"The Day Miriam Hirsch Disappeared"

Winner, 1999 Bouchercon Short Story contest
Second-place winner, 1999 Karen Besecker Memorial contest
Second-place winner, 2000 Anthology Magazine contest
Published in Futures Magazine, Autumn, 2002
Published on Amazon Shorts, 2006

Excerpt

The day Miriam Hirsch disappeared was so hot you could almost see the sidewalk blister and sweat. It was summer, 1938, and I'd been hanging around with Barney Teitelman in Lawndale, the Jewish neighborhood on Chicago's west side. Barney's parents owned a restaurant and rooming house near Roosevelt and Kedzie. Miriam rented a room on the third floor. She was a looker, as my father would say, although if he knew his only son was spending that much time with Barney he'd have kittens.

You see, we lived in Hyde Park, a few miles and a universe away from Lawndale. We were German Jews; the Teitelmans weren't. They were from Russia, or Lithuania, or one of those other countries with "ia" at the end of them, and what separated us wasn't just the Austro-Hungarian Empire. We were cultured, assimilated. They were rabble. We had come over before the Civil War; they poured in at the end of the last century. We were merchants, doctors, lawyers. They worked in factories, sweat shops, and, well, restaurants. In fact, when my father was being especially snooty, he'd ask which delicatessen their family owned. I, of course, disagreed with my parents. The Teitelmans talked louder and laughed more, and Mrs. T made a hell of a Shabbos brisket.

Barney and I had met by accident the previous May. We were waiting for the bus outside the College of Jewish Studies near the Loop, both of us in bowties and yarmulkes. My parents had sent me there to "enrich" my Jewish heritage. I guess Barney's did too. We stared warily at each other for a few minutes, like dogs sniffing each other out. Then I offered him a piece of Bazooka. He took it. We were best friends.

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