia and can sing ‘Deutschland über Alles.’ But this isn’t a quiz show.”

“Look,” I said, “you want me outta here and I want to get outta here, so just give me some straight answers about Arthur Rosen and I’ll be gone.”

“Poor Arthur was with us a very short time a few years back,” he relented. “We are the answer for some people, people like yourself, for instance. We were not, however, the answer for Arthur. He was so troubled by so many things, haunted by ghosts of his own making. We tried, but when he stopped taking his medication and became delusional, we were forced to ask him to leave.”

“Delusional about what?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Judas waved dismissively. “I think he was developing a Jesus complex.”

He was almost too flippant about that. It was the first thing he’d said all night that rang like tin. His dismissive wave was also too Hollywood, a gesture not in his usual repertoire but one he’d aped from some B-movie actor. Class was out. He made excuses about being tired. I got the hint. When we shook hands goodbye, he stared into my eyes as he had earlier.

“I know your pain,” he said. “When you’re finished with whatever you’re doing up here, please come back and see us. We can set you free.”

“Sorry,” I said, “I’m not in the market for a used car.”

Outside now, I realized that last comment was too gratuitous and flippant by half. The truth was, he’d gotten to me, and there was no running away from it.

Back at the Swan Song, I noticed mine was now the only car in the guest parking lot. Previously there had always been the same two or three other cars to keep mine company, but they were gone. I thought it very sad that I might be Sam’s last guest. It would have been more appropriate if it had been someone like Mr. Roth, a man who had so enjoyed the Catskills over the decades.

Inside, Sam, standing a moot watch behind the front desk, was smoking one of his baseball-bat-sized cigars and enjoying cognac out of a crystal snifter. He had the newspaper, probably the
Tribune
, spread out on the counter. I watched from the doorway as he scanned the page. It was the only truly relaxed thing I’d ever seen Sam do. He was always “on” and always on the offensive, kibitzing, wisecracking, performing. He saw something in the paper he liked. He liked it a lot. A smile crossed his cigar-twisted lips, and he danced a little dance of celebration.

“Hey!” I shouted at him. “What, you just win the lottery or something?”

For just a brief second I thought I saw panic wash over his face, but when I looked more closely Sam had settled back into his world-weary comedian persona. He folded up the paper as if it were a linen napkin and unceremoniously dropped it into the wastepaper basket behind the desk.

“I bet a horse,” he said. “Paid twelve to one. Maybe things are looking up.”

“Watch out, Sam,” I warned halfheartedly, “the ponies will get you in trouble.”

“At my age,
boychik
, the only thing that’ll get me in trouble is too much stool softener.”

“Forget I brought it up.”

“I already did.”

Sam confirmed what I’d already guessed. I was, as fate would have it, his last guest. Unless some other detective or salesman showed up, I was it.

“I hope you like takeout,” Sam said. “Because, other than breakfast, that’s what we’re eating for the next few days. I had to let the staff go.”

“I’m a Jew from Brooklyn, Sam. Takeout is my middle name. Bacon and eggs for breakfast?”

“
Oy
, such a demanding guest, but bacon and eggs it is. I’ll ring you around eight.”

“Eight it is,” I agreed. “Listen, I’m gonna need an outside line in a few minutes, okay?”

The old comic threw up his hands in mock disgust: “More demands! Get upstairs before I throw you out.”

I actually made
two
calls. The first was to 212 area-code information. The second was to Sunshine Manor, Arthur Rosen’s last earthly residence.

“Sunshine Manor.”

“Dr. Prince, please.”

“Speaking.”

I gave him the pro-forma you-may-not-remember-me opening. In return he gave me the of-course-I-remember-you-how-can-I-help response. That was easy enough for me to answer. Without going into too much detail, I recounted to Dr. Prince what Judas Wannsee had said about Arthur Rosen becoming delusional.

“How long ago was this?” he wanted to know.

“Two or three years ago.”

Now we returned to the same dance with which we had started. He gave me the old doctor-patient privilege routine.

And I gave him the old but-he’s-dead reply. I begged. I lied, telling him I was about to solve the crime of the century. I kept at it until he just gave in.

“This is off the record, right?”

“Very far off the record,” I reassured.

“Okay, Mr. Prager, I’ll dig the files out and call you tomorrow morning, before I leave.”

“That’ll be great, Doc.”

“Not unless you enjoy watching the sunrise.”

Chapter Twelve
December 5th

There were no hints in the blackness outside my window that the sun would rise again. The phone, however, demanded that I rise. It was a disgustingly chipper Dr. Prince on the other end of the line. He had the files. After several minutes of admonitions, caveats, qualifications, and cautions, we got down to business, sort of.

“What is it you want to know, Mr. Prager?”

“I’m not sure.”

“But—”

“Was Arthur Rosen delusional?”

It was a pretty straightforward question. The answer, however, was not. First, Dr. Prince felt compelled to explain the difference between hallucination, delusion, and flight of ideas, giving practical examples for each. He went on to explain how laymen often used these terms interchangeably when they were in fact three very distinct psychological phenomena. So, when someone like Judas Wannsee, for example, called Arthur delusional, he might have been describing one, two, three, or none of these things. Hey, I had several hours to kill before breakfast, and Prince was pretty entertaining.

“But was Arthur Rosen delusional?” I repeated about fifteen minutes into the lecture.

“Now, you must realize Arthur was with us less than eighteen months and we do not have a full psychiatric history,” he equivocated.

“Doc, don’t make me beg. Was Arthur—”

“No, as far as I can tell from his treating psychiatrist’s notes and history of medication, Arthur was not delusional, not for his last eighteen months. And there’s nothing in the data we have about his previous treatment history to indicate that he ever exhibited patterns of delusional thought or behavior.”

“You mentioned medication. What medication?”

“Lithium.”

“If he stopped taking his lithium, could that elicit delusional—”

“Lithium is prescribed to treat a chemical imbalance that contributes to the vast mood swings exhibited by many patients with Arthur’s diagnosis. Going off his lithium might certainly affect his moods, yes, but if he wasn’t exhibiting delusional thought or behavior beforehand, I doubt it would cause an onset of new symptoms.”

“Was he ever on anything else?” I asked. “Any, what are they called, psycho …”

“Psychotropic drugs, antipsychotics. No, just lithium, as far as I can tell. Now, I want to be perfectly clear about this, Mr. Prager, I cannot say that Arthur never self-medicated. If he did, it would be impossible for me to give definitive answers.”