Why I Write "Jewish"
Mystery Readers Journal
Spring, 2004

In the beginning, there was Faye Kellerman.

Well, in a manner of speaking. I met Rina Lazarus, Kellerman's female Orthodox protagonist years before I ever thought about writing mystery fiction myself. But I read her during a time of profound change in my life, and her work impacted me significantly—as a Jew and a writer.

You see, I was raised as a Reform Jew in Washington, D.C. during the Fifties, an era when most of the Jewish population in that city were more assimilated than Wonder Bread. I went to Sunday school and completed the requisite religious education, but I wasn't a Bat Mitzvah, and neither were most of my friends. What's more, I attended a private Episcopal high school where we participated in chapel every morning and a Cathedral service once a week. I graduated knowing the Nicene Creed as well as the Sh'ma.

Twelve years later, I moved to Chicago and was about to marry a man who'd been raised in a traditional Jewish household. But he was in rebellion when we courted, and we never went to shul or observed any holidays. His parents were Holocaust survivors, he said. They'd come to the States in '38 and '39 respectively. When I first met his parents, I noticed their soft German accents, the well-done meat, and the barrage of questions about my family and my ancestors. But I never thought too much about the implications. I can handle this, I thought.

The first clue that I might be wrong came four years later when our son was born. My husband insisted we have a Bris, the traditional circumcision ritual, at our home, rather than having it done in the hospital

"Why?" I exclaimed.

"Because it's the right thing to do," he said.

"But I've never been to a Bris. I don't know what to do."

"Don't worry. I'll do it."

And he did. My husband invited the guests, hired the mohel, and ordered the deli trays. My mother brought a ham. I fled from the room when the mohel unpacked his bag.

That was the beginning.

We moved to the suburbs three years later and joined a small, very conservative synagogue. Michael attended Hebrew school and, in the process, came to admire one of his teachers, a young rabbi so far to the right that he was considered ultra-Orthodox. Michael gradually immersed himself in this side of Jewish scholarship, and by the time he was thirteen, he'd declared himself not just Orthodox but Haredi, a fringe group of Orthodox Judaism that tends to reject modern culture and all its trappings. Their ideology encourages an almost fanatical acceptance of Jewish law.

For months my son wore nothing but black pants and a white shirt, the unofficial uniform of the "black-hatters." Okay... I'm exaggerating... occasionally he wore navy blue. He stopped eating the meals I cooked, making do instead with fruit, raw vegetables, and, occasionally cereal, all of which was transferred to paper plates and bowls. He spent almost all his free time poring over religious texts, and scrupulously observed Shabbos to the extent that he unscrewed the light bulbs in the refrigerator and wouldn't even go to synagogue if it meant driving in the car.

My reaction was equal parts dismay, curiosity, and concern. While I realized his behavior was, in part, a search for meaning, I also knew part of it was his way of separating and maturing. As a child of the Sixties myself, moreover, I knew the worst move would be forbid him to practice his religion. Still, I was faced with a challenge. What do you do when your son won't eat your meals, refuses to socialize, and spends all his time in his room? How could I be a good mother and not trample on his fragile sense of self?

I decided the best way to reach him was to educate myself. To explore what was so attractive and appealing about his beliefs. Then, perhaps, we might be able to discuss it with an eye toward compromise. Over the next year, I attended adult education classes. I learned some of the customs, rituals, and traditions of Judaism, where they came from, and why. I learned the basics of the Jewish liturgy and why prayers were said in a particular order. I brushed up on my Hebrew and began to follow along on the left hand side of the prayer book.

For me, the experience was akin to exploring a foreign culture without the expense of travel. What I didn't expect, as I learned more about this "foreign culture," was that I'd want to observe more myself. And though I didn't agree with everything I was learning, what I did agree with felt good. And right. I started lighting candles on Friday nights. I started to go to services on Saturday. Ultimately, I even "kashered" my kitchen.

I'd always been an avid mystery reader, but now authors who wrote "Jewish" were of particular interest. That's when I discovered Faye Kellerman and other authors, both mystery and mainstream. Although I was just scratching the surface, I read Stuart Kaminsky, Harry Kemelman, Naomi Regan, Rochelle Krich, Anita Diamond, and Batya Gur. Trying to learn. To process. To understand.

It wasn't a leap from learning to wanting to share that learning. Serious issues, like why there are 613 mitzvahs, or what I perceived as the irrational status of women... as well as lighter fare, such as why Jews swing a chicken around their heads before Rosh Hashana. Not only did I think other people—especially secular Jews—might find these subjects interesting, but perhaps, one day, I hoped, my son and I might use them as a point of departure for our own discussions.

Gradually, my desire to share dovetailed with my desire to write. After cutting my teeth on a mystery that should never see the light of day, I began a police procedural in which the president of a synagogue was murdered during a controversy over the rabbi. (It wasn't a stretch—at the time our small synagogue was embroiled in something similar.) What would happen, I wondered, if a young Orthodox cop was paired with a lapsed Episcopalian cop to investigate the case? Perhaps the Orthodox cop could "teach" the gentile cop some of the whys and wherefores of his faith.

While the work was long on enthusiasm, it was short on success. That novel was never published. Nor was its sequel. It took a while to figure out why, but it seemed as if readers did not want to be hit over the head with religion. Any kind of religion. A frontal assault, such as the one I was advancing, did not necessarily constitute good missionary work. Or mystery writing. It seemed my days as a proselytizer might be numbered.

It was when I backed off that things started to change. I wrote a short story that took place in the 1930's in Lawndale, once a thriving Jewish community in Chicago. While most of the characters were Jewish, the story's themes: adolescent love, impending war, and courage in the face of evil, were broader than halucha (Jewish law) or finely tuned issues of religion. Apparently, I hit on something. The story was well received; in fact, it won several awards. The Ellie Foreman series evolved from that short story. By moving forward in time, Jake Foreman, the Jewish teen-age protagonist in the story matured into his seventies, but fathered a daughter along the way. Ellie, a single mom and free-lance video producer, has a teen-age daughter herself, as well as an extended family of friends, co-workers, and potential lovers to complement and complicate her life. Thus far, three books in the series have been published: An Eye For Murder (2002), A Picture of Guilt (2003), and An Image of Death (2004). I'm working now on Book Four.

Five years later, I don't keep kosher anymore, and I don't observe the way I did. But I have gained a comfort and a peace with my heritage that eluded me in the past. And I'm proud of Ellie, whose sense of self includes a bedrock acceptance and comfort of her Jewishness. Ellie knows where she came from—that she is a product of centuries of a consistent, unbroken faith. And while she's not that observant, either, she understands its importance and her connection to it. It's an integral part of her life. And my writing.

And what about my son? Over the years, his religious observance has moderated, too. He's still observant and keeps the Sabbath, but his closet is a fashion statement that would do GQ proud, and we spent the entire summer together without any conflict over food. His CD collection would rival a DJ's, and he's even started to read mysteries.

All content © Libby Fischer Hellmann.