The Forgotten

The call was
from the police. Not from Rina’s lieutenant husband, but from the
police
police. She listened as the man spoke, and when she heard that it had nothing to do with Peter or the children, she felt a “Thank you, God” wave of instant relief. After discovering the reason behind the contact, Rina wasn’t as shocked as she should have been.

The Jewish population of L.A.’s West Valley had been rocked by hate crimes in the past, culminating in that hideous ordeal a couple of years ago when a subspecies of human life had gotten off the public bus and had shot up the Jewish Community Center. The center had been and still was a refuge for all people, offering everything from toddler day camps to dance movements to exercise classes for the elderly. Miraculously, no one had been killed—
there
. But the monster—who had later in the day committed the atrocious act of murder—had injured several children and had left the entire area with numbing fears that maybe it could happen again. Since then, many of the L.A. Jews took special precautions to safeguard their people and their institutions. Extra locks were put on the doors of the centers and synagogues. Rina’s
shul,
a small rented storefront, had even gone so far as to padlock the
Aron Kodesh
—the Holy Ark that housed the sacred Torah scrolls.

The police had phoned Rina because her number was the
one left on the
shul
’s answering machine—for emergencies only. She was the synagogue’s unofficial caretaker—the buck-stops-here person who called the contractors when a pipe burst or when the roof leaked. Because it was a new congregation, its members could only afford a part-time rabbi. The congregants often pitched in by delivering a Shabbos sermon or sponsoring an after-prayer kiddush
.
People were always more social when food was served. The tiny house of worship had lots of mettle, and that made the dreadful news even harder to digest.

Driving to the destination, Rina was a mass of anxiety and apprehension. Nine in the morning and her stomach was knotted and burning. The police hadn’t described the damage, other than use the word
vandalize
over and over. From what she could gather, it sounded more like cosmetic mischief than actual constructional harm, but maybe that was wishful thinking.

She passed homes, stores, and strip malls, barely glancing at the scenery. She straightened the black tam perched atop her head, tucking in a few dangling locks of ebony hair. Even under ordinary circumstances, she rarely spent time in front of the mirror. This morning, she had rushed out as soon as she hung up the phone, wearing the most basic of clothing—a black skirt, a white long-sleeved shirt, slip-on shoes, a head covering. At least her blue eyes were clear. There had been no time for her makeup; the cops were going to see the uncensored Rina Decker. The red traffic lights seemed overly long, because she was so antsy to get there.

The
shul
meant so much to her. It had been the motivating factor behind selling Peter’s old ranch and buying their new house. Because hers was a Sabbath-observant Jewish home, she had wanted a place of worship that was within walking distance—real walking distance, not something two and a half miles away as Peter’s ranch had been. It wasn’t that she minded the walk to her previous
shul
, Yeshivat Ohavei Torah, and the boys certainly could make the jaunt, but Hannah, at the time, had been five. The new house was perfect for Han
nah, a fifteen-minute walk, plus there were plenty of little children for her to play with. Not many older children, but that didn’t matter, since her older sons were nearly grown. Shmueli had left for Israel, and Yonkie, though only in eleventh grade, would probably spend his senior year back east, finishing yeshiva high school while simultaneously attending college. Peter’s daughter, Cindy, was now a veteran cop, having survived a wholly traumatic year. Occasionally, she’d eat Shabbat dinner with them, visiting her little sister—a thrill since Cindy had grown up an only child. Rina was the mother of a genuine blended family, though sometimes it felt more like genuine chaos.

Her heartbeat quickened as she approached the storefront. The tiny house of worship was in a building that also rented space to a real estate office, a dry cleaners, a nail salon, and a take-out Thai café. Upstairs were a travel agency and an attorney who advertised on late-night cable with happy testimonials from former clients. Two black-and-white cruisers had parked askew, taking up most of the space in the minuscule lot, their light bars alternately blinking out red and blue beams. A small crowd had gathered in front of the synagogue, but through them, Rina could see hints of a freshly painted black swastika.

Her heart sank.

She inched her Volvo into the lot and parked adjacent to a cruiser. Before she even got out of the car, a uniform was waving her off. He was a thick block of a man in his thirties. Rina didn’t recognize him, but that didn’t mean anything because she didn’t know most of the uniformed officers in the Devonshire station. Peter had transferred there as a detective, not a patrol cop.

The officer was saying, “You can’t park here, ma’am.”

Rina rolled down the window. “The police called me down. I have the keys to the synagogue.”

The officer waited; she waited.

Rina said, “I’m Rina Decker, Lieutenant Decker’s wife…”

Instant recognition. The uniformed officer nodded by way of an apology, then muttered, “Kids!”

“Then you know who did it?” Rina got out of the car.

The officer’s cheeks took on color. “No, not yet. But we’ll find whoever did this.”

Another cop walked up to her, this one a sergeant by his uniform stripes, with
Shearing
printed on his nametag. He was stocky with wavy, dishwater-colored hair and a ruddy complexion. Older: mid to late fifties. She had a vague sense of having met him at a picnic or some social gathering. The name Mike came to mind.

He held out his hand. “Mickey Shearing, Mrs. Decker. I’m awfully sorry to bring you down like this.” He led her through the small gathering of onlookers, irritated by the interference. “Everybody…a couple of steps back…Better yet, go home.” Shouting to his men, “Someone rope off the area, now!”

As the lookie-loos thinned, Rina could see the exterior wall—one big swastika, a couple of baby ones on either side. Someone had spray-painted
Death to the Inferior, Gutter Races
. Angry moisture filled her eyes. “Is the door lock broken?” she asked the sergeant.

“’Fraid so.”

“You’ve been inside?”

“Unfortunately, I have. It’s…” He shook his head. “It’s pretty strong.”

“My parents were concentration-camp survivors. I know this kind of thing.”

He raised his eyebrow. “Watch your step. We don’t want to mess up anything for the detectives.”

“Who’s being brought in?” Rina said. “Who investigates hate crimes?” But she didn’t wait for an answer. As she stepped across the threshold, she felt her muscles tighten, and her jaw clenched so hard it was a wonder that her teeth didn’t crack.

All the walls had been tattooed with one vicious slogan
after another, each derogatory, each advocating different ways to exterminate Jews. So many swastikas, it could have been a wallpaper pattern. Eggs and ketchup had been thrown against the plaster, leaving behind vitreous splotches. But the walls weren’t the worst part, minor compared to the holy books that had been torn and shredded and strewn across the floor. And even the sacrilege of the religious tomes and prayer books wasn’t as bad as the horrific photographs of concentration-camp victims that lay atop the ruined Hebrew texts. She averted her eyes but had already seen too much—ghastly black-and-white snapshots depicting individual bodies with tortured faces and gaping mouths. Some were clothed, some nude.

Shearing was staring, too, shaking his head back and forth, while uttering “Oh man, oh man” under his breath. He seemed to have forgotten about her. Rina cleared her throat, partially to break Mickey’s trance, but also to stave back tears. “I suppose I should look around to see if anything valuable is missing.”

Mickey looked at Rina’s face. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Did the place have anything valuable…? I mean, I know the books are valuable, but like flashy valuable things. Like silver ecumenical things…is ‘ecumenical’ the right word?”

“I know what you mean.”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Decker.”

The apology was stated with such clear sincerity that it brought down the tears. “No one died, no one got hurt. It helps to get perspective.” Rina wiped her eyes. “Most of our silver and gold objects are locked up in that cabinet…the one with the grates. That’s our Holy Ark.”

“Lucky that you had the grates installed.”

“We did that after the Jewish Community Center shootings.” She walked over to the
Aron Kodesh
.

Shearing said, “Don’t touch the lock, Mrs. Decker.”

Rina stopped.

He tried out a tired smile. “Fingerprints.”

Rina regarded the lock with her hands behind her back. “Someone tried to break inside. There are fresh scratch marks.”

“Yeah, I noticed. Because you have the lock, they musta figured that’s where you keep all your valuables.”

“They would have been right.” A pause. “You said ‘they.’ More than one?”

“With this much damage, I’d say yeah, but I’m not a detective. I leave that up to pros like your husband.”

Abruptly, she was seized with vertigo and leaned against the grate for support. Mickey was at her side.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Decker?”

Her voice came out a whisper. “Fine.” She straightened up, surveying the room like a contractor. “Most of the damage seems superficial. Nothing a good bucket of soapy water and a paintbrush could take care of. The books, of course, are another story.” Replacing them would put them back at least a thousand dollars, money that they had been saving for a part-time youth director. Like most labors of love, the
shul
operated on a shoestring budget. A tear leaked down her cheek.

“At least no one tried to burn it down.” She bit her lip. “We have to be positive, right?”

“Absolutely!” Mickey joined in. “You’re a real trooper.”

Again, Rina’s eyes skittered across the floor. Among the photos were Xeroxed ink drawings of Jews sporting exaggerated hooked noses. They probably had been copied out of the old
Der Stuermer
or the
Protocol of the Elders of Zion
. Again, she glanced at the grainy photographs. Upon inspection, she realized that the black-and-whites did not look like copies. They looked like genuine snapshots taken by someone who had been there. The thought—someone visually recording dead people—sickened her. Now someone was leaving them around as a frightful reminder or a threat.

Again, her eyes filled with furious tears. She was so angry, so desolate, that she wanted to scream at the world. Instead, she took out her cell phone and paged her husband.

Decker had many thoughts rattling through his brain, most of them having to do with how Rina was coping. Still, there was some space left over for his own feelings. Anger? No. Way beyond anger, and that wasn’t good. Such blinding rage caused people to make mistakes, and Decker couldn’t afford them right now. So instead of mulling over a crime he had yet to see, he looked out the windshield and tried to get distracted by the scenery. By the rows of houses that had once been citrus orchards, by the warehouses and strip malls that lined Devonshire Boulevard. He tried not to think about his stepson in Israel or his other stepson at a Jewish high school. Or Hannah, who was currently in second grade—young and trusting and as innocent as those rows of preschoolers led out of the JCC a couple of years ago after that god-awful shooting.

He realized he was sweating. Though it was the usual overcast May in L.A.—the air cool and a bit moldy—he turned the air conditioner on full blast. Someone had given him the address as a formality, but even if he hadn’t known the locale, the cruisers would have been a tip-off.

He parked his car in a red zone, got out, and told himself to take a deep breath. He’d need to be calm, not to deal with the crime but to deal with Rina. A quartet of uniforms was buzzing around the space like flies. Decker hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps when Mickey Shearing caught him.

“Where is she?” Decker’s voice was a growl.

“Inside the synagogue,” Shearing answered. “You want the details?”

“You have details?”

“I have…” Mickey flipped through his book. “…that the first report came in at eight-thirty in the morning from the guy who operates the dry cleaning. I arrived about ten minutes later, found the door lock broken. I called up the synagogue to find out if there was a rabbi or someone in charge. I got a machine with a phone number on it. Turned out to be your wife.”

“And you didn’t think to call
me
before you called
her
?” Decker’s glare was harsh.

“There was just a phone number on it, Lieutenant. I didn’t realize it was your wife until afterward.”

Decker broke eye contact and rubbed his forehead. “S’right. Maybe it’s better coming from you. Anyone been interviewed?”

“We’re making the rounds.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. Probably done in the wee hours of the morning.” Shearing slid his toe against the ground. “Probably by kids.”

“Kids as in more than one?”

“A lot of damage. I think so.”

“Tell me about the guy in the dry cleaners.”

“Gregory Blansk. Young kid himself. Uh…nineteen…” He flipped through more pages. “Yeah, nineteen.”

“Any chance he did it and is sticking around to see people admire his handiwork?”

“I think he’s Jewish, sir.”

“You
think
?”

“Uh…yeah. Here we go. He is Jewish.” Shearing looked up. “He seemed appalled and more than a little frightened. He’s a Russian import himself. Two strikes against him—Jewish and a foreigner. This has to scare him.”

“Currently, Detective Wanda Bontemps from Juvenile is assigned to Hate Crimes. Make sure she interviews him when she comes out. Keep the area clear. I’ll be back.”