“I’ve got another one for you!”
It was my assistant, Syndi, grinning like a mad chimp. She stood at the threshold of my office, propping open the door with her left leg, her round face leaning in, trembling from withheld laughter. I was never particularly busy that year, so Syndi, assigned to me, had even less to do. But here, apparently, was work — though not a task I sought after or wanted.
“You don’t mean. . .”
She cackled, my least favorite sound.
“Yes. Yes! From Boss Abramovitz. The third one this month. You’re developing a specialty.”
I served as assistant rabbi at Anshei Emet, a large Conservative synagogue on Park Avenue. A month before, I’d officiated at the funeral of Anna Abramovitz, wife of Uri Abramovitz, a reputed crime boss. I guided him and his family through tahara, kri’a, onenut, burial, funeral, shiva, shloshim. Uri insisted on understanding the relevance of each ritual. For a criminal, he was oddly punctilious, insisting that everything be done “by the book.”
On the last day of shiva, I guided him outside his Madison Avenue townhouse for the ritual walk around the block. Three black-suited FBI agents tailed us, like loyal puppies.
“You did great, kid,” he wheezed as we turned the corner on to 86th Street. He grabbed my forearm, as if I’d been trying to flee, but really he was just holding on to something steadier than his ancient knees. I did my best to prop him up. He was eighty-three, thin and short, but I was even shorter. “Sorry, I meant Rabbi Kid. Or, yeah, just Rabbi. You know what I mean.”
I nodded. I wasn’t about to rebuke a mourning husband for an unintentional sexist remark. Anyway, it seemed strange to judge him for his language when, word had it, he’d ordered several murders. “Happy to help,” I said, my usual cliché when people thanked me.
“You’re a real pro, kid, that is, Rabbi. You comfort. You inspire.”
I was surprised, but not that he’d called me kid again. I’d been told for a year, since I started the job, that I looked like a shy bat mitzvah student, not a 28-year-old woman. His compliment surprised me. Anna had specified no eulogies, no speeches, no false flattery, no empty words of consolation. So I hadn’t uttered anything inspiring, hadn’t offered any comforting words. I’d merely followed directions. By the book. Uri stopped in the middle of the street, looked around, stared at the FBI guys, then drew me close, as if he were about to tell me a secret.
“You want to do more of these, Rabbi?” I smelled pipe tobacco coming from his wool coat, an odor that reminded me of my father and grandfather, two other rabbis.
“Of these?” I said. “I’m not sure. . .”
“Funerals, kid. You want some more business?” He tightened his grip on my arm and held my gaze. “You know in my line of work. . .”
He didn’t need to finish the thought. I tried not to stare at him. The tobacco odor became cloying, intolerable.
“Happy to help,” I said.
But just so we could finish our walk. I didn’t realize that in less than a week I’d get a call from the son of Saul Elkowitz, a criminal accountant. His father had been stabbed to death (shanked) in the showers at Rikers.
“Uri sent me to you,” the son explained, with just the slightest of accents. Israeli? Russian? Moroccan? I couldn’t tell. “Said you were the best.”
The following week a bereft, sniffling daughter called me. She needed a rabbi for her meth dealer stepfather, shot to death by an NYPD cop. After the service she hugged me, then stuffed an envelope filled with 100-dollar bills into my coat pocket. I handed the cash over to our executive director. I wasn’t allowed to keep it.
And now Syndi was bringing me another.
“Quick,” she said, running around to my side of the desk. “Look up Marcello Bronstein.” I googled him.
Syndi brought her hand to her mouth.
“Oh, Lord.” I said.
“Who knew there were so many Jewish gangsters?” she said. We stared at the screen. I clicked on the New York Post’s headline: ‘Mob Boss Murdered.’ The article described a sizable criminal empire, mostly drugs, but also weapons and car theft. The Daily News focused on the manner of his murder — an axe to his head in the alley behind his Fifth Avenue apartment. The Times settled for a midsize font headline towards the bottom of the screen: ‘Wife Suspected in Axe Murder.’ I looked at Syndi. She gawked at my computer with a grin so wide you’d think we’d been surfing comedy websites.
“Who’s on the phone?” I asked.
“No phone,” she said. “She’s here, in person.”
I felt a chill. “She. . .?”
“The wife. The suspect. The killer.”
***
“I need to ask you about the afterlife.” It was the first thing she said to me. Raquel Bronstein swept into my office like a diva. Her teary eyes searched every corner of the room, as if I was hiding and it took her a few seconds to locate me. Then she grabbed my shoulders and kissed me on both cheeks. Her breath smelled like a combination of mouth wash and gin — familiar odors, from my husband. “Can they communicate with us?” she asked. “I mean, the dead. I mean even after they die. Can they talk? Is that allowed?”
I pointed to the couch, but she was already plopping down her tall, statuesque frame.
“Well,” I said. “There are different ideas about the afterlife. For example, some people say. . .”
“Is it allowed?”
She was dressed all in black — black sneakers, black jeans, black t-shirt, not to mention long straight jet-black hair and black lipstick. It was like she was attending a dress casual funeral or a goth memorial service. “Allowed?” I repeated. “I’m not sure that’s the right. . .”
“He’s leaking,” she interrupted, leaning forward. She looked me in the eye for the first time. “You’re so pretty. A pretty rabbi. Uri didn’t mention. My husband would have loved you. Loved you.”
“Mrs. Bronstein,” I said.
“Raquel. I prefer Raquel.” A tiny ball bearing shaped tear floated down her cheek.
“Raquel,” I said. “Why don’t you. . .”
“I can’t talk now,” she said. “There are some men who insist on meeting with me. I think you understand. Rabbi Yael, right. I can call you Rabbi Yael?”
“Uh, sure,” I said. I hated it when people called me Rabbi Yael.
“Rabbi Yael. We’ll talk tonight. 7 p.m., right? Uri told me you’d come. To my place just up the block. Meet my sons. You’ll come? It would make me so happy.”
I went through my largely empty calendar in my head. “Happy to help.”
“I am so pleased,” she said, then abruptly — like an athlete — sprang off the couch. I noticed another tear, this time on the other side of her face. Another ball bearing. Her tears seemed to spring from her cheeks, not her eyes. She swept out of my office with the same energy and charisma as she’d swept in. Her odors — booze, mouthwash, and, I quickly noticed, cigarette smoke — lingered.
7 p.m., I thought. Just up the block. Then it hit me. Oh, shit.
“I’m sorry I’ll miss it,” I told Peter, my husband. I put him on speaker while I researched the web for more information on Marcello Bronstein.
“Oh, come on, Yael. Really? Four in a row?”
He was referring to his regular Thursday klezmer gig at Arties, a new club in Park Slope. When he got the job, I promised I’d attend most of the shows. He’d been complaining that with his nocturnal profession we hardly ever saw each other and when we did connect at night, it was mostly because of my job: some party or wedding reception or shiva minyan or fundraiser or gala. He wasn’t wrong. But through hard experience, I’d discovered something essential and unfortunate in my nature: I despised klezmer music.
I set my phone down and half-listened while Peter recounted all the commitments I’d failed to live up to in our eighteen months of marriage. With the other half of my attention (okay, most of my attention) I learned that Marcelo Bronstein ran the fifth largest cocaine operation in the five boroughs (who knew there was a ranking?). In addition to his many criminal enterprises, he collected classic cars and World War II memorabilia which he stored at a country estate in Southampton Village. He was known for his stinginess to family, friends, and competitors and his ferocious temper. He’d (allegedly) murdered at least five people simply because they’d mocked his lisp (or, in one case, called him a kike). In one notorious incident he’d (allegedly) lured a long-time comrade into a back alley in Williamsburg and smashed his head in with an axe.
Peter had stopped talking. No wonder I suddenly felt relaxed. “Uh, sorry?” I said. “It’s an emergency. A funeral. I can’t just. . .”
“You’re impossible,” he said, and clicked off.
I looked at the phone. How had this happened so quickly? A year ago, I told everyone that Peter was the love of my life, that I was gloriously happy being married to my best friend. But now? His scolding voice had begun to sound like klezmer — whiny, arrogant, persecuted, repetitive, interminable. I still loved Peter. But, reflecting back on the past year I realized something even more unfortunate than my feelings about klezmer. I disliked him. I disliked the love of my life. Was that even possible?
Raquel Bronstein’s home was an entire three-story brownstone on 73rd and Fifth Avenue. Three uniformed security guards checked my ID as I entered the front gate. I crossed the wide tree-lined courtyard, and approached the razor wire security fence. Curious FBI agents in white shirts and dark suits — I recognized them from my previous gangster funerals — kept their eyes tightly on me as I made my way to the inner gate. I expected another guard, or a cop, or a doorman, but Raquel opened the door herself. She glared at the agent who had suddenly ended up inches away from me and was tapping something into his phone.
She gestured for me to follow her into the dark building and led me quietly through a long narrow corridor. It was too dark to see any detail on the paintings decorating the walls, but in the dismal light they all looked like thick pencil doodles. It took several minutes to finally reach a semi-lighted area. Three white sofas formed a U facing a rectangular table overflowing with food: platters of lox and bagels, trays of white fish salad, plates of knishes and burekas, enormous strawberries, and several bottles of Tanqueray, Jack Daniels, Golani wine and Champaigne. It looked like dinner for dozens, but it was just me and Raquel.
“Your sons?” I asked, declining any food, though for a moment I thought of trying the wine. Raquel poured herself a finger of Jack Daniels. For some reason she looked older in this light. New lines seemed to have appeared on her face, as if the ball bearing tears had carved canals into her sunken cheeks. Sure enough, mention of the sons brought more tears.
“They think I killed him,” she said, calmly wiping away her round tears.
All I could think of to say was “Did you?” Which obviously would have been inappropriate. So, I nodded and touched her hand. She fingered the jewel on my engagement ring. “Do you love your husband?” she asked.
“Uh, yes. Yes, I do.”
She nodded. “I love him, too. That is my husband, not yours. Loved him, I guess I should say. He’s dead. But he’s leaking. Talking to me. Is it permitted?”
For some bizarre reasons, I elected to answer her ridiculous question. To this day I have no idea why. “It is,” I said. “It’s permitted.”
She drew back her hand and stared at me. “Well,” she said. She leaned closer. She was still wearing black denim, with black shoes and black lipstick. She could have been a sexy witch at a Halloween party. “You know,” she said. “You hesitated when I asked you if you love your husband.”
“I — uh — I didn’t,” I said. But of course I did.
“Let me guess,” she said, a sly smile appearing — the first time I’d seen her grin. She looked suddenly beautiful. “You love him, but you don’t like him.”
“No. Well, I. . .”
She pointed her trigger finger at me. I couldn’t help but think ‘gun’, even though the murder weapon was an axe. “What are we supposed to do?” she said. “When there’s still love? Passionate love? But we can’t stand the bastard?”
“Raquel, I don’t think. . .”
“And he’s leaking.”
“Yes, but. . .”
“The funeral is tomorrow. 8:00 a.m. Early, so no one will come. And no eulogies. No speeches. No songs. Just get him in the ground. Say the — what’s it called. The cabbage?”
“Kaddish,” I said.
“Kaddish. Right. 8:00 a.m.,” she said, and rose slowly, dismissing me. When she kissed me twice again on my cheeks, I noticed how much she had to bend down. She was a head and a half taller than I. I also noted her muscular arms. I couldn’t help but imagine her wielding an axe.
I showed up at the Hertzfeld Funeral Home at 7:30 a.m., hoping to catch Raquel and Marcello’s four grown sons. Raquel had insisted on no speeches, but I figured the sons should have some say in the service, particularly if Raquel had murdered their father (and even if she hadn’t). Apparently, they had the same idea. They were waiting for me in the family room — four burly, curly haired young men in perfectly tailored black suits, white shirts and red ties. For a split second I assumed they were FBI agents. But in my brief time at Anshei Emet, I’d learned to recognize expensive clothes and these guys were wearing fancy suits and pricey ties — not standard off the rack FBI garb. The tallest one at the end of the sofa checked his Rolex as I walked in, as if I was late.
I introduced myself to Elias, Moises, Jose and Max, taking each well-manicured hand one by one, and inhaling the scent of a not unpleasant cologne. No kisses on the cheek. Elias seemed to be the one in charge; they rose when he rose and sat when he sat. I took a pen and notebook out of my purse and asked if they wanted me to say anything in particular at the service.
“Say she killed him,” Elias said softly.
Softly enough that I felt I had to say “Excuse me?”
“She killed him,” they all said, in unison this time. Not softly. They all nodded. “She killed him,” Elias repeated.
I nodded. “I see.” They stared at me, waiting for something. “And you want me to. . .”
“No, no,” Elias said. A slight smile, reminiscent of his mother, lit up his face. “Of course, I’m joking. You don’t have to say it. Everyone knows it. We just thought you should know.”
“We thought you should know,” echoed the other three brothers.
The chapel service lasted five minutes — Psalm 29, the Memorial Prayer, and the Kaddish. It was all they wanted. Elias, in the front with his brothers, kept looking at his watch. Raquel, in the second row, stared at the stained-glass window. Besides the five of them and myself, four cheaply clad FBI agents stood in the back. I decided to count them in the minyan — the quorum of ten needed to recite Kaddish. After that final prayer, I told the Bronstein boys it was time for the burial in Queens. Elias pointed at his mother. “She’ll accompany you to the cemetery,” he said. He took my hand, and this time squeezed it until it hurt. “Because she killed him.”
***
In the limousine on the way to the burial, Raquel lectured me on romantic relationships. “You see, Yael, no one can define romance or explain passionate longing. You can’t measure it on some one to ten scale, like they expect you to do with pain.”
“Hmm,” I replied. “And you and Marcello. . ?”
“Oh, ten out of ten. Absolutely. Eleven. I met him at a Purim service for young adults, at your synagogue. He was the only one there not wearing a costume. He didn’t need one. He was clearly a king, without robes or a crown. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him, and all night I was scheming in my own mind about how to get close to him.
“I felt guilty. You see, I was dating someone else at the time. We were practically engaged. Engaged to be engaged. A prosecutor, ironically. So, when Marcello and I went out for drinks after the service — that was already cheating. The buzz you get from violating a taboo? From a kind of adultery? I was intoxicated with it that first date. Add that to the wild chemistry we already shared. Like I said. Eleven.”
Our car was stuck in traffic. Raquel stared straight ahead at the Triboro bridge, or the back of the driver’s head, as if she was talking to him, or to the endless line of cars in front of us.
“I knew he was a criminal,” she continued. “My friends warned me before that first drink. Yes, yes, that added to the allure. What can I tell you? I was drunk. I’m a bad person. By the third date, he told me everything. And not what you’d expect. Not Michael Corleone pledging to Kate that he’s going straight. The opposite.
“He inherited this small-time coke dealing operation from his father. Two blocks, in Washington Heights. Across the street from Yeshiva University, if you can believe it. He was ready to expand, as soon as his father retired. Get into car-jacking. Smuggling pistols. I felt like I was in some gangster movie. No, I know that sounds like a cliché. I don’t mean that my life became a movie. I mean I felt like we were performers, filming a movie. Like my life became a movie set. Pretend. Because it was so unreal. I was the lead actress, he was the star. But we were just acting. Pretending. But of course, we weren’t. Anyway, he wasn’t. He was the real thing.”
Traffic eased as we finally crossed the bridge into Queens. “That passion, from those first dates. It doesn’t die. It hibernates. It’s still there. Sort of. But now, of course, I also hate him. Hated him.”
“Because? You started to judge him? You didn’t like being married to a crook?”
“Oh, come on. You’re my rabbi. I’m not going to bullshit you. I told you — I liked that he was a criminal. It was exciting. I hated him for obvious reasons.”
She finally turned her head sideways and looked at me. Was I supposed to guess? “Obvious?” I said.
“Oh, he fucked around. What do you think? What was I thinking? He cheated. Again. And again. And again. And then, when I complained. He slapped me. Again. And again. Carefully. Almost no bruise. But every day. Didn’t matter what I said or did. He’d slap me. A little harder each time. One time he threatened to beat the shit out of me. So what do you think? You think I liked him after that?”
“No,” I said. “I wouldn’t think. . .”
“Of course not. So you can see why. You understand.”
“Understand?”
She was about to reply when I felt the car turning on to a gravel road. We were in the cemetery.
***
That night I had a drink with Matt, an old boyfriend. Well, more like a former fiancé. In Raquel’s words, we’d been engaged to be engaged. Then I cheated on him with Peter. Unlike Raquel, I felt no pleasant frisson from a taboo relationship. On the contrary, the guilt nearly ate me up, and the cheating almost ruined me. Matt broke up with me, and Peter, at first, was disgusted at my behavior. And I hated myself. But that was years ago.
Now we were friends. Or at least not enemies. We exchanged lengthy emails about twice a year. He had just moved from Boston to Manhattan where he’d gotten a job in the district attorney’s office. Like Raquel’s old boyfriend (fiancé?), he was a prosecutor. Ironic. I hadn’t seen him since he kicked me out of our Beverley Hills apartment five years ago. Back then we were students — rabbinical, law. And kids, still not sure who we were, what we wanted to be, where we wanted to go. But now, we’d grown up. Graduated. With jobs. I watched him in profile as he sipped his gin and tonic. I always appreciated his chiseled cheek bones.
It took us almost no time to fall into our old conversational habits, which is to say I asked him about his work; he spoke, I listened. He already hated his boss. A typical work day was fifteen hours. The intellectual warfare in his office intimidated him, even though he was sure he was just as smart as the other Ivy League grads. He ran through a few cases he was working on. Bank embezzlement. Jewelry theft. Carjacking. A prostitution ring, run by a formerly famous actress, busted up by her more famous ex-husband. Matt had always been a skilled storyteller. I found myself being charmed, against my will. You’d be surprised, he told me, at the level of organized crime in the city. Actually, I told him, I wouldn’t.
Later that night, I attended Peter’s weekly gig in Brooklyn. His fiddle whined and buzzed and sang, dominating his six-piece band. Peter’s skinny arm gripped the bow lightly, even delicately, but still danced and twisted and jerked as if some alien intelligence or demon possessed it. His eyes and cheeks and nose twirled on his face. No one except me would recognize the expression as the one I saw several nights a week in bed. I hated the music, but I loved watching him play. Five years ago, I chose passion over fondness, Peter over Matt. Was I paying the price now?
The next day, Raquel texted me. She needed to see me right away. I had a full day of neglected work on my desk, calls to return, emails and texts to read and write. But without even dictating a reply, I walked quickly to her apartment.
“He’s leaking. Still leaking!” She shouted at me as soon as I made my way through two security guards, a phalanx of FBI agents and a housekeeper wearing an actual maid uniform. Raquel’s hands shook as she tried to sip something from an old-fashioned china tea cup. She sat on the overstuffed white love seat, staring at me with beseeching eyes. “I can’t stop dreaming about him. He talks to me. You said it wasn’t allowed! Can you stop him?”
Actually, I’d said it was allowed. But I wasn’t about to argue afterlife etiquette. I sat down next to her and placed my hand gently on her shoulder. She was shivering, like a scared puppy. “What does he say to you?”
She set her cup down, took a breath, and looked straight ahead, as if he was sitting at the table directly in front of us. She smiled. “He reminded me of our last weekend together. In Montauk.”
I kept my hand on her shoulder. She reached up to cover it with her clammy palm. “This was a good memory?” I asked.
She nodded. “The best. The best. At first. I mean, it was insane. We did cocaine. We hadn’t snorted together in years. And you know I’m sure what they say about getting high on your own supply. But he said it was a special occasion. And the sex. Oh, please. I don’t have to tell you, I’m sure. The passion. I already told you. We did it on the couch, in the bathroom, on the beach, in so many ways, positions, and. . .” She tilted her head, still staring straight ahead at what I assumed was the fantom Marcello. “I guess I don’t have to tell you. You know.”
“Hmm,” I said. I watched her eyes. Was she high right now? Delusional? I was ashamed to admit to myself that I had no idea.
“Anyway,” she said. “That was Friday. And Saturday. Sunday. Sunday was sex on the beach in the morning. Then sex in the water. Then a shower together. And you know.” She turned and looked directly at me for the first time that morning. “At breakfast he told me.”
“Yes? Told you?”
“I think you know.”
Surprisingly, I did. But I preferred for her to say it.
“He told me he was leaving me. Leaving me for this other, this young. . . thing.” Ball bearing tears streamed down her cheeks, an avalanche of tears. But no sound, no cries. Just round tears. I brought her close, rubbed her shoulder lightly. “And that’s why, you know. I had to do it. That’s why he’s leaking. Because I had to. I had to. . .”
“Raquel,” I interrupted. “I don’t think. . .”
“Oh, it’s fine. You’re my rabbi. Everything I say to you is confidential. Privileged.”
“Still, I don’t think. . .”
“That’s why I killed him. That’s why he’s leaking through like Hamlet’s father. I killed him with his own axe. And I’ll kill her, too. I will.” She smiled at me.
***
“You have to tell the police,” Peter told me. He was stroking his mandolin in our tiny kitchen, trying to scratch out a new tune. I’d learned long ago that he couldn’t have a serious conversation without some instrument on his lap. He often composed his best material while arguing with me.
“But it’s privileged,” I said. “Clergy privilege.”
His thumb plucked out an eight-note minor key tune. He smiled. I wondered when his beard had gotten so straggly. Maybe it was always straggly and I’d never noticed? “Oh, you’re a lawyer now?” he said. “The lady threatened to kill someone. I mean, on all the TV shows, that’s enough. You’ve got to tell the cops. Hey, what about that old boyfriend. Isn’t he. . .?”
“Matt. A prosecutor.”
He played a chord. Beautiful. “Tell Matt,” he said.
I did. A week later the police arrested Raquel.
***
Matt and I started regular lunch dates. Just once a month, and no touching or even intimate revelations. Just two old friends, small talk, renewing our acquaintance. I told myself that I could tell Peter about it. It was not an affair. Nothing like that. Still, I didn’t. And I always chose restaurants far from Anshei Emet. I didn’t want any congregants or other employees to see.
At the third lunch, he handed me a folded sheet of paper. It was a note from Raquel. She needed to see me.
I was surprised that the prison social worker lent me her office for my visit. I was hoping for the TV version of a prison conversation — a clear plastic barrier with old fashioned phones. Instead, we both sat facing each other in front of the desk, in cushioned chairs, practically knee to knee. She wore a black jumpsuit which I was relieved to notice had no pockets. She seemed to read my mind, or notice my roving eyes, because she smiled and said, “No axes. Or knife, or toothbrush. That’s not why I asked you here.” She laughed.
I laughed too. Like we were old friends, sharing good old times. Kidding around.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” she said. “Lots of time here to think. Actually, I’ve been thinking about your husband.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, you know. You love him, but you don’t like him.” She brushed her black bangs out of her eyes. “There’s passion there, yes? But he irritates you.”
“Raquel, I don’t think. . .”
She put up her right trigger finger, as if she had just one more thing to say. Or, needed just one minute to finish. Or was threatening to stab me or shoot me if I didn’t listen. I sat back in the surprisingly comfortable chair. “Don’t let go of the passion,” she said. “The physical passion. You know what I mean. Otherwise, it’s all irritation. And irritation turns into, well, I think you know. Rage. Rage. And then that’s all you’ve got. Yael. Rabbi Yael. Remember Montauk. Montauk. It was the key to everything I told you. It wasn’t exactly the way I described it. Doesn’t matter. There was passion. It would have been okay. Would have been great. But he. . .” She tilted her head. I expected a ball bearing tear. Instead, a wistful, half grin decorated her face. “I’m worried about you, Rabbi Yael. You’re so young. And really, just married. A newlywed. Passion. Please remember that.” She studied my face, as if there were some puzzle there she couldn’t solve, a code she couldn’t break. “You know, I’ll be in here a long time,” she said. “Long time.”
I got up quickly and knocked on the door. A guard immediately appeared. I didn’t kiss Raquel farewell on the cheek, didn’t shake hands, didn’t say goodbye, didn’t look back. I got out of there.
That night, after Peter’s gig in Brooklyn, I told him most of the story. “Passion,” I said. “She kept repeating the word, like a mantra. What do you think she meant?”
Peter plucked a note, then another. I wanted to rip the instrument out of his hand and smash it against our refrigerator. On the other hand, the music was pretty. “Well,” he said, “she is a murderer. So. . .” he plucked another note. “It takes some passion to kill. But, wait. Are you telling me we need to work on passion? Is that what this whole story is about?”
I stared at him. Scraggly beard. It wasn’t so bad. “Not necessarily,” I said. “If anything, we need to work on friendship. You know. Liking each other.”
He stared at me. Then shook his head a tiny bit, a move only I could recognize. “Yeah,” he whispered.
“But, it’s also. . . just. . ?”
“Yes?” he asked.
“Maybe we could go to Montauk.”
Philip Graubart has published many short stories in several literary journals and is the author of seven novels, including Planet of the Jews, Rabbis and Gangsters, Silwan, and Here There Is No Why. They have served as a rabbi in California and Massachusetts and currently teach Jewish Thought at the Academy for Jewish Religion in California.
ELEVENTH HOUR LITERARY 