The Others

by Sarah Blau

Genres: Jewish Fiction; Women's Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

They would rather die than become mothers.
A serial killer is on the loose in Tel Aviv. Each victim is found tied to a chair with a baby doll glued to their hands, the word 'mother' carved into their forehead like a mark of Cain.
Stowed away between the wax figurines of the Bible museum where she works, Sheila Heller knows both victims. She suspects the killings have something to do with a pact their group all made at university - to never have children.
What Sheila doesn't know is who is committing these gruesome acts of ritualistic violence, and whether she herself might be the next target.
“Dark and funny.” Ayelet Gundar-Goshen, author of LIAR
“The Others is a meaningful and original take on one of the most emotionally charged and complex issues in society - the expectation for women to bear children. Filled with tension and thrill and pitch-perfect characters, this is a convincing and enviable mystery.” Assaf Gavron, author of The Hilltop
“Steeped in the stories of the bible, this razor-sharp thriller combines propulsive narrative with subtle, insightful commentary on identity, gender roles and the different ways we contend with loss. Engrossing and thought-provoking, with a strong sense of place and a set of complex, unforgettable characters, The Others will live with you long after putting the book down.” Daniela Petrova, author of Her Mother's Daughter

Release date: April 27, 2021

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 240

Sample

BY THE TIME that phone call from the police came, I was ready.

A gentle male voice asked if he could pop by for a quick questioning. That masculine energy threw me off for a moment. Rehearsing the scenario over and over, I had always imagined a woman, the kind with a gravelly, matter-of-fact voice. I always imagined her a bit tired, maybe after a long shift, most likely a mother. They always are.

And she would always react the same way, downright rattled by the gruesome murder, gruesome and ritualistic, God, the horror! Before pulling herself together and remembering why she had called me in the first place.

“Age?” she’d ask while typing. “Married? Kids?” And I’d reply to the two last questions with the usual “no,” but this time with relief sweeping through my body.

No, ma’am, no kids.

According to the police report, Dina was murdered at 1 a.m.

The papers said it happened in “the dead of night,” and catalogued all the grisly details, but the police report was worse – trust me.

The papers also said the victim was a professor of gender studies, and the murder was described as having “unique characteristics,” by which they probably meant the fact that she was found hog-tied to a chair in her living room, the word “mother” carved into her forehead, and her dead hands clutching a baby doll.

What they didn’t mention was that it was one of those reborn dolls you see on British TV shows featuring people with “peculiarities,” who treat their dolls like real babies. These are usually after-hours shows, broadcast in “the dead of night,” viewed by people like me with a curiosity tinged with horror. I’m not going to become one of those people, right? I wouldn’t rock a doll in a cradle and tell my guests, “Shush! He’s having trouble sleeping,” right?

The doll found at the murder scene had a round face, puckered red lips and clear blue eyes with lifelike lashes.

What was mentioned was the struggle to pry the doll from the victim’s hands. At first they thought it was rigor mortis, but then discovered the baby was glued to her. One sentimental journalist waxed poetic about how she looked like “a mother clinging to her infant, refusing to let go.” Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t imagine Dina clinging to anything, let alone an infant. No, no, it had to have been glued to her.

I guess Dina would have been pleased to know that her list of accomplishments extended over quite a few sentences. They cited the PhD she had obtained at such a young age, the dazzling lectures that drew packed audiences and the brilliant essays, highlighting, of course, the one about childfree women in the Bible, the one that had cemented her status as “one of the most prominent and polemical feminist theorists of our times.” They also noted that she had chosen neither to marry nor to have children, and had become a leading advocate for this “controversial movement.”

They did not mention the resistance of her skin during the attempts to yank the doll out of her hands, resulting in her having to be buried along with it, the doll pressed up against her.

And I couldn’t help but think, There you have it, Dina, you’re finally a mother.

MY FALLING-OUT HAIR is gathered in clumps in the corners of every room.

The whole apartment is filled with boxes and hairballs. I keep tripping over the former and stepping on the latter. There’s your usual hair loss, the one women’s magazines will subtly refer to as “normal from a certain age,” and there’s the other kind, a product of my own pulling and yanking. At least I don’t swallow it. Every now and then I’ll stumble over an article about a giant hairball surgically removed from the stomach of some neurotic young woman, and in the photo accompanying the article, it always looks like a hairy baby monster.

I still think about Maor’s parting remark before leaving, “Your hair is all over the house, do something about it, it’s gross.” Bam! The door slams shut, kicking up a tiny hairball past my face.

For the first time in my life, I considered swallowing it.

I’m sweeping the apartment with a new silicone broom; I bought it yesterday, dragging it with me all the way home, attracting the curious gazes of passers-by, as if they expected me to ride it. They should be grateful it’s a shiny, sterile silicone broom and not the giant straw witch one I got for fancy dress at Purim. Although, it is possible that no one was actually looking at me and that I was merely imagining the scrutinizing stares, and even more likely that it was just that damn guilt following me around like a gloomy companion.

The apartment is full of dust; I cough and my eyes well up. My image in the mirror seems too flushed and dishevelled. Not good. I have to look calm and collected for the visit; the detective might have sounded young, but not stupid.

Most importantly, I have to stop with the remarks that come pouring out of me when I get nervous; sometimes I think it’s momentary fits of Tourette’s. Otherwise there’s no explaining why, when the detective sensitively enquires whether I’ve been feeling afraid since the murder, with all the frenzied fuss kicked up around childless women, that instead of muttering a feeble yes, I feel compelled to share that “The scariest thing about this whole business is that they finally made a mother out of her.”

No, the silence on the other end of the line did not bode well.

A brief knock on the door and in he comes, almost tripping on one of the boxes I failed to move aside in time, and now he’s smiling awkwardly while reaching out for a handshake.

He’s young. Unreasonably young, with that boyish smile that brings a dimple to his left cheek, just like Maor’s dimple. Like Maor he’s carpeted in fine stubble, and those bright eyes, just like Maor’s, study you to reach private conclusions he has no intention of sharing.

Oh, yes, it’s definitely there, the resemblance, especially in the particular green of their eyes, and the lashes that go on forever, and the crooked smile aware of its effect on you.

This time it’s a real resemblance, not the imagined kind right after a break-up, when every man (including the old broom salesman) looks like a doppelgänger of the absconding lover. Don’t go there, Sheila, be smart.

“Pleased to meet you, I’m Micha,” he says, his hand still suspended mid-air. I notice a tattoo of a sentence in thin Rashi script across the tender part of his wrist. I can’t read it, but I don’t need to in order to make my observation: erstwhile prince of the religious Boy Scouts. In my mind’s eye I see the absent kipah resting atop his head, the excessive self-confidence making up for a late-blooming masculinity.

“Moving out?” he casually enquires while sitting down on the freed-up part of the couch, his eyes casting about, studying the contents of the open boxes.

“Just moved in,” I reply while we both simultaneously catch sight of the small baby doll poking out of the box behind the door. You idiot!

“Still playing with dolls?” The light-hearted tone doesn’t fool me. His eyes are devouring the doll, its one eye closed and the other looking straight ahead with an icy blue stare. It looks like someone punched her.

“A gift from my ex,” I reply. “Sort of a joke.”

“And what does it mean? The expectation of a baby together?”

A baby? Dream on, Sherlock.

“Not exactly,” I say, dragging out the words. “More of a joke about him being a baby.”

“Well, most women think all men are babies.”

And there it is again – his Boy Scout guide’s smile, instantly delivering me back to my days as enamoured Girl Scout, because some patterns are so deeply ingrained in us that we immediately fall back into them, like eternal roleplay, and your part never changes, no matter who you are or how old, because the role was tailor-made for you from day one.

“He really was a baby,” I explain. “Only twenty-six.”

“Huh, nearly my age.”

And already he regrets sharing this information, but his mind starts racing, doing the math, because if Dina and I were in college together, that means I’m at least how old…? His mind is busy calculating, his eyes sweeping over me and that mouth quietly mumbling a few polite words that whiz right past me… Because I instantly recognized that wandering gaze of his, and I know all too well what’s running through his mind. I know that if he wasn’t on the job right now, he’d already be informing me that he too had dated an “older woman,” because they all do at some point, especially the cute ex-Orthodox hotties, and it always ended “not so well, but we’re still on friendly terms.” Pfff. But he wouldn’t say that, would he? He’s here to try to glean information about the murder from the victim’s best friend – former best friend – isn’t he? And he seems like someone who can watch his mouth.

“I had a relationship with an older woman too.”

Well, well! You do surprise, kid, although I’m not so sure you did in fact date an “older woman,” because a real older woman would have taught you not to call her that, a real older woman would have had your dumb, pretty head if she heard you talking about her that way. Obviously, you would have had to pretend you’re both the same age, and if you accidentally let a wayward mum slip, you had to immediately laugh it off, I was just kidding, Mum.

“I mean, not older,” he rushes to correct himself, “just older than me. She was about your age, thirty-something?”

Okay, stupid he ain’t.

“I’m forty-one.” You’ll be forty-two next month, and you know that; each year counts, and you know that too.

“So my girlfriend was your age.”

Hmm… he isn’t backing out, interesting. I wonder whether this is some kind of manipulation, to butter me up to get the information he wants, but that attentive gaze is still there, and so is that soft-looking, beautiful mop of hair. On the other hand, we haven’t exchanged a single word about the murder. But that dimple won’t stop flashing in front of me, followed by that smile that’s making me weak in the knees again, so much so that I feel myself melting, fading away, lowering my eyes to the tattoo on his delicate wrist and asking, “Did it hurt?”

“Like hell.”

“Anything to drink?” Go to the kitchen before you make a huge mistake, go, remove yourself from his presence.

“I’d love some coffee,” he says, just when I remember I have nothing to offer but tepid tap water with a distinct metallic tang – a taste I have yet to acquire. I serve him the water in a sticky glass, which he studies at length.

“Don’t worry, everything’s kosher here.” I can’t help myself.

“It doesn’t bother me,” he replies with a curious gaze. “It’s been years since I bothered myself with such things.”

“I have a sophisticated ex-Orthodox radar,” I explain, an answer that usually satisfies them.

“You’re the first person to be on to me this quickly,” he admits.

“Really?” I ask, even though I’m not surprised. “It’s so obvious, it’s like the kipah is still on your head.”

And he reaches out, not to the top of his head to check if it has sprouted a kipah, but to the box behind the door, from which he pulls out the small baby doll. Am I imagining it, or has its closed eye opened slightly?

“You know, this doll looks a lot like the one glued to Dina Kaminer’s hands,” he says without looking at me.

“I didn’t glue anything to anyone, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

Bad answer. Very bad answer, because now he’s peering at me with that scrutinizing gaze, the one I’ve been worrying about from the moment he stepped into my apartment.

You idiot.

“If you haven’t noticed, I didn’t ask you if you glued anything,” he says. “I haven’t even asked you where you were two weeks ago on Wednesday at 10 p.m.” His voice is very quiet.

“Wednesday at 10 p.m.?” 10 p.m.!

“One of the neighbours had just stepped outside and heard Dina opening the door to her apartment and saying to someone, ‘I’m glad you came,’ but she could barely make out the voice of the person who replied. She’s almost convinced it was a woman, but…”

“But that doesn’t fit the profile of the anti-feminist-anti-childfree-woman murderer you people built,” I say.

“Good observation,” he says and courageously sips his water, pretending it’s not revolting. “So how about I ask you now where you were Wednesday at 10 p.m.? Would that be okay?”

And once again he flashes that smile of his, all too aware of its effect on me. With an expression both innocent and smug he leans back on the couch when a grating squeak suddenly sounds from underneath him, and he leaps up, spilling his water onto his trousers.

The damn doll! Her face, now squished, sends me a mocking smile.

Before he leaves he’ll get to hear that on Wednesday evening I was home watching TV, “without a shred of an alibi, but it’s a known fact that the biggest criminals always have the best alibis.” He’ll nod in agreement, ask about my relationship with Dina during our college days, hear how “we weren’t in contact at all in recent years, you know how it is, life just took us down different roads,” a line uttered in such a convincing tone I’d almost believe it myself; a few more dimple-revealing smiles. A few more of my attempts not to stare at the wet spot on his trousers, a few more gazes I’d never imagine I’d receive from the long and oh-so-young arm of the law, and that’s that, we’re already at the door.

He stands close to me, almost leaning in. I feel that magnetic field created between two people whose mere acquaintanceship will lead to disaster, and I shudder.

“So now what?” I ask.

“This is when I tell you that if you recall anything that might be of any help, call me.” He’s very close right now.

“Ah. This isn’t when you tell me I can’t leave town?” Something about his look just begs for wisecracks.

“I’ve seen those detective shows too,” he says. “And besides, you already skipped town.”

Another one of those nostril-flaring smiles, another brushing of his hand over his soft, thick hair, and he turns to leave. The door slamming behind him sends a tiny hairball hurling right into my mouth; I spit it out and hear the familiar giggle, dumb baby. The voice is Dina’s.

HE WAS RIGHT, obviously, the fledgling detective. I left Tel Aviv in the nick of time.

Too many women like me have walked the streets there – all of us good-looking, polished and prim, clever, sharp-edged, hovering like butterflies and prickly like a fertility-test needle, all of us ticking time bombs, tick-tock, tick-tock, no tot, no tot.

Last week, during a lecture called “Childfree by Choice: Women without Children,” held at a bar in Tel Aviv, a doll was tossed into the crowded room; it was one of those cheap, ugly ones, without eyelashes. It was naked, and the words “Mummy dearest” were written in red ink on its forehead. Once the hysteria died down, virtually every woman in the bar took a photo of the little dolly and posted it on her Facebook page, along with a withering indictment of police incompetence.

The perps were caught two days later, two boys who were so worked up about the ritualistic murder, about the growing frenzy and mostly, by their own admission, “about the possibility that finally we have a serious, creative killer in Israel,” that they decided to pitch in with their efforts. In the newspaper photo they looked like a couple of Moomins, soft and spongy, and I wondered which of the two had undressed the doll. I’d put my money on the ugly one.

And Dina was there, everywhere you looked there was Dina, or rather, Dr Kaminer – in those flattering profile pieces, with heavy-handed hints about her private life (under the guise of investigative journalism), in the eulogies by her colleagues and in the familiar press photos. They kept publishing the one in which she was caught grinning, looking ruddy and wild, her smile – revealing the gap between her front teeth – slightly silly, and more than anything, very out of character.

I have no doubt that if she were still alive, she’d be calling the editor to demand a more appropriate photo, and her demands would be met. She was a master of the art of persuasion: aggressive and charismatic, used to getting her way. But none of that helped her in the end, did it?

That particular article was also dredged up. One of the newspapers reprinted it, verbatim, and I photographed it and turned the image into my screensaver.

I noticed that the people who quoted from the article hadn’t actually read it, but merely regurgitated the same inane assumptions that appeared in the papers without variation. “Did the women in the Bible actually choose to be childfree? Could it be that Dr Kaminer encouraged women not to give birth? Should childless women be afraid to walk the streets now? Could our women be in danger? Could it be? Could it??” and more and more could-it-bes, all similarly poorly phrased, and not one able to hide its smugness.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, no tot, no tot.

A radio host tried to rev up his listeners with the survey question, “Who would you turn into a mother?” He was suspended immediately, of course, but not before suggesting a few interesting options, including a famous actress who stated she wasn’t interested in having children, a female director who spoke out against childbirth and an emerging young singer who, in her very first interview, announced she had no intention of becoming a mother.

While reading those three interviews, I already knew that within three years all three women would be smiling at us from magazine covers holding their bundles of joy below the identical caption: “Motherhood has changed me.”

Because by now I know that if you’re not interested in having children, you don’t go announcing it to the world like that. It’s something private and profound, which slowly boils in the depths of your consciousness before simmering to the surface, and even then it won’t stop fighting you t. . .