Hill of Secrets: An Israeli Jewish mystery novel Page 9

  "I told them what I told you, that he was a smart boy but his difficulty was getting in the way of his development. I explained that there was no reason to be afraid of diagnosis and treatment."

  "What treatment?"

  "In Ariel's case, and from my experience, the only effective therapy could have been medicinal."

  "Ritalin?"

  "Yes, Ritalin. Or Concerta, whatever the doctor prescribes. I, of course, don't hand out prescriptions, but I often bring it up with the parents so they can go to the doctor with an open mind. I think there's a lot of ignorance about this subject. Someone hears a child experiences side-effects because of Ritalin and immediately they talk about the medicine as if it's poison."

  "Did you mention Ritalin to Meir and Hanni as well?"

  "To Hanni. Meir didn't come to the parent-teacher meetings," Batya corrected me.

  "I have a feeling she didn't like your advice.”

  "To say the least. I don't remember such an outburst of rage from a parent.”

  "What did she say?"

  Batya chuckled. "She said she wasn’t going to drug her child so it would be easier for me in the classroom."

  "Why are you laughing?"

  "Because it's a pretty common line from parents, when they don't understand two fundamental things: the first is that I'm only with the child for part of each day, while they have to deal with a restless child during most of the day, and the second is that the medical treatment is for the good of the child and not the good of the teacher."

  "And there’s no other treatment that doesn't require medication?"

  "There is an option to give the child a wide range of treatments that increase the attention span and decrease the need for medicine, but that only works when the disorder is not very severe to begin with and when the parents are prepared and willing to invest a lot of themselves. Medical therapy requires the parent to give the child a pill and a glass of water. Alternative therapy requires many hours of treatment at the expense of the parents’ and the child's free time."

  "Was Ariel treated?"

  "I've seen so many children and parents and I can categorize them quite easily. I'm rarely surprised. Ariel was the type of kid whose parents think pampering with brands constitutes good parenting. They replace parental giving with shopping. Don't get me wrong, I don't object to gifts and all sorts of treats. But you can get a child who has no value for money and is busy morning until night with the next toy he wants to get. I can also understand where this stems from. Many parents work in a very pressurized job, they barely see the kids and the gifts are the parents' way of expressing their love and mainly quieting their conscience. Two weeks ago, I had to do some tests at Asuta hospital in Ramat Hachayal. Have you ever been there?"

  "No."

  "Right across from Asuta is the big, beautiful building of a high-tech company, I think it's Comverse. Below it are a few cafés and restaurants, and right in the center is a toy store. It's not a residential area, not a shopping center, there are no schools or kindergartens there. A toy store in the heart of a high-tech area. On second thoughts, I realized that whoever put the store there was a genius—he put it right where he could get the most loyal, potential customers: guilt-ridden high-tech workers."

  "Excuse me for stopping you," I took advantage of a short break in Batya’s flow of words, "but Meir and Hanni weren't high-tech workers. Meir may have worked very hard, but Hanni was a full-time mother."

  Batya smiled. "The fact that a woman doesn't go out to work doesn't automatically make her a full-time mom. I see this happening quite a lot as well. Non-working mothers, who think new shoes are more important than playing with the child one-on-one. Even here, I think the purchase comes from a place of guilt. They understand they're doing something wrong and try to make it up to the kids with gifts and new clothes."

  "So you think Ariel didn't get the appropriate care from his parents?"

  "Listen," Batya fidgeted with one of the giant rings that graced her chubby fingers, "I don't think they were bad parents—they definitely loved their kids. The parents saw that the toys helped the boy fit in, because a child that has toys is a popular child, and they thought they’d found a solution, but there’s no real magic solution to attention deficit disorder. The only solution is treatment."

  "Medication".

  "Medication or para-medicinal. It all depends on the child. I recommended to Hanni that she go see a neurologist and seek options for occupational therapy treatments that the HMO covers."

  I was reminded of Renana, my friend's sister who told me Hanni asked her about an occupational therapist. Perhaps Hanni didn't completely ignore the teacher's advice.

  "Are you sure Ariel didn't get treatment at any point?"

  "It's really hard for me to say. I have a feeling that he did, especially lately. He calmed down a little bit, was more introverted and less impulsive."

  *

  "Is that a result of occupational therapy?"

  "Occupational therapy usually improves the child's graphic abilities and not the attention span. I guess Ariel had started taking Ritalin in the last couple of months.”

  *

  As I exited the school, I thought about what the teacher told me. I wasn’t an expert in this field at all, but I also had the feeling that medications like Ritalin are a convenient solution for teachers. Up to today, when I saw a child being unruly, I was simply happy that it wasn't my child and it only strengthened my decision not to bring a child into this world, but could I be so judgmental towards people who choose to give their child Ritalin?

  "Hadas?" A masculine voice jolted me from my thoughts.

  It was Yuval Eidelman, who was in the Amishav branch of Bnei Akivah. Yuval was one of the more popular boys in the branch. Unlike me, he never missed a meeting "on the street corner" each Friday night. He was tall and handsome, and half of the girls in the branch were in love with him. When we were sixteen, he’d hardly noticed my existence, so I was surprised that he even knew my name. Unlike my close girlfriends, who called me "Gunger", people less close to me called me by my first name.

  The years—how can I put this gently—hadn’t been kind to Yuval. He was still tall, but had also grown sideways a bit. His hair had thinned and his bald head shone between the few hairs gracing his head.

  "You haven't changed at all!" he enthused.

  I had changed. In high school my face was covered with dozens of zits, and I had the constant appearance of a waif. I was always very thin, and religious girls' skirts never suited me. Fifteen years later, I still didn't know how to dress, but my zits had gone and my figure was maintained, so now I looked a bit less neglected in jeans.

  "Neither have you," I lied.

  Yuval gently stroked his belly. Maybe he noticed the sarcasm in my voice? He looked me over from head to toe.

  "Do you have kids in this school?"

  "I don't have any kids."

  "Really?" He was surprised. "I was sure I heard you got married." I was surprised that rumors of my marriage reached Mr. Eidelman.

  "I'm already divorced."

  "You don't say?" He made a surprised and impressed face, as if he was at this very moment looking at the queen of Tel Aviv nightlife, taking a short break from a line of trance parties to stop by the Naftali Heritage Elementary School in Givaat Shmuel. "So what are you doing here, then?"

  "You really don't know?" Did no one see me on television?

  "No." He scratched the top of his head and I was suddenly flashing back to the last visit I took with my nephews to the monkey zoo.

  "I'm investigating the Danilowitz family case."

  "Oh," he nodded, in recognition. "An appalling story, just horrible."

  I nodded.

  "Are you a police officer?" He looked at me, surprised. "I thought you were a lawyer." How the hell did he know I studied law?

  "I'm still a lawyer. I joined the police about a year ago." I understood it would be rude not to ask him what he does for a living. "Where
do you work?" I asked without much interest.

  "I'm still at Amdox," he said "still" as if I was meant to know that.

  "Are you an engineer?" I tried my luck.

  "No." He was surprised that I didn't know all about his résumé. "I studied economics and business management. I'm in the financial department."

  "Sounds interesting," I lied. “Are you married?"

  "Of course." What an idiotic question! "I married Hila Erlich from the Achdut branch," he said this as if I was supposed to know Miss Hila Erlich from the Achdut branch.

  "Am I supposed to know her?"

  "She's Oren's sister."

  "Oren Erlich?" I was struck. Oren was Yuval's best friend. They both ruled the branch, tall and beautiful, no one tried their reign. I remember on one of the rare Saturdays in which I bothered showing up at the branch, right after the evening prayer, the girls of the branch agreed to meet later in Orda Square for pizza and ice cream. I was going and was asked to pass the message to the boys' circle. "Who decided that?" Oren asked in a belittling tone. "You?" He almost spat. It was inconceivable that everyone would go out because of me to Orda Square, the nearly permanent hangout of the popular clique every Saturday night. "Today, we're not just best friends, we're brothers by law." He was amused by his own joke.

  "I assume I'm meeting you here because you have kids."

  "Right." He smiled proudly. "I brought my second born late because he had a hearing test."

  "How many kids do you have?"

  "Three and another one on the way." Yuval was right on the "four kids" trend.

  "Nice." I lied again.

  "Are you in touch with anyone?" Yuval was curious to discover if he could expand his gossip circle.

  "Not really. I ran into Tamar here, two days ago."

  "Tamar?" He furrowed his brow.

  "Tamar Golan." He still stared at me with a dumbfounded look. "She was in my class… she's a doctor now."

  "Oh! Tamar Shlezinger."

  "Yeah, she lives not far from here. Are you in touch with her?"

  "Not really. Givaat Shmuel has gotten really big." Despite all of the years that have passed, the cliques were still maintained.

  "Did you know the Danilowitz family?"

  "We were in touch."

  "Really? How did you know them?"

  "You know… synagogue, running into each other at the playground, at the mall."

  "And what were they like?"

  "A lovely couple, I can't understand what came over him."

  "Did you know him?" I hoped that maybe, finally, here was someone who also knew Meir and not only Hanni.

  "We weren't close friends, but we occasionally talked, no heart-to-hearts, just small talk."

  "And what was your impression of him?"

  "Nice guy, maybe a bit introverted, but very positive."

  "Violent?"

  "Not in the least, maybe even the opposite - too gentle."

  "And did you know Hanni?"

  "Hanni was a branch member with us…" he reminded me, "… amazing girl, beautiful, a great mom." Apparently the opinions about Hanni's parenting skills weren't unanimous. "You know, she was a lawyer too, but she put her career on hold to be a full time mom." I had the feeling he was chiding me for the fact that I was still not fulfilling my demographic designation.

  "So she was a good mother?"

  "Great. I'd see her a lot in the playground and her kids were always dressed like out of a magazine." Yuval was of Shira's opinion, that Hanni and her children were magazine material, though she made it sound like a negative thing while Yuval saw this as an advantage.

  "Did you ever talk to her? Did she tell you if something was bothering her?"

  "I didn't talk to her as much. Maybe my wife could help you." I took out a small notepad and wrote down a phone number for Hila Eidelman (formerly Erlich).

  I gave Yuval my business card, in case he heard something interesting and wanted to share it with me.

  "We may be having an Amishav branch reunion. I'll email you the details," He said, waving the card I handed him.

  "Excellent." I smiled an artificial smile. I'd rather watch paint dry on a wall than meet up this gossipy bunch.

  Yuval felt, for some reason, that this accidental meeting has made us friends and he came nearer to me and whispered, "Excuse me for interfering, but, in your shoes, I'd go with a sperm bank. There are even religious girls our age, now, who’ve given up finding a groom and had a kid by themselves before their biological clock runs out."

  Yuval misinterpreted my silence. He probably thought his words touched me, so he lightly patted my shoulder and said, "I hope I was of help to you," and ran out to his car, which was blocking the entrance gate to the school.

  Chapter 10

  Saturday, 5.23.2009

  Ever since I could remember, in our family, Shira was considered the successful child and I was the black sheep. Although we had two more siblings—Ayala, who was four years younger than me and Evyatar, who was six years younger than me—comparisons were always made between the two of us. The difference between the classic model for a good kid and what I grew up to become and what Shira grew up to become, is a chasm. We were both academic and I even studied an established profession like law, but as you know, I eventually did nothing practical with my degree, and if you asked my mother, she’d have said I’d thrown away a degree that cost me tens of thousands of shekels just to become "a cop".

  She told me this only before I joined the police. After the deed was done, she made sure not to belittle it to my face, but only behind my back. Shira, who was born a year and a half before me, was an occupational therapist, a profession that fitted her like a glove.

  My parents had taken special care not to talk about the childlessness issue with me. Those conversations never ended well and here too, Shira fulfilled for them everything they expected from their offspring. Shira had three adorable, beautiful and well brought up children.

  But, beyond the dry facts of career and children, Shira was simply a model daughter, always remembered to send flowers on Mother's Day (in all our names), call every aunt and uncle to wish them a happy new year on Rosh Hashanah, when our grandfather was sick she ran around the hospitals with my mother. When someone wasn't feeling well, she always took an interest and cared for them. And on top of all this, she also ran her household single-handedly.

  I lived alone, and my apartment looked like a disaster area. Shira's house was always impeccably neat, especially given she had three children. She always claimed she had no choice because patients came to her house and she felt obligated, but that was Shira's way of making me feel comfortable with the fact that I couldn't organize myself. Because of the mess and because of the fact that I could hardly cook an egg, I didn't entertain my family at my house too often. My mother and Shira covered for me by claiming that it was impossible to get to my house by foot on Shabbat and that my house wasn't really Kosher, but those were just excuses, because they could come on a weekday and I could buy plastic tableware. The real reason was that nobody wanted to come to my house to eat frozen processed food I heated up in the microwave, when they could go to Shira's for a luxurious meal.

  That weekend, Shira invited my parents to spend the Sabbath at her house. The whole family was supposed to go to a hotel to celebrate Shavuot the next weekend, but a sudden ant infestation had forced my parents to exile (until the smell of the extermination passed). Since I had no problem driving on Shabbat, I joined them for lunch. Evyatar, our younger brother went to spend Shabbat with a friend of his in Karnei Shomron. Ayala, our third sister lived in Ramat Gan, like my parents. But this time she passed, as she was early into her third pregnancy and didn’t have the energy.

  I arrived at Shira's relatively early. My dad was lying on the lazy-boy, the weekend papers scattered around him, his head lolling, his mouth agape, snoring steadily. My mother, who after thirty-seven years of marriage had become completely indifferent to the symphonies produced by my fa
ther as he slept, lay comfortably on the couch, reading a book.

  "Shabbat Shalom," I smiled to her. She lifted her eyes from the book and gave me a warm smile.

  "Shabbat Shalom to you too… you're a little early."

  "I wanted to play with the kids a bit."

  "They went to the playground with Moshe."

  "Where's Shira?"

  "Resting in her room."

  "Is she asleep?"

  "I don't know, maybe."

  I tiptoed to Shira and Moshe's bedroom and peeked inside. Shira was lying on the bed, reading a book. She sensed someone was looking at her and looked up.

  "Shabbat Shalom!" She smiled at me and lifted herself from her lair.

  "Shabbat Shalom. Where are the kids?" I asked quickly.

  "What? I'm not good enough?" She pretended to be insulted. I leaned toward her and gave her a warm hug. Although I will never be like Shira, she never gave me the impression that she thought she was better than me.

  "I just miss them. This week when I was at your house, we didn't get to play that much. I was busy with my investigation and they didn't get the attention they deserve."

  "Wow, what an aunt!" She pinched me on the cheek. "Moshe went out with them about thirty minutes ago. He's probably at the playground."

  "Which one?" In the park at the heart of the new neighborhood were a number of playgrounds.

  "Probably the nearest one, though sometimes he takes them on a longer walk."

  The playground was packed with children. After a few rounds I saw Moshe and the kids weren't there.

  It was pretty hot and I’d forgotten to take a bottle of water. I decided to wait where I was and hope Moshe would come to this playground instead of walking around and risking dehydration.

  I sat down on one of the benches near a young woman holding a plastic bowl, snacking on apple slices from it. Her young husband was chasing an active toddler of about two. Although I'm no longer a part of the Religious Zionist public, I can still differentiate pretty clearly between its sub-sectors. The young couple I was gazing at was of the religious-observant- spiritual variety. The man was wearing a large white knitted yarmulke. Like most of the men in the playground, he was also wearing a white shirt, but his was a bit less buttoned down and shabby.