Weird Detectives Read Online Free PDF Page B

camps. Some survive and they remember. But they’re worried others will forget. And some can’t let that past go. They wonder why they were spared. And they’re lonely.”
    “This is,” she began, then stopped when the waitress came with our drinks. The waitress tacked a napkin to the table with Gold’s wine, slid one under my bourbon. When she’d gone, Gold said, “Do you have a point?”
    I angled my glass toward a candle burning in a squat glass holder, liking the way the light shone gold through the liquor. “I’m getting to the best part. Isn’t it true that the reason Chassids dress the way they do is to preserve a piece of their past?”
    “That’s one interpretation.”
    “So what keeps someone from preserving other customs, rituals?”
    “Such as?”
    “Magic.”
    She gave a very small half smile. She raised her glass, tipped wine into her mouth. “Jews don’t believe in magic.”
    “Yes, they do.” I flicked a finger at her pendant. “That thing, that’s magic, right?”
    “It’s just a necklace.”
    “No. It’s very specific. I know, because I looked it up.” Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my notepad and flipped. “Yeah, here it is. That shin is a really interesting letter. It means the Eternal Flame, and it reflects the fact that God is changeless, forever. There are some other things about shin I don’t get.”
    “The mystical meanings.”
    “Right. And I have to admit I couldn’t figure the key until I read about this very important angel named Râzîêl. Râzîêl sits at God’s throne and takes notes, and he’s written a book in which he recorded all celestial and earthly secrets. I’ve seen a picture from the book. To the Kabbalists, the book is a key. In fact, Râzîêl’s book is supposed to hold the fifteen hundred keys to the secrets of the universe.” I closed my notebook. “And Râzîêl’s color is gold.”
    Her eyes were hooded. “And?”
    “And Râzîêl, Rachel . . . the names are very close, don’t you think?”
    “Yes.” She sipped wine. “Quite a coincidence.”
    “Know something else?”
    “What?”
    “You told the truth. You didn’t kill that baby.” I paused. “But you let evil destroy itself.”
    “And why would I do that?”
    I slid out the photograph of the baby’s chest. “The tattoo. We got it wrong, because of the numbers. And the location threw us: over the left breast, not the left forearm. The Germans didn’t start putting tattoos on forearms until after 1942. So, that L —well, it’s not an L. It’s a triangle. And that letter we thought was a cursive M. It’s two ones. And the Z is a seven. See, we don’t put a horizontal line through our sevens and we don’t have that long tail on our ones, but Europeans do. Germans do, except the German lady—and it was the ladies who did them—the one who did this tattoo was sloppy. Not all Germans cared, because these were Jews, after all. But this is a number, Miss Gold: a triangle, then 1-1-7-2-9. Auschwitz Prisoner 1-1-7-2-9.”
    I leaned forward. “Tell me about gilguls, Miss Gold.”
    Her face was unreadable. “What would you like to know?”
    “Whatever you can tell me about reincarnation.”
    “Why don’t you tell me, Detective? You’re the one with the story.”
    I nodded. “Fair enough. Here’s how I think it goes: the Kabbalists believed in reincarnation because they thought all souls came from one great big soul. An Oversoul, I guess you’d call it. Reincarnation isn’t supposed to happen until a person dies. But the Kabbalists said there was ibur, meaning pregnant. That is, a person who already had a soul could house another: two for the price of one. But that was very rare and only happened when the person was very, very good.”
    “A tzaddik. A righteous person.”
    “But I also found a very obscure reference to an old ritual where a Kabbalist could conjure a soul to share, or take over another body. Here’s the kicker: it’s got to be a kid. Boys