Prologue

This is a story about Nancy Bloomfeld, a teenage schoolgirl who experiences a crisis of identity in her mid-teens, and about how her family band together and help her to find herself again. The story is told through the eyes and minds of four people. Uzi Bloomfeld, a wealthy businessman and Nancy's father sets the family's plan into motion in Chapter 1. Dara Bloomfeld, an intensive care nurse who is Nancy's older sister keeps the family together when it appears to be heading for a split in Chapter 2. Nancy herself justifies her ambitions and goals in Chapter 3.  A family friend, Ira Shandling, an IDF veteran and former Shin Bet operative who was appointed to solve the crisis describes the final chapter of the story. Each share their perspective on Nancy's life, and show how they contribute toward the solution. I myself have been a friend and confidant of the family for years, and I also contributed, which is why I get to write the foreword. As you read this story, you will find yourself taking a position either for or against Nancy's plot, and perhaps you will not agree with the family's solution. What you will find is that some characters change as the story unfolds, some mature, others age, and some just keep on doing what they've always been doing. I am reminded that solutions to human problems are seldom the exclusive domain of a single individual, rather they are found in community, in synergy, in discussion.

Rabbi Lemuel

Chapter 1: Find my daughter!

"In this life there are three kinds of people:
People who make it happen;
People who help it happen;
And people who wonder: 'What happened?'"
- Uzi Bloomfeld -

"Mr. Bloomfeld?" The intercom sounded: "Ira Shandling is here for his appointment."

"Okay Mara," I answered, "show him in." I hadn't seen Ira in seven years, so I stood up and came out from behind my desk. Mara my secretary appeared at the door with him. Ira was a bit more tanned than when I had last seen him, and he had filled out. His black hair was cut short, and he was wearing grey trousers, a grey turtleneck jersey, and a black leather jacket with karakul collar. Black leather boots completed his outfit.

"Hello Uzi," he said, seizing my hand in a vice-like grip, and shaking it.

"Hello Ira," I replied, "good of you to come at such short notice."

"I've been in Toronto since the 20th December," he said, "I had it in mind to look you up."

"You look well and fit," I commented, "but that's to be expected. Have a seat."

"And you have prospered," Ira answered diplomatically, glancing at my midriff as he sat down in front of my desk.

"Indeed," I elaborated, "Power Electronics has done well. Seven years ago, when you left Canada, we just had the factory here in Eastern Avenue, and I was exporting electronics on contract to the IDF. Now we have retail outlets in Toronto, Montreal and Vancouver, and we're manufacturing computer, surveillance and security microtechnology."

"You're still supplying the IDF?" asked Ira.

"Oh, absolutely," I replied, "but they're no longer the major source of our business. Our retail outlets are generating most of our sales nowadays. And last year I signed a major contract to supply night vision equipment to the Department of National Defence, the Canadian Forces. It augurs well for the future."

"So business is good," said Ira, "and how are the family keeping?"

"Beryl makes me proud with all her charity work," I answered, picking up a framed photograph on my desk and turning it around so he could see it, "but her lefty friends disapprove strongly of my politics, as they always have. This is a family shot that was taken on New Year's Eve. Dara is a chip off the old block. She's a nurse now at Mount Sinai Hospital, and she's well on her way to becoming a pillar there. Nancy and Zeke are both in High School. Zeke's a brilliant scholar, a talented athlete and he even beats me at chess nowadays, would you believe it."

"How is Nancy?" asked Ira, "I see she's not in the photograph." I cleared my throat.

"She wasn't there when it was taken," I admitted. "Nancy is more trouble than both Beryl and I can manage. She's just impossible."

"She still playing the violin?"

"Not with any kind of enthusiasm," I replied.

"When she was a kid, you could tell she had talent," Ira remarked.

"We started her young," I mused, "perhaps too young."

"Don't take all the credit," said Ira. I laughed.

"I see you haven't lost any of your chutzpah. I think you're just the man I'm looking for. My contacts tell me that when it comes to finding people, you're considered to be among the best. And you've only been at it for what? Five years?"

"About that," said Ira. We reminisced for a few minutes about our time in the IDF, and compared notes with respect to mutual acquaintances (hardly any), common experiences, operational bases and the security situation. I had emigrated from Israel to Canada in 1970, after five years in the IDF, two as a soldier and three as a technician, whereas Ira had been born in Canada, but had volunteered to serve in the IDF in 1993, and then thereafter had worked for Shin Bet, the Israeli national counter-intelligence and internal security organization. My contact told me that he had achieved the rank of lieutenant, but that most of the work that he did was classified in terms of the Official Secrets Act.

"Who are you looking for?" Ira asked eventually.

"Before we get into that," I replied, "I've invited Rabbi Lemuel along to our meeting. I hope you don't mind?"

"Of course not," said Ira with a smile, "It will be great to see him again. Whatever you have in mind, it must be serious."

"Beryl hasn't given me a moment's peace these last three weeks," I complained. The intercom sounded again.

"Rabbi Lemuel is here," said Mara.

"Okay Mara," I replied, "show him in, and after that no more interruptions until our meeting is over, okay?"

"It's six o'clock," Mara reminded me, "I'm going home now. I'll switch on the answering machine before I leave." Mara appeared at the door again with the rabbi. "I'm leaving now, Mr. Bloomfeld."

"Okay Mara," I answered, "before you go, just a reminder that I want the contract letters on my desk tomorrow morning at eight sharp, ready for signing. And no typos in the final version. They're legal documents."

"Have I ever let you down?" asked Mara.

"I keep a file on all my employees," I answered her, "Don't make me review yours. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodbye," said Mara, disappearing quickly.

+ + +

"Shalom, gentlemen!" said the rabbi. At five foot ten, Rabbi Lemuel was taller than I, but shorter than Ira. He was dressed in his usual conservative black suit, and well polished black lace-up shoes. His silver beard reached down to the collar of his neatly pressed white shirt. Only his greyed hair betrayed the years of his seniority. Although sixty years of age, he could easily have passed for a man in his forties.

"Shalom Rabbi!" Ira and I replied in unison.

"Please sit down, Rabbi," I invited, "can I get you something to drink? I have mineral water, iced tea and some dry white wine from the central coastal wine growing area of Israel."

"I'll have some of that wine," said the rabbi.

"If it's from Israel, it must be good," remarked Ira, "I'll have some too." I moved to the liquor cabinet concealed in the wall, opened it up, and began to uncork the wine bottle.

"It is good to see you again, Ira," the rabbi continued, "you answered the call of conscience and you've proven yourself a man. How I would love to be young again, to be able to do what you've done, but my duties and obligations tie me down here in Toronto." I carefully poured out three glasses of wine, and then handed one to each man. We raised our glasses simultaneously, clinked them together and chorused in unison: "L'chayim!" I returned to my seat.

"My heart is divided," Ira reflected in a moment of rare openness, "I'm half Israeli and half Canadian. If I don't find peace here, perhaps I will return to Israel permanently."

"You could follow Uzi's example," the rabbi observed, swirling his wine in its glass and sniffing the bouquet, "and serve the cause of Israel while making a life for yourself here in Canada."

"That was my thinking when I returned," said Ira.

"Maybe I have a position for you at Power Electronics," I offered, "but it depends..."

"It depends on what?" Ira inquired, sipping his wine. I looked at the rabbi.

"That's the reason why you're here," he said to Ira. "Three weeks ago Nancy disappeared and we've been unable to find her--"

"I've seen nothing in the newspapers or on TV," Ira interrupted.

"We've wanted to keep it in the family, so to speak," I explained, "because we think it's simply a rebellious phase that she's going through--"

"We have informed the police," the rabbi continued, "but we're keeping it out of the media."

"What about her school and friends," Ira asked, "surely they're talking?"

"Our explanation," I answered, "is that it is a family matter, and that there is no cause for concern. But that's beginning to wear a bit thin now..."

"And that's why Uzi called you in," said the rabbi to Ira, "your expertise is required."

"What was the cause of her running away?" asked Ira.

"Your guess is as good as mine," I replied. "As I said, she's become increasingly difficult these last few months."

"We're all deeply concerned," the rabbi explained, "and the reason why you and I are here is to help in any way possible. I've already offered to serve as a mediator if negotiation is required, but first we must find Nancy. She must be convinced that family matters are the most important priority. It's a man's duty to keep his family together until such time as each of his children reaches adulthood and is ready to take responsibility for their own lives. At fifteen, Nancy hasn't reached that point yet, and still requires parental protection, supervision and concern."

"And what's more," I added, "she took a priceless family heirloom, my Stradivarius violin--"

"I don't believe this," interrupted Ira, "your daughter has been gone for three weeks, and here you are sitting in your office as if nothing is amiss. Just talking about it?" Ira looked disgusted. It appeared that I might be losing him, so I jumped up.

"Dammit!" I thundered, "You've no right to sit there and judge me! I have responsibilities here at Power Electronics and the rest of my family to consider as well. I can't just take off on a wild goose chase at the drop of a hat. Nancy is a luftmensch, a dreamer. She's disappeared on a free-spirited quest to heaven knows where, and I'm carrying on with my life and waiting for her to come to her senses and contact her family. She's driving us all crazy and I won't stand for it. I'm the head of the Bloomfeld family!" I slammed my fist down on the desk for emphasis. Ira completely surprised me by standing up and leaning over my desk.

"Uzi," he intoned quietly, "if I were you, I would take two weeks leave, hunt her down, and talk some sense into her head!" The rabbi stood up.

"Ira," he pleaded, "you're the man of the moment. Your skill is finding people. We need your help..."

"Name your price," I snapped, "and find my daughter!"

"This can't just be about money," Ira objected, "you have to care more for your family than you do for your business. Nancy may have been abducted--"

"There have been no ransom notes, no calls and no threats from anyone--" I argued.

"Your company is already successful," he continued unabashed, "it can run itself without you. Take two weeks leave, search for your daughter and bring her back to your family and your home." We stood leaning over the desk and glaring at each other.

"I don't know," I snarled at Ira, "where a man half my age gets the right to give me advice about family matters."

"It's the right thing to do," Ira retorted, "it's as simple as that."

"Time out, gentlemen!" the rabbi interrupted. "It appears that an irresistible force has collided with an immovable object. Please sit down, both of you. Let's discuss this matter calmly, please!" We both returned reluctantly to our seats. The rabbi began to pace around the office. "Uzi, Ira," he continued, "both of your arguments have merit, but Ira, you're talking as a member of the family should, not as a friend. You're a professional. You can't get involved in this on an emotional level. Uzi is offering you a paid contract to find a missing person. It's what you were trained to do. It's what you're good at. And Uzi, Ira is right. When he finds her, you must go to her and bring her back to the family. You're her father."

"I haven't agreed to anything yet," Ira objected.

"Nancy will come to her senses eventually," I persisted, "I've always given her everything she's ever wanted-- the best schools, overseas holidays now and then, all the toys she wanted when she was a child, all the clothing, accessories and gadgets she's wanted as a teenager--"

"I don't think Ira's referring to that," said the rabbi.

"What are you referring to?" I asked Ira.

"A father showing concern for his missing daughter, by searching for her himself," replied Ira. Sensing that I was losing him again, I jumped up and moved around my desk towards him, and Ira stood abruptly and waited, but the rabbi stepped quickly between us and stretched out his hands to arrest us both.

"I don't think that would be wise," he said. "Let's rather talk about the first steps that we'll have to take to find her. What would we have to do?" Ira sat down slowly again. I followed suit. He looked at the rabbi and cleared his throat. "What would we have to do?" the rabbi repeated.

"In Canada?" Ira spoke calmly again, "run a check on her credit card and any other bank accounts that she has. Every time she does a credit card or debit card transaction, the location can be pinpointed."

"She hasn't made any withdrawals or purchases in the last three weeks," I said, "I've already checked that."

"There you see," said the rabbi, "Uzi hasn't been sitting doing nothing."

"Perhaps I won't have to get involved at all," said Ira, "but what I would like to do is to speak to the rest of the family before I decide."

"By all means," I replied, "be my guest." It appeared that he was now sniffing out the bait.

"This is progress," said the rabbi with a smile. We finished the bottle of wine with light banter, and then while I chatted to the security guard, Ira and the rabbi fetched their coats and mufflers from reception. Relaxed and at ease once again, we proceeded down to the basement parking garage. I pressed the remote key and my silver 1998 model SUV bleeped and unlocked. The three of us climbed aboard.

+ + +

"Perhaps you should tell Ira a bit more about Nancy's conduct in the last few months," the rabbi counseled me. I slipped a disk into the CD player, and Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture began to play, pouring softly out of the SUV's quadrophonic speaker system. There was a blanketing snowstorm in progress as we exited from the underground garage and drove onto Eastern Avenue. I glanced at my watch: it was 6:45 pm.

"Dara was an angel in her teens," I began, "with her there was none of this nonsense. She was always so level-headed, practical and mature beyond her years. Dara is the social conscience in the family. She cares about people. I consider myself blessed to have such a daughter." I drove west along Front Street East. The traffic was moving slowly and carefully, because the road was slippery. "But with Nancy," I continued, "Oi vey! She has become less and less communicative, spends much more time away from home, doesn't want to tell us where she is, or who she's with... won't invite her friends home anymore... her grades are mediocre... spends too much money on cellular and clothing that makes her look like a punk chick, not a Jewish businessman's daughter... What was I supposed to do?"

"Sounds like she's running with the wrong crowd," Ira commented. There was silence for a few minutes as we listened to the music. I turned the SUV into University Avenue and drove north towards Yorkville. The snow limited visibility to only twenty to forty metres.

"What is your assessment, Rabbi Lemuel?" Ira asked eventually.

"I think," reflected the rabbi, "that Uzi and Beryl have always had it in mind that Nancy would become a professional musician--"

"That is her strongest talent and skill," Uzi interjected.

"All I'm saying is that you should give her the freedom to choose it for herself," continued the rabbi.

"Freedom!" I snorted, "you talk about freedom? Look what she's done with all the freedom we've given her. She's walked right out of our lives..." I pulled my cellphone out of my suit pocket and tapped out Dara's number.

"Hello, Dara," I said, "it's Pops. Where are you?"

"I'm with Moms," she answered, "we're at the Mall, grocery shopping. We should be home by 7:30. Has Nancy called?"

"No," I replied, "I'm bringing two guests for dinner."

"Oh, who?" Dara asked.

"Rabbi Lemuel and Ira Shandling," I answered.

"Ira?" Dara sounded surprised. "I thought he was still in Israel."

"He got back on the 20th December. He's only been here for three weeks. Let me talk to Moms."

"Hello Uzi," said Beryl, "Dara tells me we have two guests for dinner. This is awfully sudden ..."

"Yes, dear," I replied, "but we're moving ahead on our plan to find Nancy. Has she called you?"

"No," said Beryl.

"What I'm trying to do here is to build a winning team, and that requires flexibility and cooperation from the family as well."

"As if we too are not trying our damndest," said Beryl.

It's coming together now, Beryl," I said, "trust me."

"I've been trusting you for the last twenty five years of my life," she answered, "Don't talk to me about trust."

"What's for supper?"

"Gefilte fish."

"My favourite!" I enthused.

"Yes, Uzi. Your favourite. Drive carefully in the snow and traffic and get home safely."

"I was about to say the same to you. Talk about deja vu. Speak to you soon, love."

"Bye," said Beryl. The line went dead. I replaced the cellphone in my pocket.

+ + +

"You know," the rabbi mused, "I think diplomacy and tact are what is called for here. I'm reminded of a family that I knew many years ago, when I was a young man. The mother and daughter had an argument about who was the prettiest. They fell out, and the daughter ran away from home. The man of the house returned from a business trip and found his wife in tears. She told him that their daughter had run away. She had said some nasty things to her mother. The husband questioned his wife and eventually got to the cause of the falling out--" the rabbi broke off when a careless motorist ran a red light at College Street. I jammed my foot on the brake and the SUV slid over the tightly packed snow, narrowly missing the chancer's rear fender. I slammed my palm down on the hooter pad and kept it there for a few seconds, while I brought the skid under control.

"Some people just have no patience," I glanced at my passengers, "sorry about that." We continued in silence for a few minutes, just listening to the music. "Please continue with your story, Rabbi," I said eventually.

"As I was saying," he continued, "the husband found out what his wife and daughter had been arguing about. So the man of the house said to his wife: 'My love, you are the most beautiful woman that I know, and not only that, you also have the nicest figure.' His wife was not satisfied, and she babbled: 'Yes, but she is younger and her skin is like alabaster, pure and smooth.' The man again insisted to his wife that she was the most beautiful, with the most well-proportioned figure as well, and he comforted her. Then he forbade her from raising the subject again. That same evening he visited his daughter's best friend's mother and told her how distraught they were at their daughter's disappearance. He told her how, if he could only talk to his daughter, he would say to her: 'Honey, you are my dearest, prettiest daughter. I miss you so, it grieves my heart, that I cannot contemplate your sweetness, and hear your cheerful voice. Please come back to us, you will always be my prettiest.' Then he told the woman not to discuss it with his wife because it would just upset her. His daughter returned home the following day. The man of the house forbade his wife and daughter from ever discussing the subject again..." Once the rabbi had concluded his tale, Ira burst out laughing.

"It's not supposed to be a funny story," I objected.

"Women!" laughed Ira. I stared disapprovingly at the rabbi who seemed pleased that his story had evoked such a heartfelt response.

"Ira," I said, "it's a story with a moral. You aren't supposed to laugh." Ira tried unsuccessfully to suppress his mirth, but paroxysms of laughter engulfed his entire frame. The music rose to a crescendo. With a concerted effort of self-will, he finally brought his laughter under control.

"What's the moral, Rabbi?" Ira asked.

"It's this," I interposed, "always be there for your women and keep them happy."

"I couldn't have expressed it better myself," the rabbi concluded. After crossing Bloor Street West, I turned the SUV left into Prince Arthur Avenue, and as we approached number 38, I activated the garage remote. We watched the garage door slide smoothly open as we turned into the driveway. I carefully edged the SUV into the garage and brought it to a standstill.

+ + +

We disembarked and I ushered my two guests up the stairs and into the house, locking the car doors with the remote key as the garage door rumbled close behind us.

"Anyone home?" I shouted.

"Hello Pops!" Zeke's voice, half-broken, "I'm the only one here. I'm upstairs."

"Come down to the lounge," I ordered, "we have guests for dinner." A few moments later Zeke came bounding down the stairs. He was wearing blue denim jeans, mountaineering boots and a grey sweatshirt with a slogan on it.

"Hey!" he enthused, "it's Ira. How are you?" He held out his hand and Ira shook it.

"Hello, Zeke," Ira answered, "I'm good and glad to be in Toronto again."

"Shalom Zeke!" said the rabbi.

"Shalom Rabbi!" Zeke answered. They shook hands.

"This is amazing," said Zeke, "you returned to Canada then. Are you staying for good?"

"Who can say?" Ira answered. "I'm keeping my options open."

"How was your day at school, Zeke?" I asked.

"Guess what?" Zeke boasted, "I won my ladder chess challenge game today, so now I'm the top player in Grade eight... Did Nancy call you?"

"No," I answered, "but Ira may lead our search party. He hasn't decided yet."

"You've gotta do it, Ira," Zeke begged, "you're the man. Mara told me you were working in IDF intelligence, real cloak and dagger operations. She said if anyone can find Nancy fast, you can."

"Ira was a soldier in the IDF," I corrected him, "and then he worked for Shin Bet."

"Where do think Nancy's gone?" Ira asked Zeke, staring at him intently.

"Moms would probably have a better idea than I would have," Zeke replied. "Nancy had her secrets, and she never shared any of them with me. I've searched her room. She's taken her credit card, her debit card and her passport. Her diary as well. And the Stradivarius violin. And some of her clothing. What was odd was that she left her cellphone in the desk. Usually it's impossible to separate her from it."

"What I found most disturbing," I said to Ira, "was that she never left any notes, or obvious clues about where she was going."

"It would appear that she doesn't want to be followed by or found by her family for a while, at least," said the rabbi.

"As a minor," I countered, "she doesn't have the right to make that decision."

"Pops," Zeke complained, "it's been three weeks, and we still don't have a clue where she's gone. We can't keep on telling people everything's fine when it's not."

"That's why Ira is here," I said, "because we need a professional working on it."

"So what do you say, Ira?" Zeke asked. "If she's still in Toronto, I can help you find her after school hours."

"I have to talk to Beryl and Dara first," Ira replied. I glanced at my watch. It was 7:20pm.

"They should be here any time now," I said. We continued chatting, inconsequential talk while we waited for Beryl and Dara to arrive. Eventually I moved to the window, pulled the curtain aside and looked down over the driveway. "Yes, I thought I heard the station wagon, and here they are. Zeke, go help your mother and sister carry the groceries to the kitchen."

"Okay, Pops." He disappeared through the passage door.

"Come and have a look at Nancy's bedroom," I suggested.

+ + +

I led them up the stairs into Nancy's room. When Ira saw her computer he pointed at it.

"Have you looked through her computer files for clues?" he asked.

"It's mostly just school assignments and emails," I replied, "but nothing indicating any kind of plan. Her friends whom she emailed, I spoke to most of them on the telephone, and   they were surprised at her disappearance. But they weren't exactly helpful." Ira opened the closet which spanned the entire western wall of the room, and glanced through the contents.

"Nancy sure does have a lot of clothing," he remarked, "and shoes galore. You might get some clues as to where she went from the clothing she took with her."

"Best speak to Beryl and Dara about that," I said.

"What's that about Beryl and Dara?" asked Beryl, entering the room. She was wearing black pantaloons, black slip on shoes and a pink blouse.

"Hello my precious," I replied, "I was just telling Ira that you and Dara would know exactly what clothing Nancy took with her." I kissed her.

"Shalom Rabbi," said Beryl with a warm smile, "so good of you to honour us with a visit."

"Shalom Beryl," replied the rabbi, taking her hand and shaking it, "You're looking well in spite of your ordeal. I came along because Uzi thought a bit of moral support might be necessary to recruit Ira." Beryl turned to Ira.

"And Ira," she gushed, "gosh, but you've gotten big! What have they been feeding you in Israel?"

"Hello Beryl," replied Ira, shaking her hand, and ignoring her question, "it's good to see you again. You haven't lost any of your beauty and charm since I saw you last, and that was seven years ago."

"Ahh," laughed Beryl, "you flatter me. Gentlemen please, a young lady's bedroom is no place for a serious discussion. Please come down to the lounge, we have some refreshments for you."

+ + +

We followed Beryl down to the lounge where Dara, still dressed in her nurse's uniform greeted us, served us chilled papaya juice in tall glasses with a sliver of lemon hanging on the rim, and then returned to the kitchen where she was preparing the dinner.

"So Uzi tell me," said Beryl, "what brilliant plan have you developed to bring my daughter back to me?"

"My plan," I replied, "is to hire Ira full-time as a bona fide private investigator to find Nancy. Ira said he wanted to talk to you and Dara first before he decides whether he will take the case or not."

"Well Ira," said Beryl, "what do you want to talk about?"

"I have two questions," replied Ira. "Firstly, Where do you think she's gone? And secondly, why do you think she ran away from you?"

"You're really trying to put me on the spot here," Beryl observed, "and I don't know if I like that. Let me think about it." She sipped her papaya juice, stood up, moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside. She glanced at the interior/exterior thermometer. "It's snowing and the temperature outside is minus eight."

"Nancy has plenty of money," I said, "I'm sure that wherever she is, she's warm and cozy."

"She's only fifteen years old," Beryl complained. "Good grief! How easy it is to take money from a fifteen year old girl who's never lacked it." Ira cleared his throat noisily.

"What?" said Beryl. "Oh, the questions. It's obvious now that we gave her too much money and too much freedom. But that's because she's so different from Dara, who never wanted either. Dara had us wondering what we were doing wrong. My daughters are like chalk and cheese. Nancy hasn't gone to any of her friends, or our relatives, that I know. She's a city girl, so she won't be hiding away in the country somewhere, that much I know as well. Why did she run away? Because she had the freedom and the money to do so. And I think she'll come back to us eventually, but perhaps not as soon as we'd like."

"It sounds like you approve of what she's doing," Ira challenged her.

"Don't be silly," Beryl retorted, "I'm her mother. I worry myself sick about her. You cannot know what it's like for a woman. We need to talk to each other constantly for reassurance. How do I know that some smooth-talking mamzer hasn't picked her up and relieved her of all her money? And she hasn't taken her cellphone with her for emergencies. That's what I worry about." Ira stood up.

"If it's all right with you," he said, "I'm going to talk to Dara in the kitchen."

"Go ahead," I replied, "we won't disturb you." Ira moved into the kitchen and closed the door behind him.

+ + +

I got up and placed a CD into the music centre and pressed play. The sounds of Handel's Tafelmusik filled the room.

"Will he take the case?" asked Beryl.

"If he knows what's good for him," I replied, "he will."

"I think wisdom and sound judgment will prevail," said the rabbi. We waited, sitting in the armchairs sipping our drinks and listening to the pleasing strains of Handel's genius, relaxing and allowing the music to soothe our troubled minds. I glanced at the rabbi. He was looking up at the ceiling with a beatific smile, his hands resting behind his head. It was as if he was privy to something that we weren't. I wondered whether allowing the younger generation to discuss the whole matter among themselves was a good idea. Evidently the rabbi seemed to think so, and Beryl was in agreement. I preferred to remain in control, but it seemed that Ira was not going to be browbeaten into subservience. If he did take the case, there remained the question of payment. Then I began to wonder what Dara would tell him. I got up and started toward the kitchen door, but as I did so Beryl stood and moved between the kitchen door and me, folding her arms across her chest and shaking her head. I looked at the rabbi again. His posture in the armchair was casual, his feet stretched out in front of him, his hands still resting behind his head, but now he had closed his eyes as well. I returned to my armchair. Ten minutes later Zeke burst through the kitchen door.

"Let's celebrate!" he enthused, shocking the rabbi into a state of alertness again, "Ira's agreed to search for Nancy."

"There will be no celebrating," I corrected him, "until Nancy is found and reunited with this family. Nevertheless, I am pleased that Ira has decided to take the case. Now we're really moving forward."

"I'm glad too," said Beryl, "because it means that our Shabbat together will be a peaceful one."

"Baruch Hashem," said the rabbi.

End of Chapter 1

Chapter 2: Nancy needs our help

"There are no boring people, only disinterested observers."
- Dara Bloomfeld -

I had never been on a date before with Ira Shandling. When he left Canada seven years ago, I was only sixteen, and he had just graduated from high school. At that time, Ira had used Pop's influence to open the door for him to volunteer in the IDF, so he and Pops had spent some time together. Initially he stayed in touch with Pops, and we followed his career in the IDF, but when he entered Shin Bet, we never heard from him again until Pops discovered from some of his friends that Ira had returned to Toronto a few weeks ago. Pops got Mara to call him and invite him in for a chat. The reason why Pops was in such a hurry to see Ira was of course because of Nancy's disappearance.

+ + +

It was six pm. I stood at the lounge window at 38 Prince Arthur Avenue and looked out over the driveway and the front garden which was buried under half a metre of snow. Zeke had shoveled and salted the driveway earlier, so it was clean. It was a typical winter's evening: five degrees below zero, the thermometer on the wall next to me read. Clear skies above, and silver moonlight bathed the scene. I was wearing my nurse's uniform again this evening, because I was on night shift, and would be for the next two weeks. I had only a few hours to spend with Ira, but I intended to make the most of them. In my hands I held a file of documents containing all the information that Ira had requested, and he had asked for a lot. From Pops: all Nancy's financial data (her credit card and debit card account numbers; bank's name; branch name, address and telephone number and statements from her accounts for the last six months.) From Moms: a list of names and telephone numbers of all Nancy's teachers at school and a list of all the clubs and societies that she was a member of. Also, a list of all the clothing that she had taken with her, and whatever else she had taken. From Zeke: a list of all the names, addresses and telephone numbers of Nancy's friends, including those found on her computer. Zeke was instructed to ensure that the list was complete by asking her friends to name anyone that she had met recently. Also from Zeke: a description of Nancy's movements in the last twenty four hours before she disappeared. From me: a few recently taken photographs of Nancy (black & white and colour). Ira had taken the teamwork and delegation system to heart, and had us all working on the case.

I watched as Ira pulled into the driveway in a new, late model navy blue American sedan. The electronic motion detection system automatically switched on the driveway floodlight, illuminating it in bright white light. Ira brought the vehicle to a halt, revved the engine and hooted twice. Then he opened the door and got out of the car and stood, leaning on the front door. He had on the same black leather jacket that he had been wearing Friday evening, with dark green trousers, a pastel green shirt and a diagonally striped tie. I noticed that he was wearing the same black boots as well. I waved just as he looked up to the first floor and saw me at the window. He smiled broadly and waved back.

"Zeke," I called out, "Ira's here. I'm leaving now. See you tomorrow." No one else was home, Pops hadn't got back from work, and Moms was out somewhere as well.

"Okay Sis," answered Zeke from his room, "enjoy your date. Just tell Ira to call if he needs any more information."

"Okay," I answered, "bye." In the hall I placed the file on the table, slipped into my coat, fitted on my scarf, gloves and woolen cap, picked up the file again and hurried out of the front door. "Hello, Ira," I said.

"Hi Dara," he said, "great evening out, isn't it?"

"It's five below," I answered, "to me that's cold."

"Never mind. Tonight you will be dined in comfort and style."

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Shiloh's Kosher Restaurant."

"That's near enough to walk," I said, "and what's more I haven't practiced my Yiddish in ages."

"So what," said Ira, "I'm not wearing a yarmulka. I think we'll get along just fine in English. And never snub a chauffeured drive to your restaurant of choice. Besides, could Dara Bloomfeld risk being seen arriving at a well-known restaurant on foot? You have your family name and reputation to consider."

"I'm not a snob," I argued, "we have serious matters to discuss as well."

"Then we shouldn't waste any more time," said Ira.

"Is Pops paying the tab?" I asked.

"Absolutely," said Ira, "until Nancy is found, or Uzi decides to call off the search, I'm on a retainer with an expense account as well. That's how I got this baby. Like it?"

"This is a nice car," I said.

"Like I said," Ira continued, "in comfort and style." He opened the passenger door for me, and I bent over and sat down in the front passenger seat. Ira closed my door, hurried around and got into the car. He closed the door and started the engine.

"We only have three hours," he said. "What can you tell me?"

"What do you want to know?" I asked.

+ + +

Ira reversed abruptly out of the driveway, and then took off with wheels spinning along Prince Arthur Avenue. He drives too fast, I thought. I said nothing.

"So Dara, where does the paper trail lead to?" Ira asked, trying again. I was relieved to find that the spurt of acceleration was an isolated incidence, and that Ira actually drove carefully along the icy, slippery roads.

"As an amateur in matters of investigations," I answered, "I would have to say it leads to nowhere. There are no obvious clues that I can see."

"I'll have a look through it," he said, "when we get to the restaurant. And tomorrow I'll have to speak to a lot of people on the telephone." Ira found a parking spot right near the restaurant, and seeing as he had made a reservation, we were seated within a few minutes by the maître d', who gave us each a menu and wine list.

The interior of Shiloh's was dim, with candles on the tables providing the immediate light. About half of the tables were occupied. The walls were painted in an orange pastel and lit with concealed lighting. They were hung with various works of art depicting pastoral scenes of Israel, including some pictures of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, which I recognized because I had toured both cities. The seating consisted of booths, which separated the tables from each other, and gave the patrons a measure of privacy and intimacy. The seats were upholstered with brown vinyl. There was a trio of musicians in tuxedos in the south eastern corner of the restaurant playing soft background jazz. Adjacent to the band was a dance floor with a few couples turning on it. After we had spent a few minutes discussing the dishes presented on the menu our waitress arrived, introduced herself as Naomi, and asked us if we would like to order.

"For starters I'll have the canapés with smoked trout and anchovies," said Ira."

"And I'll have the crispy spring rolls with sweet & sour dipping sauce," I said.

"Okay," said Naomi writing our orders down, "and what would you like to drink?"

"Bring us a bottle of '99 Mount Hermon white wine," replied Ira.

"I'll bring your entrees with the wine, and then you can order your main courses, or would you like to do that now?" asked Naomi.

"We'll order later," said Ira.

"Very well, sir," said Naomi and moved off to the kitchen.

Once our appetizers had been served, Ira began leafing through the file, munching on his crackers while I enjoyed the sweet fresh bread rolls interspersed with sips of wine. He spent most of his time examining the bank statements.

"Uzi was right," he observed, "Nancy hasn't made any withdrawals since she disappeared. She maxed out her credit card in the few days before she left, in a series of cash withdrawals, probably all in Toronto. I'll have to check the codes. This confirms that wherever she went, it was planned and she wasn't coerced into drawing the money."

"She also took the Stradivarius violin with her," I said. "Pops is very upset about that. It's his. He's the violinist in the family. He used to let Nancy use it, but only at 38 Prince Arthur Avenue. She wasn't allowed to take it off the premises. If she was playing elsewhere, she had to use her own violin.

"How much is it worth?" asked Ira.

"Depending on who you talk to," I said, "anywhere from $5 000 to $25 000. It is insured, but I don't think the insurance covers it in all instances. There's a copy of the policy in there as well.

"Kudos to you, Dara," said Ira, "your foresight is commendable. I would have asked for a copy of the policy."

"Would you like to order now?" Naomi asked, startling us by appearing at our table suddenly like a ghost.

"What would you like, Dara?" Ira asked me.

"For a salad I'll have the salad of Radicchio, Romaine and Boston lettuces, with asparagus and tomatoes."

"That's served with a lemon~thyme vinaigrette, would that be okay?" asked Naomi.

"Fine," said Dara, "and the roulade of soul, with Morel mushroom duxelles, and the rice pilaf with spring peas."

"Very good, ma'am," said Naomi, "and for you, sir?"

"I'll have the salad of mixed vegetables, with dried cranberries and spiced pecans. With the cranberry vinaigrette. And the grilled veal chops with mushroom sauce."

"Okay," said Naomi, "would you like to order your desserts now as well?"

"We'll finish our main courses first," said Ira.

"Just as you wish, sir," said Naomi. She took our menus and moved off to the kitchen.

"I think Pops will ask you to work in the accounts receivable department at Power Electronics, if you can get Nancy to return home," I said, "Finding her will be easier than persuading her to return home. Nancy has perfected a stonewalling technique with the rest of the family. She'll probably use it on you as well when you find her."

"I'll bear that in mind," said Ira. "I have ways of getting around such strategies. Tell me more about the accounts receivable department."

"Pops needs a more vigourous approach in the accounts receivable department to keep the cash flow steady," I explained, "and his debtors on schedule with their repayments. Your kind of background is ideal for that sort of work. Sometimes investigation and surveillance is required with tardy debtors."

"Sounds like it might be an interesting position. Does Uzi talk to you about what's happening at Power Electronics?"

"I like to ask him difficult questions that make him think as well as show him that I'm interested in his company, which is his pride and joy," I explained. "Also it's the best way to keep a conversation going with him. Getting back to Nancy, we still don't have any definite clues," I said.

"There is one," said Ira, "sort of. Nancy is a fifteen year old schoolgirl. This well planned disappearance is smart, very smart. Almost too smart. If she'd planned it on her own, she would have left some clues. I think there is an accomplice. Someone older. Someone who taught her how to disappear without a trace. Someone who advised her."

"But why take the violin?" I asked. "Nancy's not a thief."

"That's her game," said Ira, "I think she wants Uzi to pursue her. It's the bait. I suppose her thinking is that if he wants her to become a professional violinist, he should give her the violin. What do you think?"

"I think Nancy hasn't been herself these last few months," I said reservedly.

"Rabbi Lemuel seems to think that her behaviour in the last few months is her reaction against being pressed into following a predetermined career, a career predetermined by her parent's choosing, not hers."

"She is an excellent violinist," I said, "nearly good enough to turn professional. That's what Mendelsohn says."

"Who is Mendelsohn?" asked Ira.

"You'll find him in Beryl's list of teachers," I said, "he's her violin tutor."

"Okay," said Ira, "he's someone I'm going to talk to tomorrow." Ira took out a notebook and pencil and made a note.

"Now Dara," he said, "tell me about your sister. Didn't she confide in you? Why does a teenage girl begin to act strangely? What do you as her sister say?"

"Objectively speaking," I replied, "my response as a nurse would be that it's either a boy, and that might mean pregnancy, or drugs, or both. Those are the most obvious scenarios."

"She didn't confide in you?" asked Ira.

"No," I said, "she just became rather remote from me, as if she had secrets that she was hiding."

"If it is pregnancy," said Ira, "the disappearance might be to either have an abortion, or to have the baby born secretly and give it up for adoption. That way she would avoid the scandal."

"She can't do that legally," I said, "because she's still a minor. It's so inhuman and heartless to abort a baby, or to give it up for adoption. If she is pregnant, I think she should keep the baby."

"What are the other possibilities?" asked Ira.

"The truth is," I admitted, "that Nancy hasn't been confiding in any of us these last few months."

"She was incubating some sort of secret plan," Ira suggested, "from which she chose to exclude her family, it seems. Did she spend a lot of time on the Internet?"

"About two hours a day," I said, "that was all she was allowed."

"She might have been using the Internet after school at some other location," Ira posited, "using an alias. Either at school, or at one of the libraries."

"That is a possibility," I said, "A kind of withdrawal into the virtual world. She could have met someone online." Naomi arrived with our food on a trolley and served it up.

"Bon appetit!" she said, and then after depositing the dessert menus on our table, she retreated discretely.

"How are you enjoying your nursing work?" Ira asked, munching a mouthful of salad.

"It is satisfying nursing sick and injured people back to health, helping people regain their health, their happiness and their dignity. I can't think of anything else I'd rather be doing. " Ira mulled over that for a while.

"What department do you work in?" he asked.

"The ICU, the Intensive Care Unit," I said. "The patients most in need of monitoring, the acutely ill, those with surgical problems or primary cardiac disease."

"Uh huh," said Ira. I wondered what he was thinking.

"How would you rate Nancy's health, the last time you saw her?"

"She was well," I replied, "and as far as I could see, there was no indication that she was taking any kind of uppers. Nancy has never been one to take drugs for any and every ailment, and she wasn't depressed either, just aloof." Ira lapsed into silence, chewing his food, contemplating.

"Ira," I asked eventually, "how come we heard nothing from you or about you for five years?"

"You know that I was working for Shin Bet," said Ira, "that's the nature of the beast."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"We aren't supposed to talk about what we do," he explained, "so we develop avoidance strategies."

"Pops says that you're the best when it comes to finding people," I prompted.

"Everyone in Shin Bet has that reputation," said Ira with a smile.

"Tell me a story about someone that you found," I said.

"Naa," said Ira.

"Oh come on," I said, "just one. Prove to me that you can do it."

"Dara," Ira looked into my eyes and suddenly became serious, "they aren't pretty stories. In fact many of them are downright messy, and few of them have happy endings. Why don't you tell me one of your nursing stories instead?"

"I'll tell you one if you'll tell me one," I challenged him.

"This is ridiculous," Ira blustered.

My cellphone rang. I pulled it out of my jersey pocket. "Hello," I said. It was Moms. She told me that it was to be a mother/daughter conversation, so I excused myself from the table, and moved to the ladies washroom.

+ + +

"Hello Moms, I can talk now. What's up?"

"Nancy called," said Moms.

"Oh," I said with great relief, "that's the best news I've heard for weeks. Where is she?"

"She wouldn't say," said Moms, "she just said she's okay, and not to worry about her. She also told me not to tell Uzi that she'd called."

"Why not?" I asked.

"She doesn't want him searching for her, she said. She wants to live her own life, and make her own decisions. She says that's exactly what I did at her age. Now I could kick myself for telling her that. How do I argue with that?"

"You did the right thing, Moms," I said, "you were honest with her."

"She wants space to find herself," Moms continued, "she says she's going to find a job."

"Doing what?" I asked.

"Whatever she can find, she said."

"It's far too vague," I said, "Ira and I have just been discussing that, and he thinks that she had some definite plan in mind, and that someone older that her was advising her. He thinks that what she did was too clever for a teenage girl."

"I think that he underestimates Nancy's resourcefulness," said Moms.

"I also think that it's too well planned, too slick for Nancy," I argued.

"So maybe there is someone advising her, but who is it?" asked Moms.

"Ira's going to find that out, one way or another," I said.

"Don't tell Ira," said Moms.

"But that's insane," I objected, "he's helping us to find her."

"Don't tell Uzi either," said Moms, "In future Nancy intends only to speak to me, her mother, and if I tell them, then she'll stop calling."

"How did she sound over the telephone?" I asked.

"She sounded a bit nervous," Moms answered, "and in an awful hurry. She hung up after talking for only a minute. She did say she'd call back again sometime."

"Don't you think that it's an unspoken plea for help?" I asked.

"What could I do?" asked Moms. "What could I say? She hung up before I could think or talk. We must respect her wishes and keep this between the women in the Bloomfeld family, and that way we can stay in touch with her and help her. Let the men find her if they can. She chose to call me, and speak to me, her mother."

"But Moms," I pointed out, "you're dividing the family."

"Listen to me now, Dara," said Moms, "I'm your mother, I know what I'm talking about. I've had to live with Uzi Bloomfeld and his first love, Power Electronics, for near on thirty years. This leap for freedom from Nancy, he should have seen coming. He should have taken heed of the warning signs. He should have given his daughter more time and attention."

"Moms," I choked, the tears flooded my eyes, "don't do this. You're tearing the family apart. Nancy needs our help. It sounds like she's already homesick."

"Dara," Moms persisted, "not a word about this to anyone, okay?"

"I'll tell you what," I said, taking a tissue from my pocket and dabbing my eyes, "I'll give you some time and cover for you. Next time she calls, you have to argue with her: she's too young, she's still a minor, she must come home. You're her mother. You'll have to press her. If you do that, then I won't tell the men yet. Agreed?"

"Don't you defy me, Dara Bloomfeld!" said Moms angrily. "I brought you into this world. I raised you. I cared for you. I was always there for you. You owe me."

"Moms," I paused, the anger rose within me, "don't be crazy! It's Nancy who's defying you, not me. I'm your adult daughter. I'm a nurse. I care for sick people. I help them get well. Now! We're going to do it my way, or else we're going to tell the men, okay?" There was a few moments of silence. I think that for once I had totally surprised Moms. Eventually she sighed.

"Dara," she said wearily, "you just don't know what it's like. You don't know what I've had to go through for all these years. I have a headache now. Could you get me some aspirin on your way home?"

"I wasn't planning on coming home until after my shift," I answered. "I'll call the pharmacy and have them deliver some for you."

"Thank you," said Moms, "I'm just numb now, and tired, tired..."

"Moms," I encouraged her, "we're going to keep the family together, and Nancy is going to come back to us. And we'll be happier than we were before, because this experience is going to serve to draw us all closer together. Now, just get some rest. Pops will be getting home soon. We'll talk about it tomorrow. I won't tell Ira, or Pops, or Zeke, okay?"

"Oh," said Moms, "okay Dara, we'll talk about it again tomorrow. Bye..."

"Bye, Moms," I concluded, ringing off and replacing the cellphone in my jersey pocket. I returned to our table, where Naomi was chatting with Ira, who was holding a dessert menu in his hands.

+ + +

"Would you like to order your desserts now?" she asked when she saw me.

"Sure," said Ira, "what would you like, Dara?"

I've already decided on the lemon mousse profiteroles," I said.

"And for me," added Ira, "I'll have the pecan nut praline tart with butterscotch sauce."

"Coming up," said Naomi, writing our orders down on her pad, and then moving off.

"Is there a problem?" asked Ira.

"Moms isn't feeling well," I answered, "she has a headache. She worries too much. I told her I would call the pharmacy and get them to deliver some aspirins for her. I had to calm her and reassure her that everything's going to be okay." I called the pharmacy, ordered the aspirins and rang off. As soon as I did so, the cellphone buzzed again. I took the call.

"Hello, Dara speaking," I said.

"Hello Dara, it's Zeke!" He sounded excited. "I think I may have something for Ira. This evening I was thinking about Nancy, and trying to remember all the things that she'd said to me in the last few months, and that's when I remembered. Are you still at the restaurant with Ira?

"Yes," I answered," he's here. Do you want to talk to him?"

"Yeah! Hope you don't mind."

"Not really," I answered, "we've been discussing Nancy as well." I gave the cellphone to Ira. "Zeke wants to talk to you."

"Hello Zeke," said Ira, "what's up?"

"Ira, listen up," said Zeke, "I've got one definite clue, and one maybe clue. I'll give you the maybe clue first. About five months ago, I got home from school a bit earlier than I usually do, because on that particular day, my sport practice was cancelled. Nancy was also home, but she never heard me coming in. She was talking to someone online, just gabbing. I remember her saying that her secret dream was to go to New York and become a fashion model. Now, is that a clue or what?"

"Could be," said Ira, "could very well be. Can you remember who she was talking to?"

"Um," said Zeke, "I couldn't quite make it out. It sounded like Jawnin."

"Gaunin?" asked Ira.

"Something like that," said Zeke.

"Just hang on," said Ira, "did Nancy ever mention to you someone named Gaunin, or Jawnin?"

"No," I said, "I've never heard her mention that name."

"Okay, Zeke," said Ira, "that was the maybe clue. What's the definite clue?"

"A word in private," said Zeke, "just between men."

"What?" said Ira, "oh, excuse me a moment." He got up and walked off toward the cloakroom. I continued to nibble at my food, but my appetite had disappeared. I wondered what Ira and Zeke were discussing. Overheard telephone calls? Surely he couldn't have heard Moms talking to Nancy, and then to me. He would have challenged me. And Nancy a fashion model? She'd never discussed that with me, or with anyone else in the family for that matter. Nancy does have a slender figure, and she's good looking, with luxuriant brunette hair. However, until recently, she'd never shown much interest in fashion. Yes, come to think of it, in the last few months, she'd begun to become far more fashion conscious, and more picky and choosy about what she was wearing. And she'd bought some outfits and shoes that had Pops really steaming. I saw Ira emerge from the cloakroom, and watched him as he threaded his way between the booths until he reached our table. His face was neutral in expression. He sat down and gave me the cellphone. I pocketed it. Ira winked at me.

"What's the matter?" I asked. Before he could answer, Naomi arrived with our desserts on a trolley. She removed the plates from our places, and placed the desserts before us. Then she moved off to the kitchen, pushing the trolley in front of her.

"Give me your hand," said Ira. He held out his hand with his elbow resting on the table. "And place your elbow on the table." I rested my elbow on the table and held out my hand. Ira gripped my hand in his. "Now press!" he said. I pressed, and he held firm, and then suddenly applied counter pressure and pushed my arm back onto the table. "I win," said Ira, "Zeke overheard Beryl telling you on the phone that Nancy called."

"Moms is not feeling well," I said.

"We can trace the call," said Ira, "want to tell me more?"

"She wouldn't say where she was," I said. My face flushed; I felt terribly embarrassed. "And she's not coming home."

"Dammit Dara!" Ira hissed urgently, "we've got to work together on this, all of us. No more secrets, okay?"

"Moms thought that by keeping it secret she could keep the lines of communication open," I said lamely.

"The plan is to work together," Ira controlled himself and explained to me patiently, " to pool our resources, and to bring Nancy back into the fold. We must all be committed to that goal. That means Beryl and Dara as well. There's absolutely no point in my searching for Nancy if the women of the family secretly approve of what she's doing, and tacitly support her. Then you're just wasting both my time and your father's hard earned money. Is there anything else you haven't told me?"

"Nothing," I said sullenly. I was angry with Zeke and Beryl for landing me in that embarrassing predicament, not of my own making. But of course it was all Nancy's fault. Her disappearance had fomented old injuries, and caused doubt, suspicions, mistrust and ill temper in a normally happy family.

"Have some more wine," said Ira, pouring some more of the Mount Hermon white into my glass. I lifted the glass to my lips, took a swallow and put it down.

"Let's dance," I said impulsively. Ira did not answer, but he took my hands in his, raised them to his lips, and kissed them.

"Dara," he said, "once Nancy has been found, and reunited with the family, we'll do a dancing date... And maybe, just maybe, I'll tell you a true story..."

"I've got plenty of stories."

"Pretty stories with happy endings, I hope," said Ira.

"Mine are heartwarming, inspiring stories."

"Whatever," said Ira. His face suddenly became stern: "Dara, promise me that you're going to work together with me and Uzi and Zeke to help find Nancy and reunite her with the family."

"I promise," I said.

End of Chapter 2

CHAPTER 3: LIVE YOUR DREAM!

"In the glamour world of fashion, beauty is simply everything."
- Nina Bellevue -

New York isn't much different from Toronto, I thought, just bigger, and of course, American. The winters are cold here, and it also snows. Actually, New York is only 500 kilometres from Toronto as the crow flies. I still haven't got out of the habit of comparing everything with what I'm used to. I had been to New York before this, but only as a tourist passing through. Now I intend to live here and make a life for myself. I must Americanize myself completely, becoming more American than the Americans are themselves. I looked out over Central Park, the long green strip in the middle of an urban jungle. The ground and trees were covered in a few centimetres of snow. I was sitting on a park bench in the South End, watching people walk by. It was cold, but the skies were clear and the sun was shining brightly.

Jordan had gone to speak to some people, and to get us some takeaways. He told me they weren't polite folks and didn't discuss business when strangers were present, so I'd best do something else until he got back. I wouldn't have been able to do this without him. I'd met Jordan virtually at first in an Internet chat room, just over five months ago. When he told me he was from New York, I told him that I'd always had this secret dream of becoming a fashion model, but somehow I thought that it would never happen. He asked me to email him some photographs, which I did. Then he sold me on going to New York, taking a modelling course, and living my dream. He said that he could connect me to the right people. When I told him I was fifteen and couldn't do it on my own, he said that he could get American ID for me that would show my age as eighteen. I just had to pay the fee. I said I would come to New York and give it a try, and that's what I did. Jordan got me the American ID, and I did the modelling course. Now as far as America is concerned, I'm Nina Bellevue, fashion model. I've dyed my hair and eyebrows blonde, and changed my hairstyle. Only people who know me well would recognize me immediately. But I've got ID that shows that I'm an American citizen, eighteen years of age. I glanced at my watch. Time to meet with Jordan. I got up and moved along the path to our rendezvous point, the Merchant's Gate.

+ + +

I got there a few minutes before our meeting time. I stood below the Beaux Arts monument and waited for Jordan. A bearded man approached me and gave me an pamphlet. I glanced at it. The title read: "What if Jesus of Nazareth really is the Messiah?"

"Hello," he said, "my name is Yacob and I'm with Jews for Jesus and we're--"

"Do I look like a Jew?" I asked him.

"You look like a teenage girl," he replied with a smile, "and I know that all teenagers want to know the truth about life. When I was a teenager, I was also confronted by some people who were concerned about my eternal destiny. At the time I considered them an annoyance, but I took the tract that they gave to me, and later I read it. It was one of the many signal events in my life that convinced me that God continues to care even when people have ceased to and given up. And the fact the Yeshua Ha'Mashiach entered this world in the same way that we do--"

"I can't talk right now," I interrupted him, "I'm meeting someone here. He should be arriving any moment now."

"I promise you I won't keep you," said Yacob. "Yeshua Ha'Mashiach, was born into the world, conceived miraculously through the power of the Ruach Ha'Kodesh in the womb of the virgin Maria, and born to her, she who was pledged to be married to Yosef ben Heli, a carpenter from Nazareth. Thirty three years later, Yeshua was crucified on a cross for the sins of all humanity. He shed his blood for our sins, yours and mine. Yeshua Ha'Mashiach died so that everyone who believes in him might receive forgiveness of sins, reconciliation with God and eternal life. And on the third day, he rose again from the dead, proving the many prophecies about him in the Tenach to be true. It is written in Yanne's gospel, in the B'rit Hadashah, chapter fifteen, verse thirteen: "Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends." That is the message of the gospel, the good news, it's about God's love for mankind, and his plan to save us from our sins--"

"Oh look," I said, "there's Jordan! Hi Jordan!" I waved. He saw me and moved toward us.

"Good to talk to you," said Yacob, "what's your name?"

"Nina," I said.

"Remember that you spoke to Yacob from Jews for Jesus," he said, "Our address is on the tract."

"Is this dude bothering you, Nina?" asked Jordan.

"No," I said, "we were just talking."

"What's this?" he asked, snatching the pamphlet out of my hand, and glancing at the title.

"Listen man," Jordan said to Yacob, "she don't need pie in the sky when she die, bye and bye, she need steak on her plate now..." He gave the pamphlet back to Yacob.

"Perhaps we shall meet again, Nina," said Yacob, moving away from us, "until then..."

"Not if I can help it," said Jordan. "And I've got some good news for you. I've got someone you must meet. I've set up a dinner date for this evening."

"What if I can't make it?" I asked.

"What do you mean, Nina?" he countered. "This is our agreement. I connect you up with the right people."

"What I think," I argued, "is that you've connected me up with a few slicks who have friends in the fashion world, and nothing else."

"Hey, what's this baby?" Jordan asked. "You've gotta have patience. It's not all going to fall into place magically. These things take time. I'm taking care of you. I'm treating you right. I'm giving you all the poppers you want. Here, see, I've got some more for you." He put the paper bag containing the takeaways down on a park bench, fished in his pocket and brought out a small envelope that he handed to me. I put it in my bag.

"Hey!" Jordan shouted. I looked up, startled. He was staring at a man who was holding a video camera in front of his face, aimed at us. "Hey you! You with the vcam! What do you think you're doing?" Jordan began striding toward the man, who suddenly turned away and ran off into Central Park, albeit rather clumsily. Jordan increased his speed. "Stop!" he shouted, "or you're going to get hurt!" The man continued running, darting and weaving between the trees, but Jordan was far faster than he was.

They had barely run three hundred metres when Jordan hit the fleeing man in a flying tackle, knocking the video camera out of his hands. The two of them fell to the ground. Jordan got on top of him, turned him over onto his stomach, and twisted his one arm behind his back. Jordan muttered threats at him quietly while I caught up with them and picked up the man's video camera. "Now," said Jordan, speaking normally again, "who are you, and why are you videoing us?"

"If you could just get off me," the man replied in a distinctly British accent, "I'll explain myself."

"No way, José," said Jordan, "what's your name?"

"My name is Danny Rivers, and I'm a British citizen," he answered. "What you're doing is very bad publicity for your city."

"So why were you videoing us?"

"I'm a photographer," Danny replied breathlessly, "I'm looking for new models. Can you get off me now?"

"Rubbish!" said Jordan, "you're just a tourist looking for a good time."

"Confound it man," Danny intoned, "I'd show you my business card if you'd just get off me."

"Business cards don't prove nothing," said Jordan.

"I'm looking for new models," Danny repeated, "I told you. Your friend is very attractive. She may have just the look I'm seeking."

"Well," Jordan sneered at him, "Mr. high-faluting Danny Rivers, I'm Nina's agent, and that's the way it's gonna stay. I'm in the process of lining up some contracts for her right now. Big money contracts. I've got the connections.

"What?" I protested, "well how about telling me about it first before you tell a complete stranger?"

"How does $100 sound for starters?" said Danny, "Nina, is it? To prove my goodwill in spite of your unprovoked attack."

"Listen mister," Jordan hissed, "I don't care if you're the Queen of England herself, you gotta ask permission before you start videoing complete strangers. I know the law here. It's called invasion of privacy."

"How about $100 each then?" said Danny, "but you'd better get off me quickly now, otherwise I'm going to make an official complaint."

"You haven't got anything on us," Jordan jeered, "how're you gonna do that?"

"I think you'd better get off him now, Jordan," I said, "you've made your point." Surprisingly, Jordan heeded my advice. He let go of Danny's arm and jumped to his feet. Danny got up immediately. I noticed that he was both taller and heavier than Jordan, though it had not appeared so initially. Danny brushed the snow off himself. I gave his camera back to him.

He was a few inches over six feet. He was wearing a grey parka, blue denim jeans and tan suede boots. His skin was tanned, and his shoulder length hair and beard were grey and shaggy. He wore thick black plastic square-framed dark glasses. His face looked familiar somehow, but I couldn't place it. He took his wallet out of his parka pocket, extracted some cards and bills, and gave us each a crisp, new $100 bill and his business card. It had his name "Daniel H. Rivers", his email address and his cellphone number on it. "If you want more exposure," he said, "you've got to broaden your horizons. I could help you to do that. I can shoot a portfolio for you, for starters."

"I've already got a portfolio," I said.

"Can I have a look at it?" asked Danny. I unzipped my bag and pulled out a big manila envelope. Danny took it and extracted my glossy photos and leafed through them.

"Who took these?" he asked.

"A friend of Jordan's," I answered.

"He's not a professional photographer, and they weren't shot in a studio. The lighting's all wrong."

"Oh yeah," Jordan interjected, "well she got them as a favour from a friend."

"What I can offer you," said Danny, "is a studio shot portfolio by a commercial photographer, in a variety of trendy garments."

"Who do you work for?" asked Jordan. It seemed that the hundred dollars had sweetened him up. Danny reeled off the names of a few women's fashion magazines in quick succession.

"I'm a freelancer now," he said, "and my work's been published in Europe and North America, mostly."

"Okay Danny," said Jordan, "you can do the photo shoot, but any other deals that you offer Nina, you got to negotiate with me first. I'm her agent. A hundred dollars gets you an hour of Nina's time. Got that?

"I can live with that arrangement," said Danny. "Right, Nina. I'm booking you for an hour. Are you a morning person, or an evening person?"

"I'm at my best in the late morning," I said.

"Tomorrow morning then," said Danny, "Eleven am. The address is 292 West 51st Street, on Eighth Avenue. The Uris Building. It's a studio with a sign outside that reads: Visual Image Photo Studio. You can't miss it."

"292 West 51st Street," I said sweetly, "on Eighth Avenue. The Uris Building. The Visual Image Photo Studio. I'll be there, Danny, I'm looking forward to it."

"That's what I like to hear," said Danny. "Let's forget about what happened here this morning. I'm sorry, but I still don't know your name."

"It's Jordan," said Jordan. "Danny, you should know better than to shoot video without permission."

"Where can I get hold of you, Jordan?" Danny asked, ignoring the rebuke. Jordan took out a pencil and wrote his number along the bottom of Danny's business card. Then he tore a narrow strip off the card and gave it to Danny.

"That's my cellular number," he said.

"Jordan, Nina," Danny said, "It's been an unforgettable experience meeting with you. I look forward to a successful business partnership. I'll see you tomorrow at eleven am, Nina. And get your hair done at a salon beforehand, okay. And no makeup, I prefer natural beauty, and if the photos aren't perfect, I'll airbrush them."

"Sure," I said, "if that's what you want." Danny shook our hands to conclude the deal, and walked off abruptly at a brisk pace.

Jordan waited until he was out of earshot. "Why do I have a bad feeling about that guy?" he asked rhetorically.

"This might just be the break I'm looking for," I argued in Danny's favour. "If the money is forthcoming, and he knows all the right people, then I've got it made."

"It sounds like he's in the rag trade, but not in cosmetics," Jordan commented.

"It's just for the portfolio," I said, "perhaps the wardrobe he has requires a natural look."

"Is that the way they scout for models?" Jordan wondered.

"They use beauty pageants," I said.

"Yeah," said Jordan, "that's what we've gotta do. Enter Nina Bellevue in some beauty pageants. Nina's going to be the next big commercial success, and her face and body are going to appear on billboards, in TV ads, on buses, bus shelters and painted on the sides of buildings. Wow! Imagine that."

"Tastefully clad," I said.

"Sure baby," said Jordan, "whatever you're comfortable with."

+ + +

The next day I arrived at the photo studio at 10:50am. I pushed through the glass door and walked in. There was no one at reception, so I decided to sit and wait. There was a pile of magazines lying on a glass table, so I browsed through them, and extracted some of the titles that Danny had mentioned the previous day. I searched for the credits page in each of them, to see if I could find his name mentioned. I found it in only one, a French language magazine, Sportif. In the same page I found inserted a pamphlet identical to the one that Yacob had given to me yesterday: "What if Jesus of Nazareth really is the Messiah?" Someone must have place it there deliberately, I thought. Danny was credited with the photography in a spread on women's shower robes, but there was no photograph of him. The spread showed a variety of models in robes of all colours, in both plain and patterned designs in cotton, silk, terrycloth, satin and wool. None of the models appeared to be wearing any makeup. The photography appeared to me to be of a good standard, and there was no sign of excessive shadowing. I glanced at my wristwatch. It was 10:58.

A door opened, and Danny emerged. Around his neck was a light meter hanging on a cord. "Ahh Nina," he said, clapping his hands together, "glad you could make it. I stood up as he walked towards me. He gripped both my shoulders in his hands, and peered intently into my eyes. His breath smelled of coffee.

"Hello Danny," I answered, "I've just been admiring your photography in Sportif. The shower robe collection. I found this pamphlet inserted into the magazine." I showed it to Danny. He took it and read the title aloud: "What if Jesus of Nazareth really is the Messiah?"

"Someone must have placed it there deliberately," he said, giving the pamphlet back to me.

"That's exactly what I was thinking," I said. "It's the same pamphlet that Yacob from Jews for Jesus gave to me yesterday in Central Park. He must think that I'm a Jew."

"You think it was Yacob?" asked Danny.

"Who else could it have been?" I asked. Danny shrugged. I unzipped my bag, slipped the pamphlet into it, and closed it.

"Your photography in Sportif is excellent," I complimented him.

"The shower robe collection," he said, "that was last June, in Monaco. An easy one. It was an outdoor shoot, and the weather was perfect." He took a few steps back and looked at me again. "Your hair looks magnificent. Who did it?"

"There's a salon in Rockefeller Plaza called Final Cut, and the stylist's name was Virginia." I looked at him, and again I had the feeling that I had seen him before somewhere. "Excuse me, Danny," I said, "but I have this feeling... haven't we met somewhere before?"

"That's unlikely," he answered, "you're not from New York either, are you?"

"I tell the Americans that I'm American because my ID is American," I said, wondering at the same time why I was being honest with a foreigner whom Jordan was suspicious of. I guess I just had the idea that I could trust him.

"You probably shouldn't tell people that," Danny suggested, "if you want to get work here. Especially not foreigners."

"I have this intuition that I can trust you," I said.

"You're Canadian," said Danny.

"Originally from Toronto," I said, "How did you know?"

"Canadians are more trusting than Americans, generally speaking," Danny commented, "it's a logical deduction. Let's get into the studio and get the photo shoot over with.

"How much money are we talking about here?" I asked him. He stopped at the door and turned around.

"Nina," he said, leaning against the door frame, "with the portfolio that I shoot for you, given that the photography will be excellent, given that you'll enjoy the additional prestige of being associated with an internationally recognized photographer, you shouldn't measure the price purely in economic terms, but rather in terms of the superior prospects that it will accrue for your career in the long term. Besides, I prefer to present the finished product before we discuss payment. If you cannot agree to these terms, you are still free to take your business elsewhere."

"That's not typically British," I said.

"I have done business with people of many different nationalities," said Danny, "and most of them have been satisfied with my work and my fees. Come, follow me!" He walked into the studio. I knew that this meant that the fee was going to be expensive, but what he said also made sense, if he was an internationally recognized photographer. I would have to check whether he had a web site. I ticked myself off mentally. I should have done that yesterday, but I was busy with other things.

+ + +

In the studio there were a series of photographic lights and light screens, a table and a camera on a tripod in the middle of the studio, with a three legged stool in front of it.

"I know it looks rather bleak," Danny explained, "but what I'll be doing is digitally overlaying the pictures onto scenic backdrops, so that the final product will look like an outdoor shoot." In the corner was a curtained off section. "That's the changing area. There's a rack behind the curtain with a whole lot of garments on it, with matching shoes. Start at the left of the rack, and work your way across to the right. I'll be taking a few shots of each garment."

"Okay," I said. I moved around behind the curtain, got undressed and slipped into the first dress. It was a near perfect fit. How did he know my dress size?

"Danny," I asked, "how did you know my dress size?"

"Professional experience," said Danny, "I can usually guess it accurately 95% of the time." But not when a girl's body is hidden beneath a winter coat. Hmmm! And all these garments together? A thousand dollars? Perhaps he had loaned them.

"Are you ready?" asked Danny.

"Nearly," I answered, slipping on a matching pair of shoes. They fitted as well.

"Danny," I decided to brave a confrontation, "You're kidding me. You've got my shoe size as well." I came out from behind the curtain. Danny had turned all the lights on, and he was sitting on the three legged stools smiling broadly. In his hands he held up a copy of my resumé.

"Jordan faxed me a copy of it this morning while you were at the hairdresser," he said.

"Oh, why didn't you say so?"

He got off the stool, came up to me and placed a hand on my shoulder. He guided me to the area in front of one of the light screens, and before the camera. The lights were dazzlingly bright, and illuminated me completely.

"Pastels suit you," he said, "this dress looks like it was custom designed for you."

"I prefer wearing makeup for photo shoots," I said.

"I'm not a makeup artist," he replied, positioning my arms and hands into a pose. "You would have to change your makeup a few times during the shoot. It takes too long. Trust me, your photos will look superb. Mine always do." He took three steps back and examined my pose. "Chin up more," he said, "and look into the distance above and slightly beyond the camera.." I adjusted my pose. "That's it," he said, "freeze." He began shooting, getting me to adjust my pose periodically. I could see that Danny wasn't one for wasting time. We worked through the garments rapidly.

"Jordan hasn't been able to get your career moving, " Danny asked, "has he?"

"He says I've got to be patient," I replied. "It takes time to establish oneself in the fashion industry as a model. He is helping me, and introducing me to people, and all. He was especially helpful when I first got to New York, helping me to find accommodation and a modelling course. A girl on her own who is a stranger to the city gets ripped off. And he's helped me with other things as well.

"How much do you know about him?" Danny asked.

"Not much," I admitted, "he's a sweet guy who's been my agent and guide since I got here. He doesn't talk to me about his own life."

"How did you meet him?"

"I met him online on the Internet when I was still in Toronto."

"Whose idea was it to come to New York, his or yours?"

"Why all the questions about Jordan?" I asked. Danny stopped shooting and approached me.

He stood right in front of me, invading my personal space. "Because he's hiding who and what he really is from you," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"His real name is Harold Patchett. He's a drug dealer, an ex-convict and a con man."

"How do you know that?"

"I've got a copy of his rap sheet." Danny moved to the table and picked up a document lying on it. He handed the document to me.

"It's all there. He's done time in prison for possession of controlled substances; assault with a deadly weapon; assault with intent to do grievous bodily harm; grand larceny; extortion; living off the proceeds of prostitution committed by a minor; pimping; you name it. And he's still doing what he was sent to prison for. He hasn't reformed himself."

"He hasn't harmed me in any way," I said, "he's only been helping me."

"Don't be a fool, Nina!" Danny hissed. "He's using you, can't you see it?"

"So what are you saying? That he's..."

"You should be more careful when you're choosing your friends," said Danny.

"What's your interest?" I asked.

"In any line of business," Danny explained, "you have to know whom you are really dealing with. Doing business with the wrong kinds of people can either cost you a lot of money, or alternatively, get you into all kinds of serious trouble with the law, or something worse than that, that you don't even want to think about."

"So you've probably been checking up on me as well?" I wondered out aloud.

"You're still young," Danny answered, "your record's clean."

"It'll be difficult for me to drop Jordan," I said, "he's the persistent sort."

"Did he get you to sign a contract?" Danny asked.

"No," I answered, "we just agreed to work together."

"Then you sign a contract with me," Danny said, "and then you're finished with him. It's legal. If you sign a contract with me, I'll make sure that he leaves you alone thereafter. I'll leverage him, using his rap sheet. Our contract will contain all the usual clauses, those that delineate my rights and obligations, those that delineate your rights and obligations, and with one major proviso."

"What's that?" I asked.

"You must agree to travel to any of the world's major cities for modelling assignments."

"That's big time modelling," I said, "but I only have a Canadian passport with my real name on it, and my real age. Won't that be a problem?"

"We'll get you an American passport using your American name, Nina Bellevue. It just takes money."

"Okay," I said, thinking fast, "I agree on three conditions. The first is that you have to supply the American passport, the second is that you have to get rid of Jordan, and the third is that you have to help me find alternative accommodation."

"Done!" said Danny. "I can see that you're a girl who knows what you want, and doesn't waste time getting it." I smiled. I could hardly believe my luck. This was my big break. It almost seemed to easy. What was the catch?

"What's the pay?" I asked.

"The rate will vary," Danny said, "depending on who the shoot is for, and where it's done. However, all your travelling expenses will be paid, and your lifestyle will be comfortable." We finished the shoot within the hour.

"Choose any five garments out of that lot, with matching shoes, as a start up gift," Danny said, "while I get the contract ready for signing."

"Wow!" I said, "a start up bonus. This is my lucky day." I got dressed again in my own clothing, chose five of the dresses and three pairs of shoes, and zipped them into one of the garment bags. Then I went out to reception, carrying the garment bag over my arm.

+ + +

Danny was waiting at the reception desk with another man and woman.

"This is Paul and Carol," he said, "they own the studio. They'll be witnessing the contract." He gave me the contract. I read it through. Most of it was legal jargon, but there was no mention of Jordan.

"There's no mention of Jordan," I said.

"The contract only refers to the legal relationship that exists between you and me. Jordan's not part of the deal. But I assure you as an Englishman and gentleman, I will keep my word." Danny and I signed the contract, and Paul and Carol witnessed it. We shook hands to conclude the deal. As Danny held my hands in his, something caught his attention. He felt my fingertips.

"There are calluses on the ends of the fingers of your left hand," he said, "you're a musician."

"Jeepers!" I said, "it's uncanny. You don't miss anything. You're right; I play the violin."

"A violinist as well as a model," Danny said to Paul and Carol, "I told you this girl was talented." Danny gave me my copy of the contract.

"It's now official, the deal is cut," Danny announced. "And now for the cherry on top of the cake. Your first modelling assignment is in your favourite city, Toronto."

"Toronto?" I said, flabbergasted, "surely not. I've just come from there, I mean... I thought you meant any major city except Toronto. Why Toronto?"

"Oh come on," said Danny, "you love that city! You can't get it out of your blood. And you have family and friends there as well. What more could you ask for?"

"But I thought you meant--"

"Nina, Nancy," said Danny, "you signed the contract in front of witnesses. It's what you want, and I'm handing it to you on a plate. I'm going to get very angry with you if you balk now." He frowned at me. I thought for a while. It was too late to back out.

"Toronto it is," I said, mustering up a brave smile.

"Good girl!" Danny enthused, lifting his hands up. "Isn't she great?" he asked Paul and Carol. They smiled. "She's your baby, now," said Paul.

End of Chapter 3

CHAPTER 4: COMPLETE THE MISSION

"If the mountain is there, then it's worth climbing it."
- Ira Shandling -

In any investigation, one finds that the unlikeliest people become the heroes of the story, because they provide the key clues that solve the case. And so it was in the case of the missing daughter. A question the cynic might pose is this: Did Uzi Bloomfeld care more for his Stradivarius violin than he did for his daughter? I had found the missing daughter, and could return her to the family, but asking me to reconcile them and their differences would be like asking a paraplegic to climb Mount Kilaminjaro. He just wouldn't be up to the task, and neither was I.

However, on my team I have two heroes. The first is Zeke Bloomfeld, Nancy's thirteen year old brother, bursting with life, energy, vitality and everything good. Zeke had applied his mind to solving the mystery, and had come up with the key clue, which Nancy's telephone calls confirmed. We discovered later that the extent of Beryl's duplicity included another phone call from Nancy, a few days after she had disappeared, that Beryl in her wisdom had told no one about. The two calls narrowed the search area to downtown New York, although they were both made from a cellphone.

The second hero on my team is Moshe Mendelsohn, a Messianic Jew and retired music teacher. Moshe has the kind of wisdom that you won't find in textbooks, that you won't learn in the marketplace or on the battlefield, or at your local pub. Moshe knew and understood Nancy better than anyone else did, and not simply because he is wise. It was because he carried on talking to Nancy when everyone else didn't. He encouraged her to live her dream, even as she was hiding it from him (and from everyone else). Without Moshe's help, I wouldn't have located Nancy within two days of arriving in New York.

Moshe accompanied me to downtown New York, the area to which the clues pointed. We couldn't call the cellular number, because that might alarm them and cause them to disappear into hiding. The logical area to concentrate our search in was the Garment District, also known to some as the Fashion District, the zone stretching from 41st Street in the north, to 35th Street in the south, and from Ninth Avenue in the west to Fifth Avenue in the east, an area of approximately two square kilometres. We found the agency with whom she had done the modelling course by taking a list of modelling houses and visiting them each one by one, showing them Nancy's photo and asking if they had seen her. The Alpha Modelling Agency confirmed that she had done a modelling course with them, and from them we discovered that she had died her hair blonde, changed her name to Nina Bellevue, and that she had a male accomplice. They provided a copy of her application form, and a photocopy of her American ID card. On her application form, she gave her agent's name as Jordan, and the same address that was registered with the cellular airtime provider. This was the company that provided the airtime for the cellphone that Nancy used to make her two calls to her mother Beryl. I found the cellphone provider by printing out a list of numbers whose last three digits were in the same range, and then calling a few of them. The numbers are found by doing a reverse search on the New York telephone directory CD-ROM at the local library. Even if the number is unlisted, as this one was, with no name and address, some of the adjacent numbers can be traced, and they will tell you who their airtime provider is. The airtime provider furnishes the customer's address, if the request is for a legally valid reason (otherwise of course, they are guilty of obstruction of justice).

The address that Jordan had given his cellular provider I approached with caution. I suspected that it might be a dead end clue that when investigated, would result in Jordan being tipped off that someone was searching for him. I staked out this address and waited. In the meantime Moshe, who was free to roam while I was on my stakeout shift, found Nancy and Jordan. He later denied that he called the cellular number and spoke with them, and when I questioned him about how he found them, he quoted Proverbs 21:30: "There is no wisdom, no insight, no plan that can succeed against the LORD." Using my trading alias from my days in Shin Bet (a trading name that I had used for genuine work as a photographer to establish the credibility of this alternate identity in the market place), I lured Nancy to the studio, got her to sign the contract agreeing to work in any of the world's major cities, and then gave her first modelling assignment in Toronto. The ruse worked. That was how Nancy and I ended up driving along the Interstate 390 together in the sedan that I had hired, heading for Toronto. Moshe and I had already developed a plan beforehand about how we were going to handle the transition from friendly benefactors and mentors to two family friends returning a runaway teenage girl to her family. This is how we did it.

+ + +

"Danny," said Nina, "I still don't know how I'm going to break the news to Pops, that someone stole his beloved Stradivarius violin. I feel terrible about it."

"Don't mention it unless he does," I replied, "and then you can blame Jordan. He's the prime suspect."

"But we don't actually know that he took it," I argued.

"Given his record," I answered, "it would be safe to assume that he's guilty."

"My parents will expect me to move back in with them and finish high school," said Nina. At last she mentioned the real reason why she didn't want to return to Toronto. She looked at me, wondering how I was going to deal with that. I said nothing. "Well?" Nina prompted me.

"Some years ago," I began, "there was a teenager who didn't care much for good music, and even less for good musicians. One day he was on his way to the gym, and the route he took passed by the Conservatory. As he walked by he heard music streaming out of one of the open windows. The music for some unexplained reason mesmerized him, and he crept up to the window and peered in. He saw a pretty young girl with long brunette hair playing her violin. He was entranced at this marvellous and sweet spectacle, and drank up the melodious sounds of her playing. While he was watching her, and enjoying her music, one of his peers walked by and saw him at the window, and accused him of being a nerd, listening to classical music. The youth demanded an apology, and when one wasn't forthcoming, attacked the mocker and successfully defended his honour and listening to classical music as a worthwhile pastime."

"Ira Shandling," said Nancy reflexively, and then it dawned on her at the same time that she realized her blunder. "Ira Shandling? You're Ira Shandling!" I ripped off my spectacles, wig, fake beard and false nose and laughed.

"Yeah baby, it's me!"

"Ira! Oh Ira, how could you?"

"On your father's orders, and at his expense."

"How could you do this to me?"

"How could you do this to your family?"

"You lied to me, you deceived me, you tricked me," she moaned.

"Your father's orders were to find you, and to bring you back to Toronto," I explained.

"He just doesn't understand me at all," Nancy argued.

"Your family care deeply about you, and were saddened that you chose to run away from them."

"I stayed in touch with Moms," she persisted.

"And she didn't tell the rest of the family until after the second time that you called."

"I didn't want Pops searching for me," Nancy continued, "I want to be a model. It's what I choose to do."

"Nancy," I countered, "the truth is you wouldn't have done it if Jordan hadn't persuaded you to. He had no right to do that. He's the villain, and you were misled. Tell that to your family and you'll be forgiven. You would never have done it on your own, you would have waited until you'd finished high school, because you're usually more sensible than that."

"It's not the same thing," she argued, "this is what I chose to do."

"Let's stop at a roadhouse for lunch," I said. "I'm hungry enough to eat a moose. Nancy, choosing what you want to do is good, but sometimes you have to wait until the time is right, and the circumstances are right as well. Choosing to hide your plan from your family, and then to implement it without telling them is not the way to go about it. Get you family on your side first, and then do what you want to do. You nearly split your family right down the middle." I turned into the parking area of the first roadhouse that we encountered and parked the sedan.

+ + +

We took an empty table and placed our orders with the waitress. "Excuse me," I said, "I've got to make a phone call." I moved to a public telephone near the door, from where I could still observe Nancy, and phoned Uzi at his office. "Hello Uzi," I said, "it's Ira. Just calling to let you know that everything's okay, we're running on schedule, and you can expect us at 38 Prince Arthur Avenue at four pm this afternoon."

"I'll make sure that everyone's there to welcome Nancy home," said Uzi. "How is she?"

"Still argumentative," I said.

"Let me talk to her," he said.

"Okay," I answered. I motioned for Nancy to come to the phone, and when she approached me, I gave the handset to her, and said, "it's Uzi." I sat down at the table again and watched Nancy talking to her father. I could tell from her constantly shifting posture and agitated hand movements that she was not yet entirely convinced. Jordan's influence had not yet been obliterated from her mind. That would take time. At least she was talking to her father again. Nancy hung up and returned to our table.

"Did he mention the Stradivarius?" I asked her.

"No," she replied.

"There you see," I said, "don't worry about it."

"I still have a lot of explaining to do," she persisted.

"It's good that you're aware of that," I answered, "but sincere apologies make a lot of explaining unnecessary."

"Hello, hello, we meet again." It was Moshe, known to me, unbeknown to Nancy.

"Hello Yacob," said Nancy, "I remember you. This is my friend Ira." We shook hands and smiled, but neither of us said anything. "What are you doing here?"

"May I sit down?" he asked.

"Be our guest," I said. Moshe sat down at our table. He looked at Nancy and then he looked at me.

"There was this retired music teacher," he began, "who formerly had a pupil who used to practice two hours every day. She was the star among her peers, she loved her music, and her instrument. She became a capable soloist, and was at the same time always a good orchestra member. She was always on time for lessons, and in later years, rehearsals and performances. She motivated her fellow musicians, she was an inspiring role model for them. It was said of her that she would go further than any of the others. Then one day she began to lose interest over a period of months, skipping rehearsals, arriving late, showing poor concentration, neglecting to practice sufficiently. The old teacher wondered what was wrong with her. When he talked to her and encouraged her, she said everything was okay, but the teacher knew that it wasn't. And then one day she just disappeared completely. What happened to her?"

"Moshe Mendelsohn," said Nancy resignedly.

"Doctor Moshe Yacob Mendelsohn to you, my dear," he said, peeling off his wig, false beard and latex nose.

"You as well!" said Nancy. "You've both made a complete fool of me. I'm embarrassed, I'm ashamed, I'm humiliated. I don't know what to say." She flushed, and then raised her hands to her face as if to hide her embarrassment. Then she began to giggle, and finally she broke out into uproarious laughter, and tears streamed from her eyes. I took out my handkerchief and offered it to her. She accepted it and dabbed the tears from her eyes. "I wonder why I didn't see through your disguises?" she asked rhetorically.

"Perhaps because you didn't want to," answered Moshe, "because it would have meant admitting who you really are, Nancy Bloomfeld, and not Nina Bellevue. Or perhaps it was the drugs that Jordan was giving you."

"I really don't have any secrets, do I?" said Nancy.

"You're amongst friends," said Moshe, "who care for you, just as your family does." She sighed. We finished our meal, paid and tipped the waitress and left the roadhouse, after depositing Moshe's luggage in the boot of the sedan. We drove to the Canadian border. Moshe, who had taken a bus from New York to the roadhouse where we had arranged to meet, accompanied us.

+ + +

While we were in the line of automobiles waiting to drive through customs, we heard a voice shouting: "Danny Rivers! Get out of that car! Show your face!"

"It's Jordan!" said Nancy excitedly. Immediately I opened the door and jumped out of the car.

"I hear you, Jordan," I shouted, "where are you?"

"Over here," the voice answered. It appeared to be coming from behind a rig and trailer, about two hundred metres away.

"I know all about you, Harold Patchett," I shouted, striding toward the rig, "you did five years in Leavenworth Prison, and you still haven't learnt your lesson. You're still using fifteen year old girls to earn your bread and butter, and turning them into prostitutes and drug addicts. You should be locked up permanently." I reached the trailer and moved around it. There was no one there. Damn! It was a trick. He had lured me away from Nancy.

"Ira!" Nancy's voice. "Help! He's here! He's attacking Moshe." I ran back toward the sedan, weaving between the stationary vehicles. When I got there, I found Moshe lying on the ground, his nose bleeding, and his sunglasses smashed. A welt was beginning to form over his right eye. It seemed that Nancy had locked herself into the car while Jordan tried to subdue Moshe. Jordan was nowhere to be seen. I decided not to pursue him, since the same thing might happen again.

"Open the doors, Nancy," I said. "I'm sorry, Moshe, the con man conned us." I helped him to his feet, and sat him down in the rear passenger seat once Nancy had unlocked the doors.

"I'm glad," said Moshe, "that Nancy chooses to stay with us. She called to you for help and locked the car, instead of running again with Jordan."

"It was the right thing to do," said Nancy, "Jordan is a schmuck, Moshe is a mensch."

"And what am I?" I asked.

"Don't ask!" said Nancy. Moshe took out a handkerchief, leaned his head back against the car seat and began wiping the blood off his nose and face.

"Let me help you with that," said Nancy. Moshe gave her the handkerchief. She sat down next to him, and wiped the last vestiges of blood from his nose and face. I reported the incident to the customs officials, and gave them all Jordan's details, including his real address, and our contact information.

"When we get to Toronto," I said, "I'm going to phone the NYPD and tell them exactly what Harold Patchett has been up to recently, and where he lives." The rest of the drive to Toronto was without incident, and we arrived at 38 Prince Arthur Avenue just before four pm.

+ + +

The whole family had gathered in the lounge to welcome Nancy home. Uzi phoned Rabbi Lemuel to convey the news. I sat on the sofa together with Moshe, enjoying another of Dara's speciality fruit cocktails, while the family huddled in the middle of the lounge in a circle, all with their arms around each other, discussing how they were going to ensure that this never happened again. Moshe's right eye had turned an angry red, and swelled out impressively. I called the Midtown South Precinct of the NYPD and spent half an hour on the phone explaining to a desk sergeant what they needed to know about Harold Patchett, and why he should be apprehended. Just as I concluded the call, the front doorbell rang. "I'll get it!" said Zeke. He opened the front door, and there stood the rabbi, concealing something behind his back. An icy draft of sub-zero air blew into the room.

"Welcome back to Toronto, Nancy," he said, entering the lounge, "I'm glad that you decided to come back." Zeke closed the door quickly.

"I kind of think that decision was made for me by Ira and Moshe," said Nancy, wrinkling her nose, "and maybe it was the right thing to do, and maybe not."

"The missing daughter returns to the family," said the rabbi, "the wound is healed, and the family is whole again. Now that Nancy is reunited with the family, it's time for Uzi and I to 'fess up."

"What do you mean?" asked Nancy. The rabbi brought his hands out from behind his back. In them he held a violin case. He placed the case on the lounge table, unlatched it, opened it up and extracted the violin and its bow.

"Behold the Stradivarius!" he said dramatically, holding up the violin in one hand and the bow in the other.

"I don't understand," said Nancy, "where did you find it? How did you get it back?"

"I kept it at my apartment," the rabbi explained, "the violin you took was a cheap imitation." Uzi took the violin and its bow, replaced them in the case, closed it and latched it.

"You just had to take that violin out of its case once and play it," Moshe observed, "and you would have discovered the deception. But you never did."

"It's true," Nancy answered, "for those few weeks in New York, I never played the violin once, and I did feel kind of empty and directionless. It makes me realize now that playing the violin has always been a..." Nancy couldn't think of the words to express herself.

"A stabilizing and comforting influence in your life," said Moshe.

"I think that's what I was trying to say," said Nancy, "but I wouldn't have used those exact words. Playing the violin has always been the centre of my life."

"I suspected that something like this would happen," said Uzi, "which is why I replaced the Stradivarius with a cheap substitute, and asked the rabbi to keep the real one in storage for me. However, I think that this is the appropriate time to pass the baton on to the younger generation. I think that an accomplished violinist deserves the best instrument, the one that produces the purest sound. Perhaps that was all that was missing in Nancy's case. Nancy, you are the best violinist in the Bloomfeld family. You are a better violinist than I am. Therefore, I bequeath this Stradivarius violin, and the musical legacy of the Bloomfeld family into your capable hands, my dear daughter. May you rise to great heights with it." Uzi presented the violin to Nancy, and she accepted it with a curtsy. We all applauded and cheered.

"Mazeltov Nancy," I said, "mission accomplished."

End of chapter 4

Epilogue

Ira Shandling asked me again when all the family were gathered together to tell how I found Nancy and her companion in such a short time. It seems that he was not satisfied with the explanation that I gave him. Perhaps he wondered how I, merely a music teacher of senior years, a man who has faith in Yeshua, could achieve in a few hours what it would have taken him, a trained professional, perhaps up to a week to accomplish. I did not have access to the same resources that he had, I did not have an expense account, I was not trained in surveillance and espionage techniques as he was. I did not have years of experience in the field. I did not have any contacts in the CIA and the FBI. How did I do it? I did not answer his question, instead I told the story of how I remembered breaking up a fight between two teenage youths outside the Conservatory nearly a decade ago. I believe that I am called to be a peacemaker, and to reconcile people with one another, and so I am glad that I was able to be a part of the team that brought Nancy back to her family and to her true vocation.

Dr. Moshe Yacob Mendelsohn

The Musician's Fiddle

Glossary

baruch hashem

bless the Name

Beryl

female name: precious green jewel (Greek)

B'rit Hadashah

the New Covenant (New Testament)

canapés

a piece of bread or toast on which savouries are served

chutzpah

unmitigated gall, effrontery

CIA

Central Intelligence Agency (the United States agency that gathers intelligence internationally)

Danny

male name: contraction of Daniel - God is my judge (Hebrew)

Dara

female name: compassion, wisdom (Hebrew)

duxelles

a sauce, a combination of mushrooms, parsley, and shalots (small onions), which are chopped together finely and used for flavouring.

FBI

Federal Bureau of Investigation (the United States intranational criminal investigation organization)

grand larceny

large scale theft of the property and possessions of your neighbour

IDF

the Israeli Defence Force (the armed forces of Israel)

Ira

male name: watchful (Hebrew)

kosher

food prepared that is suitable to eat

kudos

honourable mention, praise for an achievement, glory, fame, renown

L'chayim

a drinking toast: "to life!"

Lemuel

male name: belonging to God (Hebrew)

luftmensch

a dreamer, an impractical person (Yiddish)

mamzer

a person born outside of lawful wedlock, a term of contempt (Yiddish)

Mara

female name: bitter, sorrowful (Hebrew)

mazeltov

congratulations, may you enjoy good fortune (oed)

Messianic Jew

a born again Jew who believes that Jesus of Nazareth is the Messiah, the Christ, the Son of God

mensch

a nice person who is moral, just, honest and has integrity

Moshe

male name: drawn out of the water (Hebrew) translated as Moses

Nancy

female name: gracious

Naomi

female name: pleasant (Hebrew)

Oi vey

an exclamation of frustration (Yiddish)

pilaf

A dish, consisting of rice (or, in certain areas, wheat) boiled with fowl, meat, or fish, and spices, raisins, etc

praline

a sweet confection containing almonds and other nuts

profiterole

a small hollow cake of pastry with a sweet filling.

rabbi

chief official of a Jewish synagogue

roulade

a dish prepared by rolling up a slice of meat around a filling

Ruach Ha'Kodesh

the Holy Spirit

schlepp

to carry along with difficulty

schmuck

a contemptible, objectionable person

Shabbat

Jewish sabbath

shalom

a Hebrew greeting that is translated as "peace"

Shiloh

male name: he who is to be sent (Hebrew)

Shin Bet

the Israeli counter-intelligence and internal security organization

Stradivarius

a valuable antique violin made by the master violinmaker, Antonio Stradivara (1644-1737), an Italian

SUV

Sports Utility Vehicle

Tenach

the old testament

Uzi

male name: power (Hebrew)

vinaigrette

a salad dressing made with oil and wine vinegar

Yanne

male name: Yahweh is gracious (translated as John)

yarmulka

skull cap worn by Jewish men on religious occasions, also known as a kippah

Yeshua Ha'Mashiach

the Lord Jesus Christ

Zeke

male name: contraction of Ezekiel (God strengthens - Hebrew)