don’t think I would have noticed that it was a wig yesterday, the deep brown hair looks very natural, cut in a bob and parted on one side with bangs that sweep across her forehead. But now that I have the idea in my head that ultra-Orthodox women wear wigs, it’s easy to see that it’s not really her hair. It’s a little too shiny, and the place where the part meets the bangs seems too perfectly perpendicular. She says something in Yiddish to Saul, and Saul responds back in English.
“This is my cousin’s daughter,” he says, gesturing toward me. “She is considering police work. Rivka, this is Malka Grossman.”
“Hello,” I say. Why is Saul lying?
Malka nods. “If you want to view her, we should hurry,” she says to Saul. “Her family will be here by four o’clock.” I glance at my watch. It is two thirty.
“Please,” says Saul.
We follow Malka through a door, down a hallway, and into a small room, where she directs us to don paper hats and paper booties. While Malka is out of earshot, I ask Saul why he referred to me as Rivka.
“Rivka is Hebrew for Rebekah,” he says.
“I know that,” I say.
“Malka won’t feel comfortable speaking to you unless she thinks you grew up in the community.” I decide not to argue and we descend a narrow set of stairs into the basement, where a body, covered with a white cloth, lies on a table. A young woman is sitting on a chair beside the body. She is praying. Malka says something to the woman in Yiddish and she leaves without acknowledging us. Saul and I keep our coats on.
“I never allow a man to view a woman’s body. But your cousin is a friend to our family. And I hope he can help the police find who did this. Rivka Mendelssohn was a good woman.”
Malka pulls down the shroud over Rivka’s body, and the first thing I think is that she looks dry. At crime scenes, there are fluids. Bodies leak when damaged. But here in the basement of the funeral home a day after being found, Rivka Mendelssohn’s shredded skin looks like someone has painted a coat of polyurethane on it. The gashes torn into her legs, her arms, her belly, her neck have been cleaned out. The flesh bunches against the deepest wounds, creating wrinkles. The smaller ones, the scratches, are red, but bloodless. Where there are no open wounds, her pale skin is covered in bruises; clouds of purple and blue and red and yellow. If Malka told me she had been attacked by wolves, I would have believed her.
Saul begins to speak. “This looks like blunt force trauma, here and here.” He points to Rivka’s head. You can see the skull wounds clearly because she has no hair. Someone has, mercifully, closed her mouth.
Malka is silent and Saul continues. “It looks like she was hit multiple times, very hard, on the back of the head.” Malka, as if on cue, lifts Rivka’s head slightly and turns it, pointing to one particularly devastating wound just above her left ear. “See the blows to the neck? Here and here. They seem to be both pre- and postmortem.”
“She did not die easily,” says Malka.
I can’t speak. What is happening inside my chest is not anxiety. It is the low rumble of a feeling I thought I might have outrun: sadness. Heavy, weeping sadness pulling at the corners of my mouth, tightening around my throat. Rivka Mendelssohn was about my height and weight, but lying on the table she seems tiny. Like a child. She has an old scar, maybe from a cesarean birth (or two), just below her belly button. I remember reading Catch-22 in high school and getting to the end where Snowden, the airman who gets shot, “spills his secret,” and his secret is literally his guts. Man is matter. Drop him out a window and he will fall. Set fire to him and he will burn. Something like that. I always remembered those lines. To me it felt like a carpe diem thing. Like, you’ve got this body, this life, and it’s all you’ve got. But looking at Rivka Mendelssohn I think maybe he meant it more literally.
“This is my cousin’s daughter,” he says, gesturing toward me. “She is considering police work. Rivka, this is Malka Grossman.”
“Hello,” I say. Why is Saul lying?
Malka nods. “If you want to view her, we should hurry,” she says to Saul. “Her family will be here by four o’clock.” I glance at my watch. It is two thirty.
“Please,” says Saul.
We follow Malka through a door, down a hallway, and into a small room, where she directs us to don paper hats and paper booties. While Malka is out of earshot, I ask Saul why he referred to me as Rivka.
“Rivka is Hebrew for Rebekah,” he says.
“I know that,” I say.
“Malka won’t feel comfortable speaking to you unless she thinks you grew up in the community.” I decide not to argue and we descend a narrow set of stairs into the basement, where a body, covered with a white cloth, lies on a table. A young woman is sitting on a chair beside the body. She is praying. Malka says something to the woman in Yiddish and she leaves without acknowledging us. Saul and I keep our coats on.
“I never allow a man to view a woman’s body. But your cousin is a friend to our family. And I hope he can help the police find who did this. Rivka Mendelssohn was a good woman.”
Malka pulls down the shroud over Rivka’s body, and the first thing I think is that she looks dry. At crime scenes, there are fluids. Bodies leak when damaged. But here in the basement of the funeral home a day after being found, Rivka Mendelssohn’s shredded skin looks like someone has painted a coat of polyurethane on it. The gashes torn into her legs, her arms, her belly, her neck have been cleaned out. The flesh bunches against the deepest wounds, creating wrinkles. The smaller ones, the scratches, are red, but bloodless. Where there are no open wounds, her pale skin is covered in bruises; clouds of purple and blue and red and yellow. If Malka told me she had been attacked by wolves, I would have believed her.
Saul begins to speak. “This looks like blunt force trauma, here and here.” He points to Rivka’s head. You can see the skull wounds clearly because she has no hair. Someone has, mercifully, closed her mouth.
Malka is silent and Saul continues. “It looks like she was hit multiple times, very hard, on the back of the head.” Malka, as if on cue, lifts Rivka’s head slightly and turns it, pointing to one particularly devastating wound just above her left ear. “See the blows to the neck? Here and here. They seem to be both pre- and postmortem.”
“She did not die easily,” says Malka.
I can’t speak. What is happening inside my chest is not anxiety. It is the low rumble of a feeling I thought I might have outrun: sadness. Heavy, weeping sadness pulling at the corners of my mouth, tightening around my throat. Rivka Mendelssohn was about my height and weight, but lying on the table she seems tiny. Like a child. She has an old scar, maybe from a cesarean birth (or two), just below her belly button. I remember reading Catch-22 in high school and getting to the end where Snowden, the airman who gets shot, “spills his secret,” and his secret is literally his guts. Man is matter. Drop him out a window and he will fall. Set fire to him and he will burn. Something like that. I always remembered those lines. To me it felt like a carpe diem thing. Like, you’ve got this body, this life, and it’s all you’ve got. But looking at Rivka Mendelssohn I think maybe he meant it more literally.
Similar Books
