The Book of Stone. Jonathan Papernick
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Stone asked. He didn’t look like the typical rumpled newspaperman. His suit was pressed and neat and his Windsor knot, even at this hour, was still tight and sharp, as if he had just slipped the narrow tie around his neck.
“Let me buy you a drink.”
“I have nothing to say,” Stone said. “And if you think a drink is all it takes to make me dish on my father, you are sadly mistaken.”
“Suit yourself,” the man said, sucking on his cigarette.
Stone scanned the bar for Pinky, wishing he would return with the drinks, but Pinky was nowhere to be seen. Stone thought about picking up and leaving rather than suffer the awkward silence of the stranger. But he was curious. Why had the photographer followed him here if he had just seen him at the cemetery? What could he possibly want?
The man was enjoying the uncomfortable silence as if he knew Stone would be the first to break. He blew some smoke into the air, winked at Stone, and took another long satisfied drag.
“All right,” Stone said at last. “Are you going to tell me who you are?”
Wordlessly, the man placed a small rectangular business card on the table between them. In the top right corner it read: FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATIONS. And then, centered in capital letters: LARRY ZOHAR—SPECIAL AGENT—JOINT TERRORISM TASK FORCE.
The vague uneasiness Stone had been feeling all night gathered in his chest and though he tried to harness his voice to respond, he could not. His premonition of doom had been correct. Stone felt a queasy swirling in his gut. Something big was about to happen, something he was not at all prepared to deal with.
“Now Matthew, let’s be clear,” Zohar said. “You are not in trouble. I just want to ask you a few questions.”
Stone managed to say, “And what if I don’t want to answer?”
Zohar laughed and said, “You have nothing in the world to worry about. I just want to ask you a few simple questions. This is not a big deal. Relax.”
“I have nothing to say about my father.”
“You seem quite certain I’m interested in your father and not you. You see, you’ve already told me something.”
Stone rose from the table, but Zohar grabbed him by the wrist and he sat again. “Maybe you’ll just listen then. Can’t hurt to listen, right?”
Zohar sipped something through a clear straw, placed the glass on the table, and looked Stone in the eyes. “You understand history, you’re well-read, educated, aware. You know the old cliché: those who forget history are doomed to repeat it. There is something to that. You were born the day eleven Israeli athletes were murdered at the Olympic Village in Munich. That’s right, I know your birthday is in six days. Quite a violent welcome to the world. Of course you don’t remember, but you were told later, how your father spent the entire day watching Peter Jennings report on the massacre for ABC, and it wasn’t until the next day, when all the hostages were dead, that he came to see you resting in the maternity ward nursery.”
Stone was still, unmoving. The Judge had not even cared enough to visit his newborn child. Stone did not question how Zohar knew this, because it was consistent with the way his father had behaved his entire life. He tapped a cigarette out of his pack and lit it. His hands were shaking and the smoke failed to calm him.
“You didn’t know he was too preoccupied to see you?” Zohar said. “I’m sorry.”
Stone did all he could not to respond, channeling the strength and will of his father, but he could not restrain himself. “You’re lying.”
“So now we have a dialogue,” Zohar said, smiling. “This is progress.”
“I’m not saying another word.”
“It would explain a lot, wouldn’t it? Your father never had time for you. Not even from the beginning.”
“It’s not true.”
“Who can deny it?”
“This is harassment. I’ve done nothing wrong. Can’t you see I’m in mourning?” Stone’s breath grew shallow again, barely pulling the smoke-filled air into his lungs.
“Let me tell you a story,” Zohar said. “To put things in context, so you know where you stand.”
“I don’t need to hear a story from you.”
“Oh, really?” Zohar said. “Did you know your grandfather and Meyer Lansky contributed large sums of money to the Revisionist movement, money which was funneled directly to the paramilitary organization the Irgun, money which paid for the bombing of the King David Hotel?”
“So what? That was a million years ago, if it actually happened. Why are you telling me about my grandfather? I only met the man once. Whatever he did or didn’t do in his twisted life has nothing to do with me.”
“Because this relates to your father,” Zohar said. “You know the saying: like father like son.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Stone responded. “My father upheld the law, fought against organized crime. He was a lawyer and a judge. He hated Julius.”
“Just like you hate your father?”
“I’m not talking about him,” Stone said, his stomach awhirl.
“Your father was also a proud Zionist, a member of the Betar youth group, co-founder and chairman of the Eretz Fund. He served as an advisor to the Israeli Supreme Court, helping to extradite and prosecute suspected Nazi war criminals, most notably John Demjanjuk, thought to be the infamous Ivan the Terrible at the Treblinka death camp. Demjanjuk was extradited to Israel in 1986 and sentenced to death. The sentence was later overturned as the Israeli Supreme Court rescinded its earlier judgment and returned Demjanjuk to the United States, citing misconduct on the part of overzealous prosecutors.”
“I see where this is going,” Stone said, overcome with rage at this callous intrusion into his most private grief. “And I’ve heard more than enough. Can’t you at least show some humanity and let me mourn in peace?”
Stone pushed back his chair from the table and stood up. Run, run, he thought. But his legs had gone numb and he waded into the swelling crowd of hipsters. Stone brushed past the skinny girl who had been singing to him, and she said, “Don’t look so sad, darling. Life is crazy for everyone.”
Zohar followed him, hot breath at his ear. “During the infamous Court Street Riot trial, your father’s impartiality was impugned again when he allowed a member of the jury who was sympathetic to the killer Isaac Brilliant to stay on after the Judge became aware of the juror’s own anti-Arab sympathies. There is no doubt Brilliant killed the sixty-three-year-old Palestinian-born shopkeeper Nasser Al-Bassam. There is even video of him bashing the man’s head in with a brick. Yet Brilliant went free.”
He was going to lose his mind, Stone thought, wrenching his arm from Zohar’s grip and making for the exit.
“Your father was always trying to destroy those he considered his enemies. He was a punitive, spiteful man with a biblical hunger for revenge. Let me tell you, he was no better than Julius Stone.”
“That’s enough,” Stone said, bursting out the door and into the street, his voice wracked with broken sobs. He was prepared never to speak a word aloud again.
“Tell me one thing,” Zohar persisted. “That warehouse across the street. Are you familiar with the Crown of Solomon Talmudical Academy? Weren’t you on your way there tonight? Don’t lie to me, Matthew.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“It may be a legitimate Torah school, but I know the organization your father ran funds one hundred percent of its operation.”
“I can’t help you,” Stone said, his mind blank with panic.
“Matthew, I