Papal decree

9

Shimon David was a conscientious old man, or at least he liked to think so. His neighbors didn’t use that word, but substituted another, less complimentary one, but he didn’t know about that, so he wasn’t hurt. For them Shimon was an old busybody, always attentive to the smallest movement on the street and in the neighborhood. If someone wanted to know if a particular person was home or arriving late, Shimon was the person to ask. He would even know whether the delay would be long or short. The limit of his knowledge stretched from one end of the street to the other, and nothing else mattered to him. A widower, he had lived there for more than two decades. All his life he had been a mailman. He could tell a lot about a person from the mail he received. Shimon knew many things about his neighbors, more than they sometimes imagined, because no one wanted to know about him.

The street was in the suburbs of the Holy City. In the distance in the midst of buildings and stores, someone who knew what to look for could make out the gold cupola of the Dome of the Rock, within the walls.

From the same window from which he kept track of his neighbors, Shimon could see his beloved city of Jerusalem, the center of the world.

This afternoon Shimon didn’t appear at his window. His neighbors came home from work tired and didn’t spare a glance to check his absence. They entered their houses as always without looking back, so they didn’t notice whether Shimon was at his window or not.

Movements inside the house of Marian, an old woman of ninety who had died two months before without heirs, caught the zealous Jew’s attention. Perhaps someone had bought the house, which was next door to his. Certainly there had not been any changes or repairs. The three men who arrived in a white van entered the house and installed themselves as if they’d always lived there. The situation didn’t inspire confidence in Shimon. Information was everything.

He knew Marian’s house well. He’d been inside many times when she was alive, crotchety and very gossipy. But he liked to talk to her. She was always someone to talk to. Shimon’s first mistake was not knocking on the front door and, instead, trying a sneaky approach. He circled the house by the first-floor patio, one step in front of the other, careful not to make a noise. The first window was for the living room, and he dared not look in. It was shared by too many people to be empty, and Shimon didn’t want to risk being discovered. Not because he felt he was doing anything wrong, but to fulfill his duty to his neighbor’s belongings that should be passed along in perfect condition to the next owners, whoever they might be. The second window was Marian’s room. She’d moved down to the first floor when she realized she would die earlier if she had to climb the stairs every night. She was worn out by the effort. Marian was a very practical woman. But now was not the time to think about her. His mission was to find out who the intruders were. If they were intruders. They could be just three nice young men to add to the list of new neighbors. It would be a change, since the neighbors were starting to disappear as they moved out or died.

Shimon took another step toward the window, which by coincidence was across from his own, separated by a wall. When he got to the window, the curtains were closed. Damn. He couldn’t see anything. There was light inside, but the curtain was thick. He went to the corner in back. The sun was setting elsewhere. Already it was dark. His heart beat faster. He was too old for this. He heard a muffled noise. Someone was breathing hard… and then a crack. The hard breathing could be his, but the cracking noise wasn’t. He turned around to find the source of the noise and found himself again at Marian’s window. The curtains hid the interior, but let a pale reflection of light out around the sides. He didn’t see shadows. He clearly heard what was going on inside the room. Someone was breathing very hard. Another smack.

‘We don’t have all night, kid,’ a harsh male voice said.

‘I’ve already told you. I don’t know what you want me to say. You’ve got the wrong guy,’ a voice cried. ‘Let me go, please.’

Another crack, very hard, it sounded to Shimon. Chairs scraping and other unintelligible sounds.

‘I’m not going to be so gentle next time,’ the former voice menaced.

‘Do what he tells you, kid. We don’t have much time,’ another, more cordial voice, advised.

‘I’m nobody. You’re mistaking me for someone else,’ the tearful voice repeated.

‘Your name is Ben Isaac Jr.?’ the friendlier-sounding voice asked. ‘Son of Ben Isaac?’

The sorrowful voice didn’t answer.

A blow sounded. Perhaps to the head. ‘Didn’t you hear? Answer!’ the first voice joined in again.

‘I am,’ Ben answered fearfully. ‘Call my father. He’ll pay any amount you ask for.’ His pain was obvious.

The friendly voice started to laugh. ‘This is not about money. No one’s going to ask for ransom.’

‘No?’ Ben asked. He was completely confused.

‘No,’ the friendly voice confirmed. ‘But we want something, obviously. And you’re going to help us get it, Ben. Do we understand each other?’

Shimon was astonished, leaning against Marian’s window. He had to go home and call the police. Someone had kidnapped Ben Isaac Jr., whoever he was. He is terrified, the son of Ben Isaac Sr., who must have something important for mafia of this caliber. Why were they hiding in Marian’s house? Another mystery. One thing at a time. The police first. He walked rapidly toward the street. As rapidly as his age and the strength G-d permitted him. Human life was at risk. When the neighborhood heard about this, there would be an outcry. Shimon passed the window of the living room, and…

When he came to, he was a prisoner in a chair from Marian’s bedroom with a pulsing pain in his neck. Ben was next to him, drooling blood, with his head on his chest. He looked unconscious. Three men were watching Shimon.

‘Who are you?’ the one with the friendly voice, obviously the leader, asked. He was also the shortest.

‘Me?’ Shimon gasped in fear. He couldn’t think from the pain in the back of his head.

‘Yeah, you. Didn’t you hear me?’ He recognized the voice, the more brutal one.

‘I… I… I’m the neighbor from next door.’ What else could he say but the truth.

The one with the pleasant voice smiled and approached him, looking him in the eye.

‘No, do you know who you are?’ he asked sarcastically, while pressing a revolver against Shimon’s head, who closed his eyes and pressed his lips together in panic, a cold shiver going over his spine… the last. ‘Collateral damage.’