Blood Moon Redemption

by Judy DuCharme

  Tassie recognized the European accent but could not decipher the specific country. She knew it was not Middle Eastern. “Are you Eastern European?”

  The woman smiled and extended her hand. With her other hand she brushed a stray gray hair back behind her ear. “Yes, I am, my dear. And you? American?”

  “Oh yes.” Tassie plopped down in a wrought iron chair next to a glass topped table. She put her chin down and looked at the woman over the top of her sunglasses. “You wouldn’t have a coke, would you?”

  “But, of course. Americans always ask, so I always have. But come, you must have my pastry. Czech pastry is best and Czech beer is better.” The woman put her hands on her hips, twisted slightly and tilted her head. “So, after your coke and pastry, we have a beer and talk.”

  Tassie laughed. “So, you are Czechoslovakian?”

  The woman sighed. Her short chestnut hair framed her face giving her a young look. But the wrinkles on her neck and sleeveless arms revealed that she had seen many years. “We will talk with a beer.” She turned and entered the small quaint building that boasted several signs in different languages. In English it said Best Bakery Ever.

  The woman returned, setting an old-fashioned bottle of coke on the table with a glass of ice and a plate of kolaches, some with plum in the center, and some with poppy seed.

  “Oh my, thank you so much.” Tassie almost guzzled the coke and she failed in her attempt to not let any run down her face. Dabbing her face with a napkin she gulped a kolache in two bites. When she looked up, the woman was smiling broadly.

  “If you burp, that will be a compliment.”

  “Oh, that would be so embarrassing.”

  “Not to the baker. It is a sign that you appreciate the food.”

  “Oh, I do. It’s wonderful.”

  “My name is Yitka.”

  “This is so good, Yitka. My name is Tassie.”

  Yitka went back inside and returned with two bottles of beer, and a plate of Czech dumplings. “This has a little meat in the dumpling. You look a little thin. Don’t want you to get drunk on my beer. So, eat. This is my treat for you.”

  Tassie tilted her head and gazed at Yitka. Whatever does she see that she wants to sit and talk? Perhaps she needs to talk. Does she think I need to talk? I need to escape. Why am I not telling her I need help or at least a phone?

  “So now, beer is best. My treat. Besides, I need a break. I will tell you why I am not Czechoslovakian. One is either Czech or Slovak. Two different countries, because of Neville Chamberlain. He appeased Hitler. He did not stand firm. He made concessions, and Hitler came in and destroyed and divided the country. We are now one or the other. So, I am Czech.”

  Tassie bit her lip, then took another sip of beer. “I did not mean to offend.”

  “You did not offend. I like to explain. Americans used to understand. Now, your country, your administration, wants to appease. It doesn’t work. My friend inside is from Ukraine. She would like to know why the U.S. lied to Ukraine. They gave up their nuclear facilities and signed a treaty with U.S. Your country promised to protect them from attack. Now they do nothing. They appease, and Ukraine suffers.” Yitka threw up her hands in resignation. “How do you like the beer?”

  “It’s good.” Tassie held it up, and Yitka tapped her bottle against Tassie’s.

  Yitka held up her hand. “To America. May they take a stand and help us all.”

  Tassie nodded. “You feel strongly about this, Yitka.”

  “Growing up, we lived in Lidice, just northwest of Prague, when World War Two began. Most of the men were massacred. The women and children were sent to concentration camps and were gassed. My parents saw it coming and got us out just before it happened. They talked our Jewish neighbors into leaving with us, but we were stopped at the border. Their children were blond like my mother, so the guards believed that they were my siblings. Their parents, though, were detained.

  “The children began to cry as we crossed the border and their mother broke away as she was being led away and ran for her children, trying to get past the border. The husband ran after her to stop her. He knew it was hopeless for he and his wife but knew the children would survive with us. The Nazi guards shot her. The children saw it and began to scream. Their father threw his body over his wife and was also shot. In the confusion we ran. The guards perhaps realized their mistake in assuming the children belonged to our family and ordered us to halt. We did not, and they shot at us.

  “I don’t know how we managed to get away unscathed, but we did, at least physically. The children saw their parents shot. The son was brave and stoic, but the little girl withdrew. It was a month before she talked again.

  “We traveled to Holland and were hidden along the way. Our family was marked because we harbored Jews, so we changed our name and were given false passports in Holland in order to travel to the States. We weren’t Jewish, except for the two children that we claimed as our own, so travel to the United States was not too difficult.

  “When we became teens, the boy and I fell in love and married. He was nineteen and I was just eighteen. We knew no one would ever understand either of us like we did each other.”

  Tassie had become engrossed in Yitka’s story, placing her elbows on the table and holding the beer bottle with both hands. She occasionally took a sip as she listened.

  “Right before we crossed that border as children, and my parents and my husband’s parents were separated, I heard his mom tell my mother to never let him lose his coat. ‘Promise,’ she said. ‘Never, ever, lose his coat. Keep it always.’ At the time we thought she meant for it to keep him warm. We would be outside a great deal, and parents naturally worried about their children. I later realized my mother believed it would serve as a reminder of who he was, and the protecting love his parents had for him.

  “When we arrived in the States and finally had a home, my mother put the coat in a glass topped box and hung it in his bedroom on the wall, almost like a painting.

  “After we’d been married a few years and our first son was almost two, we planned to move to Israel and I decided it would be wonderful if our little boy wore his father’s coat. I took it out of the box and saw it needed repair. As I separated the lining to fix the pocket and an interior seam, an envelope fell out.

  “In it was a letter from the parents to my husband and his sister. It told of the story of Christopher Columbus.”

  Tassie’s beer bottle bounced off the table shattering on the brick patio.

  Yitka quickly grabbed a broom and dust pan while Tassie wiped up the spilled beer.

  “I had a feeling you needed to hear this story.”

  Tassie wrung out the cloth in a bucket Yitka brought outside from the bakery and gave the cobblestone patio a final wipe before dropping herself back into her chair and wiping her hands dry on a napkin. “Yitka, I am so sorry. I . . . I just . . . well . . . Go on with your story.”

  “Here, another beer for you. Either you don’t hold it well, or my story is connecting somewhere. I think the latter. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” Tassie mumbled. “Please, please, go on. Thank you. I’ll pay for this beer.” Wait. I don’t think I have any money. Where is Omar? Why am I just sitting here?

  “Did you know Christopher Columbus was part Jewish?”

  Tassie nodded her head. Her hands shook, so she held onto the bottle but did not try to pick it up.

  “Well the King and Queen did not. They financed his journey to the Americas with money stolen from wealthy Jews.” Yitka chuckled and took a sip of beer. “I do love the irony of it. I wish I could see the look on the Queen’s face when, in eternity, she found out that Columbus founded a new world where Jews could live free and prosper.” Yitka shook her head and beamed at Tassie. “But that is just the beginning. Wait, let me get some more dumplings. You like?”

  Tassie nodded.

  “Have you lost your voice? Well I have not given you much time to talk. I will be right back.”


  Tassie sighed. Next thing you know, Hector Woodley will walk around the corner. Or Omar. I should go or ask for a phone.

  Yitka returned with warm dumplings and marvelous bread. The aroma wafted around Tassie, and she wondered if she was just having an amazing dream. Surely, she would wake up soon.

  “Now, where was I? Oh yes, the letter about Columbus that I found in my husband’s little coat. The letter proceeded to explain that he, my husband, and his sister were direct descendants of Christopher Columbus.”

  Tassie stood up. She needed air. She couldn’t breathe. She put her hands on her chest and pushed. Yitka watched her.

  “It is warm. Shall I get you some water. Too much beer?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Tassie sat back down and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.

  After Tassie took a few sips of water, Yitka continued. “I am not Jewish, but I have learned to be a true storyteller like my husband.” She laid her hand on Tassie’s. “I know I am taking a long time. Forgive me.”

  Again, Tassie nodded.

  “The letter informed us that the son of Columbus’s cousin, Gabe Goldman, married the daughter of a Rabbi Liebermann. She, at the time of the dispersal from Spain, had kept the tassel of the Rabbi’s tallith, his prayer shawl. This became the only physical representation they had of their faith. It became their synagogue and they decided to preserve it by placing it in a glass jar, sealing it with wax, and passing it on for a symbol of God’s presence and blessing. It was kept with only descendants and was returned here to Israel in 1948 when Israel became a nation.”

  Tassie heard her mother’s voice and her own echoing the story in her head. Yitka’s voice blended with her mother’s voice and the inner voice of Tassel Lydia Stevens telling the story together.

  “In 1949 the tassel, the relic, was stolen. Then in 1967 during the Six Day War, it was recovered. There had been a total lunar eclipse on Passover, less than two months previous. The rabbis called it a Blood Moon, warning of great devastation followed by divine intervention. It seemed the whole world was against Israel, much like now. The greatest threat was the immediate neighbors.” Yitka’s smile was rueful. “We live in a rough neighborhood.”

  Yitka continued, and, as if in a dream, Tassie could hear the sounds and see the Six Day War with Yitka’s husband, Aaron. She felt transported back to 1967.

  1967, ISRAEL

  “Shimon, this is what we are called to do.” Aaron laid his hand on his friend’s arm.

  “I know, I know, I am ready to die for Israel, to die for you, Aaron. But I’m shaking. Those against us are so numerous.”

  Aaron slapped his back, “And there are more with us than with them. Remember the story of Elijah.”

  “I’m thinking David and Goliath.”

  “Either way, God, blessed be He, is with us. Now where is the enemy?”

  “Probably just over the hill. Check the map. Is Syria the hill or are we already there?”

  “This is the border, my friend. Guns ready. Other tanks behind us. God, can You make us invisible?”

  “Be careful what you pray. We don’t want to disappear.”

  “Right. Moshe and Ari are just to our left and a little back.”

  The cabin of the tank seemed tighter than ever. Sweat formed on Aaron’s forehead and dripped into his eyes. It stung. Wiping across his face with his shirt sleeve, almost as wet with perspiration, Aaron stared into his gun sights. He had no time to consider the moisture and the heat. Shimon could swivel and move that tank faster than anyone he’d ever seen.

  Just don’t choke on me, friend. If he stayed sharp, Aaron was sure they could dodge and defend well. The rest of the fleet hidden behind him had guns ready as well.

  The tank dipped and bumped up the rising ridge marking the line between Syria and Israel. Intelligence knew the biggest front could be right here. The entire Arab world had united against Israel, and now Aaron was part of the Israeli Defense Forces . . . his dream come true. He and Yitka, his wife, married as teens, moved to Israel three years previous, when their first child was two.

  Now as Yitka was about to give birth, Aaron was heading into the enemy’s camp. What was that children’s song he heard as a child new to America after escaping the Nazis? “I’m going into the enemy’s camp, to take back what he stole from me.” That’s what I’m doing. Should be over the ridge in less than a minute. May God, blessed be His name, help us all.

  All citizens served two years in the Israeli Army, regardless of gender or ethnic affiliation, and Aaron was determined to be able to serve the nation of his heritage. He thought it would be difficult, but the process went smoothly and now he was beginning his second year in the military.

  Shimon’s voice was calm. “Nearing the crest of the ridge. Guns ready?”

  “Ready.” Fear and courage swelled inside. It smelled like sweat.

  It took a few moments to process the scene before them as they came over that hill. Syrian tanks were in mass, gun heads pointed at them. As Aaron commenced to fire as many rounds as possible into the enemy before being decimated, he realized that dozens, perhaps hundreds of soldiers were running hands up away from them.

  “Shimon, am I dreaming?”

  “I am having the same dream.”

  “Moshe and Ari, are you seeing this, or are we dreaming?”

  “We see it. Is there air cover coming behind us?”

  Aaron swung around, noting all directions for anything that would make an entire army run. Nothing. At least nothing that he could see. Then he saw movement to the side.

  “Driver, stop.” Aaron aimed the guns at the lee side of a nearby tank. Two Syrian soldiers waved their hands and fell to their knees. Aaron glanced around. The soldiers’ guns had been left behind them. A trick? What is this?

  “Surrender. We surrender.”

  “Shimon, go tie their hands. I will keep the guns on them. Moshe, Ari, you see?”

  “We’re watching. Unbelievable.”

  Shimon scrambled out of the tank and tied the soldiers’ hands. “Why are you surrendering?”

  The two looked at each other. “You did not see?”

  “See what?”

  “Father Abraham. He rose over that ridge five minutes before you did. And with him an army of angels.”

  The second captive looked around. “We are warriors, soldiers, but we cannot withstand the heavens. You did not see it? Were they not with you?”

  Aaron smiled. “Yes, those with us are more than those with you.”

  The tank radio bristled. “Aaron, Shimon, what is happening? We are ready with gun support. Are you meeting resistance? Are you still there?”

  “We have taken two prisoners. The rest have run. There may be a few snipers left behind. Assist us in a sweep. And our tank arsenal has just grown. We need drivers more than gunners.”

  As the rest of the arsenal came over the hill, cheers went up. Many of them asked the captured soldiers again and again to describe Father Abraham and the angels. Soldiers cheered, a few sat stunned, and some cried. It took a few hours to sweep all the tanks to make sure no one was left behind and to move them all inside Israeli borders. It was a grand spoil.

  The next day the news arrived that Jerusalem had been liberated. At this news, every soldier in Aaron’s battalion fell to their knees, raised their hands, and prayed, “Blessed are you, oh King of the Universe . . . ” They arose with a great cheer and danced.

  Shimon shook Aaron’s shoulders. “It is like a dream. Can you believe it?”

  “I must go to the Temple Mount, to the Wall, as soon as we return.”

  “I will go as well. I must meet my father there. He was in the war in 1948. He was hit in the head by mortar. The surgery lasted all day removing bones and parts of his brain. His only prayer was that Jerusalem be liberated. When it was not, he wondered why he lived, why he was hit in the head, what he fought for, but he continued to pray. And now . . . now, Aaron . . . my father’s prayers are answered. I cannot wait to see
him.”

  Three days later, Aaron, Yitka, their five-year-old son and their newborn son, named Abraham, stood before the Wailing Wall and wept. Soon, Shimon and his father joined them, and they wrapped their arms around one another and prayed.

  “Aaron, tell me what you saw, what you heard. Shimon has relayed the story to me, but I must hear it again from another voice.”

  Aaron laughed and clapped Shimon’s father on the shoulder. He retold of the day in great detail and then introduced baby Abraham as the namesake of the battle that was not a battle.

  A young boy ran up to Aaron. “Please, please, sir, I hear your story. You know the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. I fear Him but do not know Him, but I know that you should have this.” From a pocket in his jacket, the boy presented Aaron a small bottle with a tassel from a prayer shawl in it. “My uncle, when he was a boy my age found this hidden in a cave not far from here. They say it is very old. That if you have it, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob will bless and protect you. I know that will only happen if you are a Jew. It did not help us in this short war. There are too many stories like you just told. Please, you should have it, for you are the blessed.” The boy turned and ran away.

  “May I?” Shimon’s father reached out for the bottle. His eyes were big, and his breathing came in short breaths.

  “Sir, are you ill?” Aaron gripped the arm of the elder man and looked him in the eyes. But the man’s eyes were on the bottle. “What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or gold.” Aaron studied the bottle. “What is it?” He handed it to the older man.

  Shimon’s father held it gently and ran his fingers over the smooth glass, around the rounded corners, and over the wax that covered the top opening. He held it up and stared at the tassel inside. “Blessed are you, King of the Universe . . . ” He recited the rest of the shema prayer as Aaron, Yitka, and Shimon bowed their heads and said it quietly with him.

  The man looked up. Tears ran down his face. “There is another prayer I have prayed for many years. I have told few people. Shimon, you may remember it. I had friends who had come from the Americas. They married and opened their home to any and all, especially refugees just coming out of the holocaust. Such a kind couple. We shared wonderful food, prayed for the settling of the land and prosperity of Eretz-Israel, and had such joy as young adults with God’s blessing. I had recovered from my injuries. My wife, young Shimon, his sisters, and I would visit at their house weekly. The best part was they brought with them from the Americas the relic that was as old as the famous ocean journey of Christopher Columbus.