Page 98 of At Midnight Comes the Cry
Another couple paused beside Hadley. “It’s down there, right?”
“Yep, yep.” He glanced at them for a second and waved his hand before swiveling back to her. “I haven’t seen you at any get-togethers. I’m Josh Leeser, by the way.”
Reverend Clare thrust herself forward. “Hi, Josh,” she said in her most Southern accent. “We’re looking for Rabbi Oppenheim?”
“Oh.” He deflated a bit. “Yes. All the way to the right. They’re getting ready to light the menorah.”
“Thank you,” Clare drawled. She hooked her arm in Hadley’s and headed toward the crowd at the far end of the concourse.
“Wow, Hadley.” Yíxin sounded impressed. “You’ve got game.”
“You should have seen me when I first met her.” Flynn smiled sideways. “It took me, like, three months before I could talk to her without stuttering.”
Hadley looked down at her boots, praying no one could see the blush rising in her face.
The concourse looked like a sad, bare version of the mall; the large modern paintings on display had been swagged with tinsel and here and there artfully arranged piles of brightly wrapped packages rested against the base of the walls. The crowd near the entrance to the cultural center was a welcome oasis of light and life. People strolled between large glass-framed exhibit cases and checked out food carts and tables, where vendors and volunteers were getting ready to serve up. Something smelled wonderful and Hadley’s stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten anything today.
“Oh, I see her!” Reverend Clare pointed to a short woman talking with a trio of musicians, their instruments tucked beneath their arms. “Rabbi Oppenheim!” She waved.
“Clare!” The rabbi hugged her, then turned to the rest of them. She was in her early sixties, with a clear, penetrating gaze and a face that had spent a lot of time laughing. “You’ve brought the party with you.”
Clare introduced them all. Hadley could see the chief barely restraining himself until the reverend finished up with, “… and this is Yíxin Zhào, an attorney with the state AG’s office.”
“Have you notified any security?” Van Alstyne burst out. “Do the state police here know?”
The rabbi looked amused. “There’s exactly one officer on duty, and yes, we told him. And as I said on the phone, we’re keeping our eyes open. Temple Beth El and Temple Chai had already arranged for their security guards to be here.” She gestured, first to a tall, stocky blonde who hadcopwritten all over her, then to a slighter, darker man with a faint smile and observant eyes.
“What about the menorah?”
Rabbi Oppenheim frowned, then looked to a small stage, where an elaborate brass menorah sat on a draped table. “What about it?”
“The large wooden one outside,” Flynn clarified.
“Oh! Yeah, I saw that when I came in. I don’t know, maybe Chabad? They do that sort of thing.”
“There was nobody there when we went by a few minutes ago. Wouldn’t people be gathering to light it soon?” The chief clearly had a bug about the structure.
“It’s not a set time. You can light the menorah as early as sunset, or as late as an hour and a half after, if you’re saying thema’arivfirst.”
“Okay.” The chief nodded at Yíxin. “You work here. Can you find out if that structure has an official permit or not?”
“Maybe? The plaza operations office is right near where we came down; if there’s a custodian on duty, they might have a key.” She pulled her agency lanyard from her back pocket and dropped it over her head.
“I’ll go with her,” Paul offered. He tapped his sidearm. “Just in case.”
“Good. See if whoever’s working can open up some of these offices for us. I want a visual check as soon as possible.” The crowd was quieting, parents shushing their children and the rattle of plates and platters ceasing. The chief looked around. “What’s up?”
Rabbi Oppenheim gave Clare the side-eye. “Is he always this suspicious?”
“Yes. But he’s got good reason this time.”
The rabbi gestured to where an aged, papery-skinned man was making his way up three steps to the raised platform. A pair of younger men hovered beside and behind him, not assisting, but more than ready to. “Leonard Schlesinger,” the rabbi explained. “He’s going to say the prayers and light the first candle.”
“Uh…” Russ touched the top of his head. “I don’t have…”
A burly dad standing near them leaned over and handed him a kippah. “One for you, too.” He passed it to Flynn. Both men put them on.
“Mr. Schlesinger is the oldest member of Temple Beth-El. He was at Omaha Beach on D-Day.” Rabbi Oppenheim nodded toward one of the display cases. “There’s a photo of him shipping out at eighteen in the exhibit.”
