Blog posts about the Rabbi Aviva Cohen Mysteries and their author Rabbi Ilene Schneider

When I submitted the first draft of “Triangle,” my short story for the anthology JEWISH NOIR II, the editor Ken Wishniak suggested I condense or even delete several paragraphs of backstory, which he felt stopped the story’s momentum and pacing. After several attempts, and a switch from a third person to first person narrator, I finally found the story’s voice, and the addition of a twist last line gave the story its “noirish” flavor. But, fortunately, I had saved the earlier versions.

Fortunately, because after I volunteered to read a seven-minute long story at Noir at the Bar at this year’s Creatures, Crimes, and Creativity conference, I realized I had nothing short enough to read. I did write a new story, but, try as I might, I could not cut out enough of it to make it fit the time frame and not sound like a synopsis or outline. So, I opened the saved files of the early drafts of “Triangle,” copied the backstory I had deleted, retained the third person narrator, and constructed a backstory/prequel.

SPOILER FOR THOSE WHO HAVE NOT READ THE STORY OR HAVE FORGOTTEN ITS OPENING: The last line of the backstory/prequel is the first word of the full story. (Available at

Hope you enjoy it.

From the first day of kindergarten, Rose hated her life. Her family. Her neighborhood. Her school. Even her friends, not that she had any. In other words, her … everything. And it was all the fault of her name. What kind of name was “Rose” anyway? She had been born in 1979, not 1879.  

            Lots of kids had weird names. There was even a Rainbow in her class. But Rose was the one the other kids in school always made fun of. “Ring around the Rosie,” they would taunt.

            “Stop!” she would scream, which made them laugh harder. Yet she would be the one who would get into trouble, be sent to the principal’s office, referred to a series of therapists to deal with her “anger management issues.”

            Her parents couldn’t understand why Rose hated her name so much. “You should be proud to be named in memory of your great-great grandmother,” they said every year when they lit the yahrzeit candle in memory of the hero who had died in some fire in 1911.

            But all Rose knew about her namesake was that she would never be able to live up to her example, so why even bother to try? After all, how often does one get the chance to sacrifice her own life to save that of others? It’s what her great-great grandmother, a twenty-six-year-old widow with three children, did during what was immortalized in history as The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire.

            One day, Rose had reached the breaking point. She had flown into a rage, torn all the family photographs, including one of the Original Rose, and set the pile of scraps on fire, burning down the house. It was then that she was sent to a residential treatment center for violent offenders ages ten to fifteen. It was there that she was raped.

            On paper, the home seemed ideal. It was clean and well-staffed, offering individual and group therapy, classroom instruction and tutoring. Each “resident” – the word avoided the stigma of “patient” and wasn’t as impersonal as “client” – had a private room.

They also had a good-looking, charming, charismatic, twenty-five-year-old maintenance worker, who was tall, blond, buff, and had a habit of seducing naïve young adolescent virgins. Rose was one of his victims. It wasn’t discovered until an astute nurse realized Rose hadn’t come by for sanitary napkins for a couple of months and called in a gynecologist to make sure she was okay. She was, if a four-month pregnant thirteen year old can be considered “okay.”

The pregnancy was terminated and Rose had her tubes tied. What should have been a medically simple procedure turned out to be serious when Rose contracted an infection and had to have her tubes not just tied, but removed.

             The rape was never reported to the police and certainly not to the state regulatory agency, but handled by the lawyers for the parents and the facility. Rose’s parents were mortified and sure Rose had been the instigator. They wanted to avoid more negative publicity about their wayward daughter, publicity that would reflect poorly on them and, worse, on their perfect daughter Jennifer, only a year younger than Rose. The rapist, of course, was fired without references, and left the area. The facility agreed to a lump sum payment, in the form of a trust fund, to which was added the huge malpractice settlement from the hospital. Rose’s parents would be executors and pay her a suitable monthly allowance. The fund would revert to Rose when she was twenty-five, but only if she were found to be mentally stable.

By the time Rose was eighteen, she had aged out of the residential centers she had continued to live in. She was considered fully “cured,” or, at least, controlled, through prescription drugs. Better living through chemistry. Against all odds, she had gotten a decent education and decided to go to nursing school. Her parents claimed to be proud of her. Their Rose was going to follow the example of her great-great grandmother by helping save the lives of others. But Rose knew better.

            She was still filled with hate – of her name, her job, her life, everything. Before the rape, whenever the latest in her long line of therapists would ask Rose why she always felt angry, she would shrug, knowing how ridiculous it would sound to say, “My name.” But now she had a reason the therapists could accept. And as if the rape weren’t enough of a reason, there was the embezzlement that nearly depleted her trust fund.   

            Rose knew nothing about the trust fund until she was close to thirty. Her parents had both died shortly before her twenty-fifth birthday, and her sister Jennifer was made the executor of the trust fund. Jennifer continued to pay out the allowance, which was a nice bonus to Rose’s salary, but not enough to afford to live in Manhattan, which Rose longed to do. Even after Rose’s twenty-fifth birthday, Jennifer didn’t tell her about the trust fund. If she had, she wouldn’t have been able to continue to collect the very generous stipend she felt she was owed for administering her sister’s assets, as well as for the mental anguish of being related to such an embarrassment.

            Rose found out when a quarterly statement was misaddressed to her instead of her sister. She immediately reported her sister to the fraud division of the state’s attorney general’s office.

            In the end, Rose’s victory over her sister was almost too easy. By this point in her life, Rose was adept at faking mental stability. She refused to accept mediation and insisted on a public jury trial. Her lawyer, with her permission, detailed the rape and its aftermath. The jury admired how well she had overcome her early trauma. Jennifer was found guilty by the jury and the press. She was humiliated and vilified for violating her fiduciary responsibilities and taking advantage of her sister. She was sentenced to jail and had to make restitution, which amounted to bankruptcy. Jennifer’s husband divorced her and was granted full custody of their child.

            Despite the huge amount Jennifer had stolen from the trust fund, the remaining money still was enough that Rose could have quit working and lived comfortably on the interest alone. But she didn’t know what she would do instead. She had acquaintances and co-workers, but no real friends. She hated to travel. She had no hobbies. And she actually enjoyed her job. She moved out of her overpriced, tiny apartment furnished with thrift shop leftovers in the Bronx and bought an equally overpriced, tiny apartment with newer furniture in Manhattan. But she still felt empty – and angry. Then she found something that helped relieve her hatred and control her anger.



My thanks to Jeff Markowitz for letting his co-contributors to Jewish Noir II know about Art Taylor’s blog “The First Two Pages,״ and to Art for accepting my essay. Enjoy!

I, along with other contributors to JEWISH NOIR II (available Aug. 23) will be on a panel Zoom presentation sponsored by the Center for Jewish History, Wednesday, September 7, 6:30 pm ET.


Jewish Noir II: Tales of Crime and Other Dark Deeds – Live on Zoom

A Panel of Editors and Authors

Wednesday, September 7, 6:30 pm ET

Jewish Noir II: Tales of Crime and Other Dark Deeds is a new collection of short stories by Jewish and non-Jewish writers, including numerous award-winning authors, exploring the light and dark sides of religion and culture, examining such issues as the enduring legacy of negative stereotypes amid rising anti-Semitism, prejudice, assimilation, and questions of regional, national, and ethnic identity.

Co-editors Chantelle Aimée Osman and Kenneth Wishnia as well as contributors Maria Bivens-Smith, Robin Hemley, Rabbi Ilene Schneider, and Xu Xi will be in conversation with Lauren Gilbert, Senior Manager for Public Services at the Center for Jewish History.

Program registrants will receive a code for 20% off the cost of the book.

Tickets: Pay what you wish; register at for a Zoom link

Presented by Center for Jewish History


It’s now live! And I actually sound like I know what I’m talking about! 😁

Please check it out:


Hosted by Janet Elizabeth Lynn and Will Zeilinger

YouTube 30-minute program.

Today we are chatting with Rabbi Ilene Schneider. She talked about the pitfalls and advantages of writing an ongoing series, cozy mysteries, and character development.

Go to:


About two weeks ago, I wrote a blog entry about the difference between identifying and recognizing both birds and people, thoughts inspired by my ruminations at Starbucks about baristas, one of whom I would know with or without his mask, and the other of whom I doubted I’d recognize. I ended the post by saying, “I really hope if I ever bump into Jess without her mask, I’ll know her from her smiling eyes.”

Today, at the Evesham Township, NJ, Cultural Day festival, my hopes were not met. No, I did not recognize nor identify Jess, until she introduced herself to me.

In my defense, she wasn’t wearing her Starbucks baseball cap, which covered both the tops of her heart shaped glasses (I thought the frames were rimless ovals) and her purple-tinted hair that was pulled back into a ponytail when she was working.

But, yes, her smile, framed by a well-proportioned chin and displaying nice teeth, was a perfectly matched accompaniment to her smiling eyes.

My mind works in strange ways. I make connections that are obvious to me, but not to others. So please bear with me as I describe how I made the leap from bird identification to people identification to Starbucks baristas to masks and human facial recognition.

Among birders, there’s a difference between identifying a bird and recognizing one. When identifying a bird, we gather GISS – a general impression of size and shape – plus other field marks such as plumage, habitat, time of year. We then compare these characteristics to those of other birds, whether through memory or an illustrated bird guide. Sometimes we make an educated guess. Sometimes, we find a positive match. Sometimes, we give up and decide it’s a little brown birdie or a generic hawk (species).

When we recognize a bird, we don’t need to go through those mental gymnastics. We look at a familiar bird and think, “Blue Jay” or “American Robin,” and can tell at a glance that we’re looking at a Red-bellied Woodpecker, not a Red-headed one.

We do the same when we see people. Sometimes we have to make polite inconsequential chit chat while we desperately try to put a name to a familiar looking face; other times, we immediately know who the person is.

About a year ago, a new Starbucks opened not far from my house – not that there aren’t other nearby ones, too, but this one is closer and easier to reach (less frequent traffic jams to endure). There’s a young, new barista there, Jess, who greets me by name and knows my regular orders (either a mocha mint frappuccino – before they ran out of mint and couldn’t get more delivered, when I switched to mocha – or a mango dragonfruit lemonade). A few months later, another barista, Matt, was transferred from a different nearby branch, which I frequented pre-Covid. I immediately recognized Matt from there.

Both baristas wear masks. Despite their having half their faces obscured, I recognize both of them and don’t confuse them with the other baristas. But one day I realized that even though I would be able to recognize Matt if he weren’t wearing a mask, since I first met him before mask regulations were in effect, I would not recognize Jess. Maybe she has crooked teeth or perfectly aligned ones. Maybe she has a receding chin or a pointy one or a round double one. Maybe she has dimples. I have no idea.

I have had no problem recognizing masked people when I bump into them in a store or see them at the synagogue. I may do some quick identification data gathering first – most likely GISS – but except for a few grey-haired balding men, I haven’t been puzzled by who someone is.

And my conclusion: I understand now how facial recognition software works, even if I’m looking at my phone screen while I’m smiling or frowning or eating or turned slightly to the side. It, too, is relying on GISS, but more so, on the eyes. The old saying about the eyes being the windows of the soul is true. It is through the eyes we recognize people and how we can tell their mood, even when they wear masks.

I really hope if I ever bump into Jess without her mask, I’ll know her from her smiling eyes.



The Baader–Meinhof effect, aka “frequency illusion,” is the name for the phenomenon in which you hear about something for the first time ever or the first time in a long while and suddenly the term seems to pop up everywhere you look. What has happened is that your brain is more aware of the specific subject and so you pay more attention to mentions of it.

According to Wikipedia (and dozens of other sources, but it’s the discusson that showed up first on Google and is the most succinct and non-jargon laden), “the name ‘Baader–Meinhof phenomenon’ was derived from a particular instance of frequency illusion in which the Baader–Meinhof Group was mentioned. In this instance, it was noticed by a man named Terry Mullen, who in 1994 wrote a letter to a newspaper column in which he mentioned that he had first heard of the Baader–Meinhof Group, and shortly thereafter coincidentally came across the term from another source. After the story was published, various readers submitted letters detailing their own experiences of similar events, and the name ‘Baader–Meinhof phenomenon’ was coined as a result.

Note: “coincidentally came across the term from another source.” It happens all the time. It just happened to me the other day.

First, to understand how gobsmacked (great Britishism) I was, some background on my Work-in-Progress, Killah Megillah (and my continuing appreciation to Ellen Byron for coming up with the title). At the beginning of the book, my protagonist, Rabbi Aviva Cohen, receives a call from the overseer of a demolition project. In order to make room for more mini-mansions in a fairly rural area, they are taking down an abandoned building that decades earlier had been a synagogue. He was informed there was a trunk full of old, worn out Jewish books in the attic that needed to be removed and buried in a Jewish cemetery. Could Aviva stop by and authenticate the findings? While doing so, she finds a bag full of human bones in the trunk and the plot takes off from there. The trunk and books are the MacGuffin that sets the events in motion.

The synagogue building is situated on a fictional street called Walford-Southampton Road in a neighborhood once known decades earlier as “Jew Town,” but it is based on a real building on Hartford Road, in Mount Laurel, NJ, only a few miles from my house, in an area that decades ago was known as … Jew Town. It was a summer enclave for Jews from Philadelphia to get away from the heat.

I am taking a lot of liberties with my descriptions and history, but want to be as authentic as I can. So I’ve done a lot of research, found some information, but most of it scanty. Be patient – Baader-Meinhof is about to take effect (so to speak).

Last week, I paid a visit to one of my favorite sources for herb plants and native perennials, the Springville Herbary ( on Hartford Road close to the old synagogue building, razed a few years ago for, yup, mini-mansions. I was chatting with Andy, a former farmer and Gloria’s husband, when, knowing I’m a rabbi, he said, “Did you know this area (long called Springville) used to be called ‘Jew Town’?” I assured him I did. “And,” he continued, “did you know that our land here was once a Jewish summer day camp?” No, I didn’t. I knew about the bungalows that had lined Hartford Road, most of which are gone, I knew that there had been a small number of Jews who lived in the area year ‘round, but that was all I knew.

Baader-Meinhof. I had been researching, writing, weaving history with fiction, and suddenly, out of nowhere, serendipitously, the topic not only came up in casual conversation, but added a slew of new information and sources for me to check out. Unfortunately, the camp director’s grandchildren had contacted Gloria to find out what she knew, as they don’t know anything about the camp, so they’re a dead end. But Gloria has a brochure from the camp and will send me a copy.

So what does this all have to do with writing? One of the most frequent negative comments made about mystery novels is “too many coincidences,” or “the author relies on coincidence to find out information.” I recently read a book by a well-regarded mystery writer in which the police detective’s best friend told him the killer confessed all to him in a drunken state before committing suicide. If it hadn’t been on Kindle, I might have thrown the book across the room.

But sometimes, coincidences are needed. And, in small communities, where many cozy mysteries take place, they are often unavoidable. I try to limit my use of them or at least make them seem like logical extensions of other events, but … it’s hard.

As I’ve learned in the past week, though, they do exist. Now I have to figure out how Aviva can learn the information without its seeming like a farfetched coincidence. To be honest, I’m having trouble accepting it, and it happened to me.

I stared at my still mostly blank monitor, the “Notes for Purim Talk” header still mocking me. I finally started to add a series of bullet points, beginning with the question of how many in attendance had read Megillat Esther and what they remembered of the story of Esther and Mordecai and Haman and Ahasuerus. I would then ask for a volunteer to recount the story, after which I would correct any misperceptions. If it were a Jewish audience, I’d ask them to find the passage saying that Vashti, the king’s disobedient and defiant queen and chief wife, was beheaded. But I wasn’t sure if a group of Christian clergy, who had probably read the story way back in their seminary days, had heard that bubbe meiseh, a cautionary tale for nice Jewish wives to obey their husbands or else. Athough, I would point out, in those days, a member of the king’s harem who was banished may as well have been sentenced to death, as she would become a non-person with no privileges or allies.

After my feminist screed, I would ask why a book that never mentions the name of God would become part of the canon, which would lead into a description of the popularity of Marduk and Ishtar and spring holidays celebrating rebirth, while skirting parallels with Easter, which falls only a month later.

Okay, this should be fun. I love tiptoeing through theological mine fields.

I added reminders to discuss Purim shpiels, satirical and irreverent skits; the commandment to become so drunk as not to know the difference between “Blessed be Mordecai” and “Cursed be Haman;” and the irony of blotting out Haman’s name by reciting it. I figured I had enough to wing it, and closed down my laptop after sending the document to the printer. I hoisted myself off the couch and went out to Liz’s office to make sure the printer had worked. It had. She was looking over my notes and frowning. “Are you sure about all of this?” she asked. “Do you think they’ll be ready to hear about how Mordecai pimped out his niece or cousin or whatever relationship Esther was to him? Or that the vindictive Jews rioted and despoiled their neighbors’ homes? Hanged Haman’s sons? How unholy a book of the Holy Bible Esther is?” She softened her criticism with a grin and a wink. “I wish I could be there.”


This year is the 80th anniversary of the movie The Maltese Falcon. Pre-pandemic I would be immersed in the machinations of Bogie et al. while I was sitting in a comfy recliner, in the center of the 4th row, huge tub of overpriced buttered popcorn on my lap, a cup of overpriced soda in the cup holder, a smuggled in candy in my pocket.

But not this year.

The nature of movie going has changed this past year. It thrived as an escape from the Great Depression, from wars, from heat waves (there were air-cooled theaters before home a/c). It was only way to see a spectacle before huge TV screens. It was a temporary reprieve from heartbreak and/or loneliness, with the darkness giving a sense of both privacy and community. Movie theaters survived threats of demise even after Saturday Night at the Movies came to our TV screens, dedicated movie channels flooded the cable services, online streaming services offered films 24/7 at our own convenience.

But no longer.

Theaters in my area are open. Tickets are available to see the 80th anniversary airing of The Maltese Falcon. But I’m not ready to return. I’ll watch the movie – complete with recliner and popcorn and soda and candy – on DVD or computer from the house.

I’ll enjoy the movie as much as always, but it won’t be the same.

As the years go by, I’m becoming more insulted and annoyed by jokes assuming anyone over the age of 50 must be computer illiterate. I’m a couple of decades older than that now, and we got our 1st home computer, an Apple //c with no hard drive (saved files directly into 5.25” floppies), about 37 years ago. I was active online beginning about 34 years ago – anyone recall Compuserve when they charged 10¢/minute? I played Infocom’s Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy with no graphics. I even had a RadioShack TR 80 model 100 laptop that I took to the library – no online databases or Google yet – so I could type notes and bibliographic info for my doctoral dissertation research onto it and transfer the data to my Apple //c via 2 phone lines. And I have kept up with new devices and operating systems. Okay, I may not be able to program a computer or really understand the technical details of how they work, but I can use the technology. Oh, and my 1st intro to computers was in the mid ‘60s (decade, not age) when my father hired me for the summer and taught me keypunching to update the inventory for the picture frame manufacturer he worked for. There were 3 huge machines – keypuncher, sorter, and printer – in a separate climate controlled room.