pocket and told him about the instant message.
“At the time Aliza didn’t realize it was important,” I said. “Later, she was afraid you and your wife would be upset that she hadn’t told you right away.”
“Poor Aliza.” He sighed. “She must feel terrible, carrying that around, worrying about what we would say.”
“You should tell her that.”
His dark eyes narrowed. “I don’t need you to teach me how to be a parent, Molly.”
My face burned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
He took a deep breath. “No,
I’m
sorry. Obviously, I haven’t been doing a great job. Hadassah ran away. Aliza’s afraid to talk to me. Gavriel—” He stopped. “I’ll talk to Aliza. Thank you for telling me, Molly. I mean that.”
“You can’t blame yourself because Hadassah ran away, Rabbi Bailor.”
“Who
should
I blame?”
He walked me to the door and took my jacket out of the hall closet.
“I read a recent commentary about Dinah,” he said. “Before she was raped, the Torah refers to her as Leah’s daughter. After the rape, she’s
Jacob’s
daughter. The change suggests that her father and brothers should have been aware that Dinah left her tent to see the daughters of the land perform. And the Rambam’s son says her menfolk were negligent in guarding her. Not everyone agrees, but I can’t stop thinking about that.”
“You warned Dassie about chat rooms,” I said. “You couldn’t control her actions. Teenagers break rules. They take risks. It’s almost an eleventh commandment.”
“I was arrogant,” he said, his voice humbled with anguish. “I thought that what happens to others would never happen to my family. I urge parents to use computer spyware, to Google their kids’ names to see if any websites come up with their personal information. I didn’t do that with Dassie. I thought she was safe.”
His pain filled me with sorrow. I wished I had more to offer than words. “Dassie told Aliza she
is
safe, Rabbi Bailor. Until we know otherwise, I think you should take comfort in that.”
Reaching into the closet, he removed a small manila bubble mailer from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to me. “I received this at the office in today’s mail.”
There was no return address. Inside the mailer was a gold mesh bag with silver foil–wrapped chocolate coins, the kind kids get on Chanukah, along with a computer-printed message on a small sheet of paper that I was careful to hold by its corners:
What DOES become of the broken-hearted?
A penny for your thoughts, Rabbi. Or should I say a shekel? Or fifty?
There was no signature.
“That’s a song reference. ‘What Becomes of the Broken-Hearted?’ ” I looked up. “It’s from him, right? Why didn’t you show this to me earlier?”
“Because I’m not sure it
is
from him, and I don’t want Nechama to know about it. I was hoping you’d say I was jumping to conclusions.”
“Who else would send you an anonymous note?” I said, unable to check my irritation. I read the note again. “Do you have any idea why he chose this song?”
“Dassie must have told him I’m a fan of oldies. But why
this
song?” The rabbi shrugged. “Maybe he means he’ll break Dassie’s heart. Or maybe he’s enjoying the fact that Nechama and I are broken-hearted. He’s right about that.”
“And the shekels?”
The rabbi hesitated. “It could be a biblical reference to the fine a rapist pays. Fifty silver shekels—a large amount in those days. That’s aside from fines for pain, suffering, humiliation.”
“How could you keep this from me?” I said again, angry now. “This changes everything. You have to go to the police.”
He took the note from me, slid it back into the envelope, and dropped it in the mesh bag with the coins.
“If he raped her,” I said, ignoring the pain that tightened the rabbi’s face, “you have no choice. If the police can lift fingerprints from the note or the coins, and if he’s in the system,
“At the time Aliza didn’t realize it was important,” I said. “Later, she was afraid you and your wife would be upset that she hadn’t told you right away.”
“Poor Aliza.” He sighed. “She must feel terrible, carrying that around, worrying about what we would say.”
“You should tell her that.”
His dark eyes narrowed. “I don’t need you to teach me how to be a parent, Molly.”
My face burned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
He took a deep breath. “No,
I’m
sorry. Obviously, I haven’t been doing a great job. Hadassah ran away. Aliza’s afraid to talk to me. Gavriel—” He stopped. “I’ll talk to Aliza. Thank you for telling me, Molly. I mean that.”
“You can’t blame yourself because Hadassah ran away, Rabbi Bailor.”
“Who
should
I blame?”
He walked me to the door and took my jacket out of the hall closet.
“I read a recent commentary about Dinah,” he said. “Before she was raped, the Torah refers to her as Leah’s daughter. After the rape, she’s
Jacob’s
daughter. The change suggests that her father and brothers should have been aware that Dinah left her tent to see the daughters of the land perform. And the Rambam’s son says her menfolk were negligent in guarding her. Not everyone agrees, but I can’t stop thinking about that.”
“You warned Dassie about chat rooms,” I said. “You couldn’t control her actions. Teenagers break rules. They take risks. It’s almost an eleventh commandment.”
“I was arrogant,” he said, his voice humbled with anguish. “I thought that what happens to others would never happen to my family. I urge parents to use computer spyware, to Google their kids’ names to see if any websites come up with their personal information. I didn’t do that with Dassie. I thought she was safe.”
His pain filled me with sorrow. I wished I had more to offer than words. “Dassie told Aliza she
is
safe, Rabbi Bailor. Until we know otherwise, I think you should take comfort in that.”
Reaching into the closet, he removed a small manila bubble mailer from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to me. “I received this at the office in today’s mail.”
There was no return address. Inside the mailer was a gold mesh bag with silver foil–wrapped chocolate coins, the kind kids get on Chanukah, along with a computer-printed message on a small sheet of paper that I was careful to hold by its corners:
What DOES become of the broken-hearted?
A penny for your thoughts, Rabbi. Or should I say a shekel? Or fifty?
There was no signature.
“That’s a song reference. ‘What Becomes of the Broken-Hearted?’ ” I looked up. “It’s from him, right? Why didn’t you show this to me earlier?”
“Because I’m not sure it
is
from him, and I don’t want Nechama to know about it. I was hoping you’d say I was jumping to conclusions.”
“Who else would send you an anonymous note?” I said, unable to check my irritation. I read the note again. “Do you have any idea why he chose this song?”
“Dassie must have told him I’m a fan of oldies. But why
this
song?” The rabbi shrugged. “Maybe he means he’ll break Dassie’s heart. Or maybe he’s enjoying the fact that Nechama and I are broken-hearted. He’s right about that.”
“And the shekels?”
The rabbi hesitated. “It could be a biblical reference to the fine a rapist pays. Fifty silver shekels—a large amount in those days. That’s aside from fines for pain, suffering, humiliation.”
“How could you keep this from me?” I said again, angry now. “This changes everything. You have to go to the police.”
He took the note from me, slid it back into the envelope, and dropped it in the mesh bag with the coins.
“If he raped her,” I said, ignoring the pain that tightened the rabbi’s face, “you have no choice. If the police can lift fingerprints from the note or the coins, and if he’s in the system,
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