On Such Quiet Streets

By Henrietta Isler and Paula Gold Chalef

What if a child is missing around Passover in Templeton, New York and the incident gives rise to the age-old myth of the blood ritual, alleging that Jews use Christian childrens blood in the making of matzoh. The town is torn apart by acts of violence until the childs body is found by the combined efforts of the police Sergeant, Bill Dalton and the Jewish town librarian, Miriam Roth. Based on a true incident the novel portrays that prejudice often bubbles beneath a veneer of accommodation and acceptance and shows it can happen here.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 19, 2008
• ISBN: 9781465328441

Henrietta Isler

We are Paula Gold Chalef, J.D. and Henrietta Isler, Ph.D. We are co-authors of the novels On Such Quiet Streets and Green Patches in the Snow. As social activists we would like to tell an interesting story which has some social impact and causes people to think about important issues. Our first novel is based upon an incident that happened in 1928 in upstate New York. The second novel is about a group of outcasts in Japan called burakumin. Paula is a retired lawyer as well as a sociologist. She served as an Assistant District Attorney in Philadelphia for many years. Henrietta is a psychologist and marriage and family therapist who conducted a private practice and taught at several universities including West Point. We won first prize for fiction at the Santa Barbara Writer’s Conference in 1995 for On Such Quiet Streets.

Book preview

On Such

Quiet Streets

47563-CHAL-layout.pdf

Paula Gold Chalef

&

Henrietta Isler

Copyright © 2008 by Paula Gold Chalef & Henrietta Isler.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission

in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

47563

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

EPILOGUE

Like men with sore eyes: they find the

light painful, while the darkness, which permits

them to see nothing is restful and agreeable.

Dio Chrysostom

(A.D. 40-120)

11th, or Trojan, discourse

PROLOGUE

Miriam Roth Dalton awoke to the dreary chill of an early March day. The forsysthia buds, outside her window, surprised by a premature spring, had tried without success to open into yellow blossoms. A steady drizzle fell as the sun attempted to come out from behind scraps of clouds.

She felt the empty place beside her in the bed where her husband, Bill, should have been, and sighed. Gazing at his picture on the nightstand, she brushed aside sad thoughts and remembered the recent holidays when the children and grandchildren joined them to celebrate their life together and to say goodbye to Bill. Sitting up, she swung her feet over the side of the bed and shivered.

Wagging his tail, Max, her gray and white schnauzer waited for her at the foot of the stairs. After opening the front door, she picked up the newspaper and laid it on the kitchen table, still in its plastic sleeve. She poured Max’s food into his bowl, set up the coffee-maker and dropped two slices of rye bread into the toaster.

While waiting for the coffee to perk, she scanned the Templeton Times. A headline at the bottom of page three caught her eye, sending shock-waves through her.

BLOOD LIBEL

Romanian police have announced the detention of

an Israeli citizen and three Romanians on suspicion

of smuggling babies out of the country and into Israel

to use their Christian blood in the making of matzoh.

She was horrified to find history repeating itself as the article described the resurrection of an old anti-semitic myth. Miriam sat there staring into her coffee cup and was drawn back to the events that happened over half a century ago when she had waited at the library for Sue Anne Parker.

CHAPTER ONE

Twelve-year-old Sue Anne Parker left Templeton Elementary School at three-thirty P.M. She walked south on 1st Street toward the town library where she worked every Wednesday afternoon. This morning, when she put on the new red woolen hat and coat her mother had made for her and her black patent leather Mary Janes, the sun was shining brightly. Now there were black clouds overhead. Heavy drops of rain splattered the pavement. Her mother had scolded her for wearing her Sunday clothes today. She was afraid she would be punished if they got soaked by the rain.

A black pick-up truck pulled alongside the curb, sending a jet of water toward the child. She recognized the driver who called out, Sue Anne, hop in. I’ll take you to wherever you’re going. It’s really coming down now and you don’t want to catch cold.

No, thanks, she said. I don’t have far to go. There was a rumble of thunder and the sky darkened. The black clouds looked like giant Rorschach ink blots. The rain intensified. It was as if layers of sky had been peeled away. Chains of water rattled against the truck.

Don’t be silly. You’re going to get drenched and your momma’s going to be upset. Hop in, he said, opening the passenger door.

Sue Anne hesitated. She looked up at the sky. Another clap of thunder crashed. Reluctantly, she climbed the three steps into the truck and sat on the torn black seat, her feet dangling above empty Rheingold beer bottles and newspapers strewn on the floor. She crinkled her nose at the smell of stale smoke and pushed aside a package of Camel cigarettes.

I’m going to the library, the child said. The driver’s calloused hand reached in front of her. She heard the click of the door lock.

I’ve got something to drop off first and then I’ll take you there, the man said. He proceeded to drive, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, staring straight ahead.

Sue Anne watched people scurrying along the wet pavement, barely visible under their black umbrellas. Through the windshield she glimpsed a large red, white and blue billboard, saying Re-elect Franklin Roosevelt for President. She knew her father wasn’t going to do that because he was a Republican and he didn’t want a Democrat staying in the White House, especially Mr. Roosevelt. He didn’t like him and his New Deal. She’d heard him say he was going to vote for somebody called Alf Landon. Sue Anne closed her eyes, glad she’d accepted the ride. Now her shoes wouldn’t get wet and she wouldn’t have to face her mother’s tight-lipped anger when she got home. She looked forward to the hot chocolate Miss Roth, the librarian, would have prepared for them.

When the truck hit a bump in the road, Sue Anne’s eyes flew open and she grabbed hold of the door handle for support, flinching at the feel of the cold metal. She was surprised to see they were heading towards Hangman’s Rock. On a sunny day she loved to climb the hills with her family and picnic by the side of the stream, watching the water form white ruffles as it flowed by. But today with the rain pelting down it looked uninviting.

Where are we going? She felt frightened, not knowing why. Miss Roth’s expecting me and I don’t want to be late.

The only sound was rain slapping against metal.

I have to be at the library at four, the girl said tugging at the man’s sleeve.

The truck crunched to a stop and the man got out. He opened the passenger door.

Get out, he said. Sue Anne shrank against the back of the seat. Get out, now. His voice was low and menacing. The child didn’t move. The man reached in and yanked Sue Anne to the ground. She cried out. The man stuffed a wad of cloth into the child’s mouth and dragged her into the woods. Brambles scratched her face and hands. Her coat caught on a low branch of a pine tree.

The rain had stopped. He continued to drag her through the wet leaves until he reached a clearing where the dense foliage of the trees shut out the remaining light of the day. Sue Anne struggled. Her hands shoved against the man’s chest. Her fingers scraped against the hard edges of his buttons. Rough hands pulled off her panties and she felt something sharp scratch the back of her legs. The weight of his body crushed her chest so that she gasped for breath.

She tried to scream, but her words were muffled by the gag. She stared into eyes that bored though her like steel rods, his breath like sour cheese. This is only a nightmare. I’ll wake up soon, she thought. She saw her mother’s face saying, Hush, baby, everything’s going to be all right. Hush, hush . . .

Mommy, mommy, I’m sorry about my Mary Janes . . . she whimpered. A Sunday school tune began to spin slowly in her head. Jesus loves me, this I know for the Bible tells me so.

The last thing she felt was a knife-like pain between her legs before the blackness descended.

CHAPTER TWO

Over the years there had been very little violent crime in Templeton. People were shocked some years back, about the time of the Great Depression, when Mrs. Jennings threw lye into her husband’s face, but by now the incident was forgotten except when Mr. Jennings was seen tapping his white stick as he walked down Main Street.

High mountains surrounded Templeton, imprisoning the inhabitants for a good part of the year. During the winter months a wedge of gray sky cast shadows that criss-crossed the slopes and darkened the town like the moon eclipsing the sun. Tempers were short. Husbands complained when their wives burnt the toast, and mothers swatted their children for a sidelong look.

Hot in summer, cold in winter, the seasons changed so rapidly that no sooner had the townfolk finished putting away boots and parkas, it was almost time to take out bathing suits. For a brief period in the spring when the lilacs and the forsythia bloomed and again in the fall when the leaves turned copper, nature gave Templeton a face-lift.

The Bellevue Hotel was located in the center of town. With its lacy wrought-iron balconies and broad verandahs, it presided like an aging matriarch over her family. On warm summer nights, visitors rocked gently on the front porch listening to band concerts in the gazebo across from the hotel, tapping their feet in time to the music. On the other side of the square stood City Hall, a yellow brick building, housing the police station, the jail and the Mayor’s office.

On the surface Templeton was a peaceful place. Nobody locked the door or felt threatened when the Fuller Brush man rang the doorbell. Most people voted Republican and thought of themselves as good Christians, especially on Sunday when they went to church. Although Templeton had been settled by immigrants in the early nineteenth century, newcomers were still regarded with suspicion.

Some folks worked at the shoe factory established by Elmer Templeton in l879. Elmer had the idea that farm people might prefer to buy their shoes from a catalogue rather than travel to the city for them. Today, he was best remembered by the pigeons and the unemployed who congregated around his statue in the town square.

The locals seemed to live together harmoniously, shopping for furniture at Beckleman & Son, for furs at Bouvier’s and eating at the Greek diner. But, like the bottled milk on the doorsteps where the cream remained separate from the milk, there was little mixing between the various ethnic groups. A visitor to town might have wondered at the apparent serenity until he learned about the occasional cross burning or saw white-robed figures collecting for the Klan on the corner of Traymore and Main streets next to the sign that said,

YOU ARE ENTERING TEMPLETON, POP. 8300. WE LOVE OUR CHILDREN.

A left at Traymore Street on to Sinclair Avenue led to the Templeton Library, an imposing grey stone edifice with four Ionic columns in the neo-classic style. It was not a welcoming building as if to proclaim itself a temple of learning not to be taken lightly. Located on a grassy hill, rising high above the street, a wreath under its gabled roof announced l904 as its date of dedication.

Inside, at the receiving desk in the main room of the building, Miriam Roth was waiting for Sue Anne Parker, now a half-hour late. The child had never missed a Wednesday in the two years she had been volunteering at the library except when she’d had the measles, and she was always on time.

Miriam felt uneasy. Had she forgotten something Sue Anne had told her about not being able to come today? She was dialing the Parker home when Mrs. Abbott, the Mayor’s wife, entered the library and approached the counter.

I hope you have that new book we talked about at the last Garden Club meeting, Mrs. Abbott said in a loud imperious voice, ignoring the wooden sign that said SILENCE in bold block letters. She shook her umbrella, spattering water over the counter and removed her gloves. Placing them in her purse, she took out a handkerchief and wiped her glasses. It’s time to put my bulbs in the ground, and I’d like to give them a good start. Her voice jarred like a misplaced chord.

Mrs. Abbott stood a head taller than Miriam and seemed to use her stature to demonstrate her superiority as she looked down on the librarian. Miriam was a small person with the feistiness of someone barely five feet tall. She always wore spike heels to fool people about her height. If she could’ve found bedroom slippers with high heels she would have worn them to fool herself. But she knew inside, her worth wasn’t measured by her size. Experience had taught her that even barefoot she could hold her own in the world.

From the back she might have been taken for a child, but when she turned around there was no doubt she was all grown up. At the library she looked more prim than pretty because she wore her abundant copper hair pulled tightly back in a bun. Usually, she had a face that smiled more than it frowned, but today’s concerns about Sue Anne tipped the balance in the direction of frowns.

Miriam found herself twisting her earlobe, something she did only when she was nervous. Maybe she’d start wearing earrings to break the habit, the way her mother used to put mittens on her hands at bedtime when she was a little girl, so she wouldn’t bite her nails.

The Mayor’s wife was not one of Miriam’s favorite people. She’d overheard Mrs. Abbott refer to her as that pushy Jew when Miriam had won first prize for her Talisman rose at the annual Garden Club competition. She was also told Mrs. Abbott was the one responsible for Ed Woodruff, the editor of the Templeton Times, putting the announcement on the back page next to the obituaries instead of on the society page.

The librarian took the book, Best Blooms From Bulbs from the reserve section and checked it out for Mrs. Abbott. When the Mayor’s wife opened the door to leave, the wind almost forced her back inside. She had to scramble to recover her hat. Miriam had a moment of guilty satisfaction. Even Mrs. Abbott couldn’t control the elements.

It was raining so hard. Could the weather account for Sue Anne’s lateness? Miriam dialed the Parker number again. Ralph, Sue Anne’s younger brother, answered the phone. No. He told her Sue Anne was not at home. Wasn’t she at the library?

Miriam’s hand tightened on the receiver. Her voice sounded strained. She said, Please have her call me when she gets home. She tried to push down fears that were starting to surface unbidden.

Miriam called the hardware store where Sue Anne’s father worked. He was out on a delivery. She started to look up the phone number of the hospital where Mrs. Parker was a surgical nurse, but that would only alarm the child’s mother. She hung up quickly and called Sue Anne’s teacher at school.

Hello, Miss Ambrose. I’m glad you’re still there. It’s Miriam Roth. Was Sue Anne Parker in school today?

Yes. She looked so pretty in her new outfit. I asked her why she was all dressed up. She said it was her day at the library, and she wanted to show you her new clothes. Miss Ambrose paused. Why are you asking? Is something wrong?

I don’t know. She hasn’t come in yet, Miriam said, trying to control the tremor in her voice. I was beginning to wonder if she’d been delayed at school.

Not that I know of. I’ll ask around and call you if I find out anything. There was a click, then the relentless buzz of the dial tone.

Miriam hung up the telephone, unclenched her hand and noticed an imprint of half-moons where her nails had dug into her palm. The conversation with the teacher had further fueled her anxiety. She wandered around the library reshelving books, wondering what to do next, when she became aware of the searing smell of scorched metal.

She’d forgotten she’d put the kettle on to make hot chocolate for Sue Anne and herself, a part of their weekly ritual. The librarian hurried into her private office where she kept a hot plate and found the bottom of the kettle burned. She made a mental note to buy a new kettle, one that whistled.

The librarian sat down in the shabby Morris chair inherited from her predecessor. Leaning back, she rested her arms on its worn leather and listened to the rain beat down on the roof. She heard the branches tapping against the windows, sounding like a stranger knocking to come in. On days like this Miriam always felt melancholy, and attributed her apprehension about Sue Anne to the elements. Perhaps because it was on such a dreary day that she’d stood alone in the courtroom and was granted a divorce from Harold Reimer.

Her first job after graduating college was in Harold Reimer’s bookstore in Greenwich Village. He was a handsome man in his mid-thirties whose sophistication dazzled her after the clumsiness of the college boys she’d dated. Instead of cokes and hamburgers she was treated to filet mignon and burgundy wine. When Harold proposed, she thought she was the luckiest girl in the world. Her mother was delighted. Not only was he a good catch. He was Jewish. They were married within six months and separated a year later.

Once he possessed her he no longer prized her. He would strike her for something as silly as overcooking a hamburger. One hot July day she had to wear long sleeves to work to cover the bruises on her arms. Not wanting any part of her former husband, she’d resumed her maiden name after the divorce, shocking even her friends. But she knew on some deeper level if she wanted to move on she had to shed her past as a snake sloughs off its old skin. That was the day she grew up. She became aware that the fine line between childhood and maturity had little to do with aging. It was a matter of taking charge of her own life.

After her divorce, Miriam had answered an ad in the New York Times for a librarian in a small town in upstate New York. When she got the letter telling her she was hired, she packed her things and left New York City for Templeton without a backward glance.

Her father’s death a few months earlier had provided her with a modest inheritance which enabled her to buy a bungalow and a car, and to live well on a librarian’s salary. Memory blurs like images seen through water, and the painful experience of Harold’s abusiveness and infidelities had thankfully dulled with time.

She remembered the long train ride from Grand Central Station to Templeton. She’d watched the scenery change from factories and smokestacks to scattered farms and grain silos. Occasionally a scarecrow with its outstretched arms and tattered hat stared back at her. Looking out the window at the villages along the way, she’d felt like a pioneer woman going North instead of West. But as she imagined the pioneer women must’ve longed for the comforts back home, she’d wondered if she would long for the bright lights of the big city. Now, six years later, she thought the move hadn’t been a mistake, although she sometimes missed the clutter, sounds and smells of New York City, even the beggars.

There were many beggars in New York City. Henry had been her favorite. He stood on the corner of Broadway and Eighth Street with his tin cup and unseeing eyes in all sorts of weather. Every day on her way to work she dropped a few pennies in his cup, the coins clinking against the metal. Miriam liked to think it was she and not the money he missed when he said, Miss Roth, I hope you weren’t sick. I missed you yesterday.

Now she welcomed the serenity of her life. Even the simple act of weeding her garden gave her a sense of peace. Yet on another level she felt as if she were marking time waiting for a deeper fulfillment.

Shortly after Miriam’s arrival in Templeton a few members of the Jewish community invited her to Friday night dinner. Their rituals were foreign to her, and she found she had little in common with religious Jews. Besides, she was unable to reciprocate because they wouldn’t eat in her non-kosher home.

One family, the Levys had even tried to match her up with Mrs. Levy’s unmarried brother. He’d been a nice enough man, pleasant looking and intelligent, but she couldn’t see herself lighting candles and blessing wine for the rest of her life, a handmaiden to the men around her.

She was content. She had a few good friends in addition to her garden, her dog, her music and books. As for men, her social life was limited to an occasional date that led nowhere. She found the local bachelors dull and uninteresting. Or was it that she was still unable to trust men?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. She reached for it eagerly, hoping it was news of Sue Anne. It was Miriam’s best friend, Dorothy Morgan.

"Hi, Mimi, I called to firm up our plans for Friday night. Do you want to meet me at the Bellevue for