Murder at the Mikvah

Murder

at the

Mikvah

Sarah Segal

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington

Murder At The Mikvah

Copyright © 2009 by Sarah Segal

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-0-595-53029-8 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-63083-7 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 3/9/2009

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Forty-one

Forty-two

Forty-three

Forty-four

Forty-five

Forty-six

Forty-seven

Forty-eight

Forty-nine

Fifty

Fifty-one

Fifty-two

Fifty-three

Fifty-four

Fifty-five

Fifty-six

Fifty-seven

Fifty-eight

Fifty-nine

Sixty

Sixty-one

Sixty-two

Sixty-three

For Steve

Authors Note:

Jews have been using water as a method of ritual purification for thousands of years. Translated, the Hebrew word mikvah means a pool or gathering of water. Mandated in the Torah, the Jewish Bible, male priests were required to immerse in a mikvah prior to entering the Holy Temple. The entire Jewish nation—men and women alike—did so before receiving the Torah at Mount Sinai.

Still today, immersion in a mikvah is considered an act of self-renewal and rebirth. For many men, it is customary to immerse prior to Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish year. Others opt to immerse each Friday, before the onset of the Sabbath, the day itself designated for renewal.

Oceans and rivers are natural mikvahs, though often impractical due to inclement weather and the fact that one must disrobe completely before immersing. Man-made mikvahs are more commonly used; but each must adhere to strict rabbinical oversight. A typical man-made indoor mikvah will be built into the ground, or otherwise be an integral part of the building in which it is constructed. Most likely it will resemble a miniature swimming pool, or Jacuzzi, with stairs leading down into a depth of between four and five feet of chlorinated water. Three or four people could stand comfortably in an average sized mikvah.

As part of the larger group of laws called Taharat Hamishpachah, —The Laws of Family Purity—married Jewish women are instructed to immerse monthly, at the cessation of each menstrual period. As part of the preparation process, a woman first bathes in an ordinary tub. It is important to note that soaking in bathwater can never substitute for ritual immersion in a mikvah; for it is only through a mikvah that a woman is cleansed spiritually.

There is extensive information available on the subject of ritual immersion. To learn more, I suggest the following books:

Abramov, Tehilla. The Secret of Jewish Femininity; Insights into the Practice of Taharat Hamishpachah. New York: Targum/Feldheim, 1988.

Kaplan, Aryeh. Waters of Eden: The Mystery of the Mikvah. New York: NCSY/Union of Orthodox Jewish Congregations of America, 1976.

One

The wind was picking up and blowing papers off Father Herbert McCormick’s desk. Earlier, before the dark clouds descended on Arden Station, he and Peter sat across from one another on two stiff leather chairs, as they did every weekday, while Peter sifted though the day’s mail. Letters were read aloud and responded to, dictated by Father McCormick to Peter who typed them out at an impressive speed on a Macintosh computer, one of several items the rectory had inherited from St. Agassi High School. Most correspondence was from former parishioners, who, befitting of their ages, preferred the old fashioned method of communication—putting pen to paper—to e-mail or even the telephone. Typically, they were short, quick letters, written with perfect penmanship of their generation, describing the latest goings on: the upcoming church bake sale, the christening of a new grandchild. Then there were the obligatory sound bites, references to Father McCormick and St. Agassi Church, intended to prove unremitting allegiance to their former parish and it’s aging priest. The bake sales were always more profitable at St. Agassi, Father McCormick’s sermons far more inspiring.

One letter stood out today; it was from the Cardinal’s office. Typed on impressive linen stationary and stamped with the official embossed seal of his office, a royal insignia of sorts, it provided the finalized relocation plans for Father Herbert McCormick of St. Agassi Parish. As Peter was aware, Father McCormick would soon be moving across country to Arizona. In just a few months time, the priest’s new home would be Mt. Lemmon Village, an active adult community consisting of two hundred identical ranch style homes, each one surrounded by strategically placed palm trees, and a centrally located swimming pool and clubhouse.

Throughout his long career, Father McCormick had experienced periods where he was strongly opposed to church politics, most recently the church’s less than stellar treatment of nuns and the heinous cover up of pedophile priests; but one opinion that he held constant was the impressive way in which the church cared for it’s own. No detail was overlooked, no expense spared when it came to the retirement of those who had devoted their lives to God.

Peter dutifully moved from window to window, securing the rectory from the volatile conditions brewing outside. There was a storm advisory in effect until midnight, serious enough to interrupt Wheel of Fortune with a special announcement from the national weather service. A nor’easter the weatherman called it. Lydia had called, claiming to be worried—What if they lost power?… What if a tree fell on the rectory? She went on and on, but Peter didn’t pay much attention to her. Lately that girl would find any excuse to call and pester him. Why couldn’t she get it through her thick skull that he wasn’t interested? He knew darn well it was his own fault for being nice to her, for giving in those few times.

He shook off the annoyance welling up inside him and headed up to the second floor. Well, hopefully there wouldn’t be any thunder tonight. Samson could get a bit unnerved by loud noises. She had already spent the last hour barking at shadows. Peter often wondered how Samson would fare during the move to Arizona. He worried the noise and turbulence would traumatize the poor dog. Father McCormick had secured permission for her to sit in the passenger area of the plane, but still, it would be her first time flying.

As Peter struggled with one particularly stubborn second floor window, he looked out at the high school next door. The former high school, he corrected himself as a white car pulled into a parking spot under a tree—not too smart, considering the likelihood of a hefty branch smashing through it’s windshield. A woman stepped out, grabbed her bag and headed for the back of the building. Peter gritted his teeth. This was the part that made his blood boil. Women had no business being out alone at night! He shook his head in disgust. No, it just wasn’t safe, not with all the nut jobs running around. Heck, there were even monsters in the church! Of course, it went without saying that Father McCormick was one of the good guys; but still, there were more dirt balls dressed like priests than Peter cared to count. You can’t judge a book by it’s cover, his momma used to say. She used to say a lot of things. He never did pay much attention—all those sayings sounded so dumb at the time—and now he would give anything to remember just half of them.

Peter pushed down on the window with his right forearm. It finally gave way and he held it down while forcing the latch into place. He did a thorough check of the rest of the floor, finishing in his own room at the end of the corridor. Then, he grabbed his binoculars and returned to the hall window. The white car was gone and there was a black Lexus parked in the lot. He adjusted the lens. It was the blond. He recognized her from last month. And just like then, she had her face down in the steering wheel. What the hell did she have to cry over? Peter waited, expecting more cars to pull in, but none came. Maybe it would be a slow night because of the weather.

They always came one woman per car; Peter had been watching long enough to know they never carpooled. Every night for the past four months or so—ever since that rear part of the high school had been renovated—different women showed up, always after dark. A couple of them were regulars, the two old ones who showed up on the same nights week after week. Must be in charge of whatever meeting went on down there. At first, Peter thought of AA. But he’d gone to plenty of those in the old days to know that these women were no boozers. Besides, every week there were different faces. Alcohol rehab was not for dabblers. OA? Hell no. There were a couple of chubby ones, but not so many. Most of them were actually pretty decent looking, all dressed up in their long skirts and all. He felt his face flush and diverted his eyes for a second, ashamed of what his curiosity had almost led him to do more than once. He knew he shouldn’t even be watching them like this. If Father knew what he'd been up to…

The truth was he tried not to look, but each night they came, as if taunting him, dressed as though they could be going to mass. Hah! Jews in church! Peter laughed out loud at the irony. The fact was that the Jews would be going to church. All eighteen acres that once belonged to the Catholic Church had been sold and now some kind of Jewish Center was being built. It was just a matter of time before he and Father McCormick would be forced out for good. Father McCormick would be off to the west coast, but Peter still hadn’t figured out where he would go, and he had less than six months to come up with a plan. One option was to move on to another rectory, maybe another parochial school, but how likely was it that he would land a job when church facilities were being shut down all over? What was happening here was happening in cities and suburbs all across America. Mass attendance was down and according to Father McCormick, enrollment in Catholic schools was the lowest it had been since Vatican II. The whole religion getting sandbagged on account of those whack jobs calling themselves agents of God. Those scum of the earth were the reason the church had to pay multi-million dollar settlements; the real reason the church property on Trinity Lane had been sold.

Peter imagined there were others like him. Church custodians—plant managers as he preferred to call himself—all looking for work in what few remaining rectories there were. Peter swore he wouldn’t trouble Father McCormick with his problems, so on the few occasions when the priest had asked, Peter had assured him that he’d be staying with family upstate. Lying was the least he could do. After all, Father was suffering too. Peter’s blood boiled watching the man who had saved him from a life on the street being so callously tossed aside. Peter was actually thankful Father’s vision was as bad as it was. The seventy-five year old should not have to bear witness to bulldozers pulverizing what remained of his home, his life. The chapel and rectory were the final phase of the takeover. Peter wondered if the Holy Spirit would stick around for a while, maybe save a few Jewish souls.

Two

Abba, Nehama’s crying.

Rabbi Yehuda Orenstein was jolted from his sleep by the tap tap tap of a finger poking his arm. He opened his eyes and looked up; his nine-year-old daughter Rachel slowly came into focus. She stood on the side of the couch wearing a long white nightgown, a concerned expression on her face.

What?… Oh, okay, Racheli… Where’s Mommy?

I looked Abba. I couldn’t find her anywhere.

Yehuda sat up and rubbed his eyes. After a minute or so, he was more fully awake and remembered that Hannah had gone to the mikvah. It’s all right Rachel… Mommy will be back soon, he told her, repositioning two small pillows that had been displaced while he slept. Go back to bed; I’ll take care of Nehama.

Can I get a drink first?

Okay Racheli, but then, bed! he told her, playfully wagging his finger.

She smiled back at him and padded off toward the kitchen.

Yehuda stood up and stretched. It was unlike him to fall asleep on mikvah night, but then again, with a newborn in the house, his share of the workload had increased substantially. Both he and Hannah were exhausted. Fortunately, Lauren, their babysitter, had been available 24/7 for the first month after Nehama’s birth in September. But now Lauren was in class most days, leaving Yehuda no choice but to pick up the slack. This meant grocery shopping, preparing meals, supervising bath time, even doing a bit of laundry. Yehuda enjoyed the additional one on one time with his kids—helping Rachel with her homework, kicking the soccer ball with Eli—that being home more afforded him. It also gave him the opportunity to do the things so easily put off, like removing David's training wheels, and teaching the boys to cross the street by themselves. Nevertheless, he was starting to feel the familiar effects of having additional domestic responsibilities.

Whenever he and Hannah were blessed with a new baby, Yehuda was reminded of exactly how hard his wife worked to keep their home, their lives running smoothly. Somehow she made caring for a husband and five children look effortless. He didn’t know how she managed it all: meals, school, tutoring, piano lessons, sports, doctor’s appointments. All this in addition to hosting their weekly Shabbat guests, teaching women’s classes at the center, and her volunteer work throughout the community. Each day, Yehuda thought of his wife during his morning prayers when he thanked God for, among other things, not creating him as a slave or a woman. These words were offensive to feminists and most secular Jewish women—as were a handful of other traditions—who often cited them in their argument that Orthodox Judaism was repressive to women. Taken at face value without fully understanding the meaning behind the traditions, Yehuda could see how they would reach such conclusions. He and his wife often addressed the issue in their classes, teaching that in Judaism, women were actually considered to be spiritually superior to men. When a man thanked God for not being born a woman, he was essentially thanking God for the obligation to perform more mitzvahs. Each mitzvah brought a person closer to God. Being spiritually inferior, men needed to perform many more, including an array of time bound mitzvahs from which women were excluded. God in his infinite wisdom realized that men needed to work harder than their female counterparts just to stay on track.

On a more personal level, Yehuda was thankful that God didn’t make him a woman because, quite frankly, he doubted he (or most men in his opinion), could handle it. Besides the physical discomfort of pregnancy and childbirth, there were the never-ending responsibilities of running the home, which extended far beyond cooking and cleaning. The Jewish home was considered a living beis hamikdash or temple, in which the spirit of God, the Shechina, resided. The Jewish woman was charged with protecting and maintaining that spiritual presence. According to Jewish belief, the holiest thing a person could do was to bring God and spirituality into the physical world, and women were given the opportunity to infuse Godliness into the world through all aspects of domesticity, raising the mundane events of daily life to the most elevated heights of the heavens.

Yehuda heard Nehama cry out from upstairs.

What time is it anyway?

He looked at his watch; his eyes popped at what he saw.

12:07.

Oh my God.

Abba, Nehama’s still crying!

Ok, Racheli, I’m coming right now… As Yehuda bounded up the steps toward the baby’s room he went over the evening's events in his mind. Hannah left the house at 9:45. She called home a little after 10:00… more than two hours ago.

Visibly shaken, Yehuda reached into Nehama’s crib and picked up the tear drenched infant. Pulling her close to him, he kissed her face and rubbed her back. Poor Hummi… she’s sopping wet! …

Abba? Is something the matter? Rachel stood in the nursery doorway, blocking the light from the hall.

No, no… Nehama needs a change, that’s all. He looked down at Rachel’s pink bunny slippers; one of the ears was missing. Did you have your drink?

Yes Abba.

Good, he said, trying to keep his voice steady. Rachel, please go check and see if there are any messages on the answering machine.

A cordless phone had been sitting right next to him while he slept on the couch. Though almost certain he would have heard it ring, it was possible that he had been in too deep a sleep. He swung around to the changing table and gently lowered the baby onto the pad. His eyes darted around—diapers stacked in neat piles, creams lotions, powder—Hannah kept everything so organized.

Rachel returned to the room. No messages Abba. She looked at him, as if willing him to explain, but he didn’t.

Where are the…

Here Abba. Rachel cautiously approached the table and pulled three wipes from the container that her father’s eyes had somehow missed.

Oh… I didn’t see them, he said, avoiding her eyes. He extended his hand toward one of the piles of diapers.

Abba, why is your hand shaking?

But Yehuda’s mind was racing and he didn’t hear her. He grabbed a diaper, inadvertently knocking a few onto the floor. He gently lifted Nehama’s legs with his other hand and wrapped the diaper around her bottom.

Abba?

Yehuda tried to appear calm as he accepted the fresh pajamas Rachel was offering. Rachel, I need you to sit with the baby for a minute while I make a phone call.

Rachel nodded obediently and leaned over to collect the fallen diapers. After stacking them neatly on the changing table, she sat down on the rocker. Yehuda placed Nehama gently into her sister’s waiting arms. Rachel snapped the baby’s pajama closures and began rocking slowly back and forth. Not surprising, Nehama’s eyes started fluttering immediately. Rachel was very skilled at taking care of babies. With three younger brothers, she had had many years of practice helping her mom. By the age of five, Rachel could hold and carry an infant; by age seven, she was changing diapers and helping with their baths. Rachel knew that as the oldest, she was expected to help with her younger siblings, and fortunately, she enjoyed doing it. A few of the girls at school didn’t. Rachel’s friend Leah hated it more than anything else. Rachel could understand why. Usually Leah wasn’t allowed to play after school because she had to help with her brothers and sisters. On a recent half day, Rachel offered to go over to Leah’s house to help. She thought the two of them could help Leah’s mom and have fun too. But Leah’s mom had said things like, "Rachel, I bet you’re a big help to your mommy and Leah, see how Rachel likes to play with the babies?" So in the end, Rachel didn’t feel like she had helped her friend at all.

Nehama’s asleep, Abba! Rachel looked up proudly, but saw that her father was already half way down the hall. She watched him round the corner and disappear down the stairs. She took a deep breath and gazed lovingly at her sleeping sister, her pink lips parted ever so slightly, breathing gently. What was Nehama dreaming? Did babies even have dreams? Whether they did or didn't, babies were lucky to be spared from worrying. Rachel felt a hard lump in her throat. Something was wrong and she suspected it had something to do with her mother. It wasn’t like her to be out this late. Besides, the only other time she had felt this way or had seen her Abba so frazzled was when her mother was rushed to the emergency room four months ago, at the beginning of the summer. Rachel had never seen her father daven so fervently. Body swaying, he pleaded in Hebrew for God to save his wife and unborn child: R’foanynu Hashem, v’nayrofay, hoshi-aynu v’nivshay-o, kis’hilosaynu oto, v’ha-alay r’fu-o-sh’laymo l’chol makosaynu, ki ayl melech rofay ne-emon v’rachamon oto. Boruch ata Hashem, rofay cholay amo yisro-ayl.

God heard, her father told her days later, after the danger had passed. God hears all our prayers, especially heartfelt ones, he added.

Her mother was discharged with strict orders to stay in bed. Dr. Blynne explained that this was necessary so the baby wouldn’t get any funny ideas about showing up early again.

Yehuda paced around the kitchen, his mind racing. He had just called both Hannah’s cell phone and the mikvah line but there was no answer at either, just recordings. He checked his watch again. 12:19.

There must have been an accident.

He grabbed the phone off the kitchen counter and dialed.

911 emergency. This is Marie. Please state your emergency.

"Yes, hello. This is Yehuda Orenstein. I live at 62 Willow Lane. My wife isn’t home… I mean she should be home by now… She went to the mik… uh… she went to an appointment and should have been back by eleven, and she’s not."

Sir, you say your wife was supposed to be home just a little over an hour ago. Is this what you are telling me?

Yes…

Marie cleared her throat. Mr. Orenstein, have you considered the possibility that she might just be running late?

No… Yehuda stammered. You don’t understand. I’m a rabbi and…

"Oh, pardon me. Rabbi Orenstein."

"…No… That’s okay… It’s just that we have five kids… We have a newborn… Something’s not right. She should be home by now."

All right Rabbi Orenstein, try to relax for me and I’ll do my best to assist you.

Okay… Yehuda took a deep breath. Thank you.

Now what time did your wife, uh, what did you say her first name is?

Hannah.

What time did Hannah leave your home this evening?

About 9:45, maybe 9:50.

You’re sure?

Positive.

Where was her appointment? Do you have a street address?

526 Trinity Lane.

526 Trinity?

Yes.

Your wife went to church?

"No!… No… The church is next door… Hannah went to 526 Trinity, the old high school."

St. Agassi High School is next door. Right. Thank you for that clarification. But wasn’t that building turned into a community center or something?

It’s going to be a Jewish Recreation Center… but right now it’s in the middle of renovation.

You’re saying the former Catholic high school is currently under construction?

Yes.

Rabbi, could you tell me why your wife had an appointment at a building under construction?

"No… she had an appointment at the mikvah. It’s in the one area of the building that’s already finished. I’m sorry I wasn’t clear."

"I’m not familiar with the term mikvah."

"The mikvah… it’s a ritual bath… it looks like a small swimming pool… used for centuries by Jews…"

A small swimming pool?

"Yes, basically Jews believe in immersing in the mikvah water to remove spiritual impurities." Did he really have to get into this now?

Oh, a religious thing, kind of like baptism. Okay. So, who was her appointment with at this pool?

"The attendant… the mikvah attendant… Hannah was immersing tonight."

And who would that be? Do you happen to know the attendant’s name?

Yehuda thought for a second. Tonight would have been Tova Katz, I think.

I should have called Tova.

"Have you tried contacting this Tova Katz or the pool, er, mikvah area itself?"

I called the mikvah; there was no answer. But I didn’t try Tova… I guess I should do that…

Wait; Rabbi, before you hang up, I want to check with the police and fire departments to see if they responded to any accidents in the last few hours.

Thank you, I would appreciate that.

Please hold.

Yehuda pulled open Hannah’s bill drawer. Tucking the phone under his chin, he shuffled papers around searching for her phone book. Why hadn’t he thought of this before?

Hello, Rabbi Orenstein, are you there?

Yehuda nearly dropped the phone. Yes. Yes, I’m here.

It looks like it’s been a pretty busy night… lots of fallen trees, wires down, that sort of thing. Surprisingly, no injuries as a result of the storm. However, I did learn that there were two unrelated emergencies called in tonight.

Yehuda held his breath.

The good news is that neither appeared to involve your wife. The first was a drunk driver slamming into a parked car. The second was a ninety year old woman who took a nasty fall down a flight of steps.

Yehuda exhaled, relieved. There was no accident. Hannah was probably fine. Thank you for your help. I’m sure I’ll find her.

I’d be happy to send a patrol officer to the location, Rabbi…

No, that won’t be necessary.

All right then. Will you be needing further assistance this evening, Rabbi Orenstein?

No… I’m sure everything’s fine. Please God.

Have a good night then.

"Same to you. Thank you… was it Marie?"

Yes.

Thank you Marie.

Yehuda placed the phone down and flipped through Hannah’s pocket-sized phone book until he reached the J-K-L pages. He picked up the phone and punched in the number for Tova Katz. Possible scenarios raced through his head as the phone rang. Maybe Tova needed help with something at the mikvah. Maybe Tova was feeling ill and needed a ride home. Hannah was thoughtful like that, but it wasn't like her not to call home and tell him what she was up to. Besides, he had just spoken to her around 10:15 and she hadn’t mentioned anything about being late. Maybe it was a last minute change in plans. Was it possible that she knew he’d be asleep and didn’t want to disturb him? He felt a surge of panic rising once again in his chest. He had not been in favor of opening up the new mikvah while construction was still going on, but he stood in direct opposition to the women of the community who were eager to use the new, modern facility. Besides, the construction workers aren’t around after dark when we use the building, Hannah had said, assuring him it was safe.

Hello?… Hello? A man’s agitated voice answered.

Saul?

Yes; who is this?

Saul, it’s Yehuda. Yehuda Orenstein.

Yehuda? Saul's tone softened. I didn’t recognize your voice… What’s the matter? Is something wrong?

Yehuda ignored the question. Saul, is Tova with you?

No; she’s not home.

Tova didn’t come home tonight? Yehuda demanded.

"Yehuda, listen… Tova did come home, for about twenty minutes, to make a couple of calls and pack. Esti went into labor tonight, around nine. Tova drove out to New York to be with her; I spoke to her about an hour ago. We have a new granddaughter!"

Mazel Tov… Yehuda said, but the words were flat.

Thanks…

Did Hannah go with her?

"What? Now that's an odd question, Yehuda. Why would Hannah go with Tova to see my daughter and grandbaby?"

I don’t know… Yehuda rubbed his forehead and took a deep breath. No; of course she wouldn’t have any reason to. He took a minute to regroup. Saul, did she… did Tova work at the mikvah tonight? His voice was calmer, but strained.

Yes, but then we got the call from Esti, so she left early. Like I just told you, Esti had her baby tonight.

"The mikvah closed early then?"

No, you know; they call a substitute… I think Tova called Estelle Ginsberg. What’s going on Yehuda? You don’t sound like yourself.

Saul, I need Estelle’s number. It’s an emergency.

Sure. No problem. Hold on a second.

Yehuda looked at his watch.

12:39

I’m back. Here it is…

Yehuda scribbled the number on a blank page in the phone book. Thanks.

Yehuda, tell me what's happening. You sound pretty upset.

"I am. Hannah never came home tonight… Look, Saul, I have to go… I have to call Estelle."

Yehuda, wait, Saul said quickly. Keep me posted… I’ll be up for a while now anyway.

I will Saul. Listen, I’m sorry for waking you…

Yehuda dialed Estelle’s number and listened to it ring and ring. A recording came on of an elderly woman speaking slowly. "Hello, this is Estelle Ginsberg. I’m sorry I am not available to take your call at the moment…"

Yehuda hung up and hit the redial button.

Again the recording. "Hello, this is Estelle Ginsberg. I’m sorry I am not available to take your call…"

He waited for the beep then blurted his message in as calm a voice as possible. "Estelle, it’s Yehuda Orenstein calling. I understand you may have worked at the mikvah this evening… it’s uh, Monday, October 24th… please forgive me if I am waking you, but my wife did not come home and, well, I’m trying to find her. Please call me as soon as possible… call any time tonight. Thank you."

He hung up and scrolled down the recent calls list until he reached Lauren Donnelly, their babysitter's number. He hit the dial button and listened, expecting her to pick up any second. Hi, This is Lauren, leave a message!…

What was going on tonight? Yehuda didn’t understand. Lauren was a light sleeper. How could she sleep through a ringing phone?

Yehuda called Saul Katz back.

Yehuda is that you?

He got right to the point. Estelle didn’t answer.

Oh…

Saul, I need a favor…

Anything.

Can you come over and stay with my kids? Lauren… my babysitter… didn’t answer… something’s not right. I have to find Hannah.

After ten years working as a 911 operator, Marie Pierce was adept at evaluating the urgency of every call, the credibility of each caller. She had learned to trust her instincts, and her gut was telling her that something was not right with the rabbi’s wife. She hadn’t realized it until just now, but something was going on at the old high school. Not wasting another second, she picked up the phone and called police dispatch.

Three

The local Jewish community was thriving. Hoards of families were moving to Arden Station, in most cases, giving up acreage and forgoing privacy for the benefit of living within walking distance of a synagogue, a requirement for the observant, as driving was prohibited on the Sabbath and other holidays. Enrollment in Jewish day schools was on the rise as well. The two local schools, which had for years struggled to stay afloat, were suddenly experiencing an influx of interest and financial support. The mikvah, a cornerstone of any Jewish community and considered to be of greater spiritual importance than the synagogue itself, had been recently replaced by a new, larger facility. Modern features and aesthetics were now available to the hundreds of local Jewish women who observed the family purity laws of their ancestors, as well as to those women who were discovering the beauty of the mikvah for the first time.

Rabbi Yehuda Orenstein was honored to play a small part in the larger shift taking place around the world. People were returning to and rediscovering their Jewish heritage. This trend was referred to as the Bal Teshuva movement. For the past five years, the rabbi had watched in utter amazement as interest in his Jewish learning center quadrupled. He liked to joke that people showed up to his classes for the food, specifically, the chocolate bobka his wife Hannah ordered from a well known Brooklyn bakery. But the truth was that the rabbi had earned a reputation as a knowledgeable and mesmerizing speaker. From members of the orthodox community to those with limited religious backgrounds, people were uplifted, moved, genuinely inspired by the relevance of his subject matter. One of his more popular talks addressed the common misconception that to embrace a Jewish lifestyle required relinquishing enjoyment of the physical world.

God wants us to be happy. He wants us to enjoy and embrace the pleasures of this magnificent world He created for us! There is nothing inherently wrong with having money, a beautiful home, material things, if these are the blessings that Hashem—God—in His infinite wisdom has bestowed on you. But the question we must ask is why? Why am I blessed in this particular way? Why me? We must consider: how will I use my gifts? What should I do? What do you think the CREATOR would want you to do? This is your opportunity to make a Kiddush Hashem—a sanctification of God’s name. Each one of us has the opportunity to honor God through the physical. It is our nature to think about God when things go wrong. Why me? We get angry at God. We DEMAND an explanation from him as if we are entitled to a seamless existence. We’re not. Be it poor health, loss of a job, or, God forbid, an untimely death…we shout to the heavens, WHY GOD, WHY? God encourages our questions. He wants us to think, to challenge him. But most importantly he wants a relationship with us. We must not forget to pose those same two words: why me? when life is GRAND! When things are working out just right for us. When life is sweet! Talk to him, acknowledge your father in heaven when life is good! Recognize that He is entrusting you with good health, material wealth, extraordinary wisdom, unique talents… whatever they happen to be… they are His gifts to you. Three steps: thank Him… ask why… and infuse them with Godliness!

Sadly, Yehuda recognized a spiritual void in most people. The preoccupation with acquiring—newer, bigger, better—he knew was just a flawed attempt to fill a nagging feeling that something was missing. His goal was to show them that it was God they needed, and that religion and the physical world were not mutually exclusive. Yehuda realized that people weren’t so quick to overhaul their lifestyles, and he wouldn’t ask them to. What he would do was plant some seeds, nurture them with Torah and watch them grow.

And now, average class attendance had grown from a single digit to an impressive forty students. People of all ages and backgrounds flocked to the center. Yehuda was welcoming singles, young couples, families, empty nesters, all seeking a greater understanding of their religion. The older ones sometimes came at the urging of a son or daughter who had been making changes in their own life. Somehow they all managed to cram themselves, with surprisingly few complaints, into the small, five hundred square foot renovated flower shop that housed the Arden Station Jewish Learning Center since its inception eight years ago. Back then it was more than enough space, but with the rabbi’s increasing popularity, they were quickly outgrowing it.

As an orthodox Jew, Rabbi Orenstein believed with total conviction that the Jewish Bible—the Torah—was the direct word of God. Throughout history, neither a single word, nor a single letter of the Torah was deleted, added or altered in any way. Torah scribes were meticulous with their craft, often taking years to finish one handwritten scroll. The Torah was God’s gift to his people. By accepting this gift, the Jewish people had entered