by Bodie Thoene
Herschel stared at the weapons. He shivered, suddenly aware of the cold. He wanted to go somewhere—maybe to dance with pretty girls at the community center as he had done before. Life had not been so bad. But it was cold now, and he did not have a coat. He walked back along the path to the rooming house where Hans had helped him hide from the immigration people and anyone else who might want to catch him.
Hans was waiting for him in the attic. He was reading the old copies of the newspaper and shaking his head when Herschel returned.
***
Snow dusted the slate roofs of Warsaw. Wrapped in heavy wool coats and leggings, the Lubetkin family trudged toward the Umschlagplatz, where the great locomotives hissed and shuddered beneath the roofs of the train sheds.
Etta held the baby close against her. The boys’ cheeks were red with cold. From behind her muffler, Rachel’s breath rose in a steamy vapor as she followed her papa to where Dr. Eduard Letzno waited beside his trunks on the platform.
Aaron raised a mittened hand in greeting. Rachel watched her father’s sad eyes as he beheld his friend for possibly the last time.
The two men embraced, clapping each other on the back in a manly, tearless sort of grief.
Good-bye! Was there ever a more difficult word to say? Here in the Warsaw Umschlagplatz, where thousands of good-byes were uttered and millions more were yet to be said, Rachel pitied her father this loss of a true friend. She saw pain in his eyes as Eduard Letzno climbed the steps into his compartment.
“Jerusalem!” Aaron whispered the name like a Shabbat blessing, and Etta thrust a paper-wrapped package into Eduard’s hands as the train whistle shrieked and baby Yacov awakened with a startled wail.
“For my father, Eduard!” Etta called through a cupped hand over the din. “Embrace him for us when you see him!”
Eduard held up the package, smiled and nodded in reply. Yes, he would personally deliver the package to Grandfather. He would embrace the old man for them. Jerusalem! he mouthed.
And then as the train chugged and lurched ahead slightly, Eduard Letzno looked over the heads of those who loved him in Warsaw. Those sad, gentle eyes held a moment of recognition, an instant of fear at what he saw.
The train pulled away. He looked at Aaron and then out beyond them. He called something to Aaron, but his words were lost beneath the whistle. He pointed. Aaron looked back, but he saw nothing but masses of people waving and calling out their own sad farewells.
Eduard shouted again! Aaron raised a hand in helplessness. He had not heard. He did not understand.
A minute later the train clacked out of sight, and the crowds of the Umschlagplatz diminished to be replaced by others.
***
“Two out of three is not so bad,” Rabbi Lebowitz said, defending himself against the scowls of the old women in Tipat Chalev soup kitchen.
“What are we to do with them! Oy gevalt!” Hannah Cohen pointed an accusing finger to the tables where two dozen Torah schoolboys labored without success over walnuts that were harder than Jerusalem stones!
Hammers raised and crashed down, sending still-intact nuts spinning off dangerously across the room. The wood of tables dented with the blows. When one lucky blow fell hard enough to crack the shell, then the meat of the nut was also smashed into a mere worthless mess.
“Bags of them!” moaned Shoshanna. “Bags and bags and bags!”
“Nothing but schlock merchandise!” another woman muttered from inside the kitchen.
“We might have gotten sugar if we had held out,” Hannah Cohen said woefully.
This last accusation cut too deeply for the rabbi. As head of the Center for Charitable Distribution of Food, he had done his best. How could he know these English walnuts were of better use as weapons!
A hammer smashed down! A nut squirted out from beneath the steel and hurled toward the disapproving cooks! They squealed and scattered and the nut struck the rabbi on his cheek.
“The final blow,” he muttered as the hammer-wielding worker cried out in shame.
“I did not mean to do it, Rabbi Lebowitz! It . . . it was an accident!”
Now all hammers fell silent. Eyes turned in fearful astonishment at the sight of the great Rabbi holding his bruised cheek. The offending walnut ricocheted and tumbled down the basement stairs.
Rabbi Lebowitz opened his mouth. Calmly. Gently. These walnuts were fashioned and tempered like steel, but the old rabbi would not curse them. Not out loud, anyway.
“Put away your hammers, my little stonecutters. If the Eternal, blessed be His name forever, wishes for these nuts to nourish us here at Tipat Chalev, then He will have to send us an instrument to crack them for us. True? Of course, true!” Then he turned to Hannah and Shoshanna and said regally, “Still we have milk and cocoa. Two out of three is not such a bad bargain!”
***
“And this . . . ,” Shimon said with a flourish, “will be my finest performance of The Nutcracker Suite!”
Before the delighted eyes of a dozen children, Shimon placed a row of walnuts on the wooden table of the mess hall, then raised his cast-encased arm and smashed it down on them.
No one spoke as he smiled slyly and raised his arm to reveal that the nuts had been split perfectly! Shells lay in pieces, while the meat remained intact!
“A-h-h-h-h!” the children proclaimed in chorus. Then, “I told you he could do it!”
“You did not!”
“Yes, I did! Now will you believe me?”
While they argued over his miraculous performance, Shimon handed out the nuts to his audience and emptied his pocket of yet another twelve English walnuts. He lined them up perfectly on the table of Tipat Chalev as the shelled nuts were crammed into watering mouths and eyes turned to watch the plaster cast rise and fall with the precision only a percussionist from Vienna could master.
The crack of nuts brought resounding applause from the Old City children. More o-h-h-hs, and a few oys of amazement echoed from the vaulted ceiling, bringing Leah and the cooks of Tipat Chalev from the kitchen.
“You should see what he can do!” a ten-year-old boy proclaimed to Hannah Cohen.
Proudly Shimon handed out the shelled nuts to the children. He glanced at Leah and winked. Rabbi Lebowitz appeared behind the women and peered over their shoulders as Shimon laid out another row along the crack in the table.
Again the large plaster cast raised up. Two little girls held hands over their ears in anticipation of the loud smash that followed.
Miraculous! Amazing! Cleanly shelled nuts on the table! This giant man from Austria had come to the Old City soup kitchen just in time to relieve the disgrace of the old rabbi’s British Army walnuts!
The old man raised his eyes to the heavens and thanked the Eternal! He nudged the disapproving Hannah on his right and the scowling Shoshanna on his left.
The two women exchanged astonished glances. “This fellow is better than a hammer!” cried Hannah.
Rabbi Lebowitz stuck out his lower lip in proud victory. “Did I not tell you?” he chided the women. “The Eternal has provided His own device for shelling these stones! Ha!” He raised his gnarled hands up in gratitude.
“More! More! More!” the children begged.
Shimon shrugged apologetically. “All gone, I’m afraid!”
Rabbi Lebowitz pushed his way through the kitchen crew. “Nu! We have plenty more where those come from, Shimon Feldstein! You are sent from God! It is an angel who brought you here!”
At that, the old rabbi rushed forward and took Shimon by the plaster cast. He led the towering giant toward the steps of the basement. Throwing back the wooden door, he snatched up a lantern and stepped onto the narrow landing. Shimon followed, ducking his head beneath the low doorframe.
“There! You see!” crowed the rabbi, gesturing toward dozens of gunny sacks marked H.M. WALNUTS. JERUSALEM. Now the rabbi said very loudly, “These I traded with the British Army quartermaster for some boxes of useless American powder called Jell-O.” He
smiled and patted Shimon’s cast. “You may henceforth consider yourself employed, Shimon. From kettledrum to soup kettle, nu? Official Tipat Chalev nutcracker.”
***
The rattling furnace inside the offices of the British Mandate had not managed to keep up with the fierceness of the renewed cold today.
Strands of damp mist-covered hair clung to Victoria’s neck as she paid her fare and boarded the bus in front of the King David Hotel. Every window of the bus was shut tight, and yet the freezing air of the afternoon seeped into the compartment as the bus lurched forward along King George Avenue toward Jaffa Road.
“Tomorrow will be colder yet,” an old woman moaned knowingly. “You would think I would be used to it after seventy-nine years.” Her mouth split in a toothless grin as Victoria swung into the empty seat beside her.
“I will never be used to it.” Victoria blew steamy breath and brushed drops of mist from her forehead. “And tomorrow the Englishmen insist that all the women in the secretarial pool wear their best English suits . . . short Western skirts!”
The old woman tapped her temple. “They shall kill our women, these English and their short skirts.”
“Tomorrow there are important gentlemen coming from London to tour the offices,” Victoria offered. “And so we must dress up like proper English secretaries in London. Even though it will be so cold.”
Now a young Arab merchant leaned forward. He spoke to the old woman, lest he offend the young woman by speaking directly to her. “Tomorrow will be hot enough. Those Englishmen are in for a big surprise, I hear, and if I were an Arab secretary I might find a reason to stay home tomorrow.”
Victoria turned around and frowned at the young man. Such staring was not proper, but she could not help it. Was there to be yet another demonstration? Another show of Arab hostility against the English and the Jews?
She glared at him as if it were somehow his doing. He spread his hands in innocence and then looked quickly out the window to where the great citadel and the wall of Jerusalem loomed ahead. He had possibly said too much. And yet did everyone not expect what was to come?
The brakes of the aged bus squealed in protest at Jaffa Gate. It was still several blocks through the Old City to her home. How very different life was here in the Old City than it was where she worked for the British government. In her office it was impolite not to look straight into the eyes of the Englishmen. How very different! She sighed and turned her eyes downward in modesty as she passed through the gate and into Omar Square.
To her right she could plainly see the spire of Christ Church where she would once again meet with Eli. She stopped and let herself imagine him walking up the Armenian Patriarchate Road to meet her. He will smile. He will touch my face. He will say how desperate the hours have been without me . . . And I will say . . .
At that moment, her reverie was interrupted by the voice of her youngest brother as he called her name across the Square. Her smile faded. Weariness filled her eyes as she spotted not just Ismael but Daud and Isaak with him. These three were half brothers to her and Ibrahim, and the sight of them was never a cause for rejoicing in Victoria.
Short and dark like their mother, they lacked the fine-chiseled features of Ibrahim. Spoiled by their father and mother alike, they did not work in the family rug business but spent their time in the souks and coffeehouses, where they had caught the spirit of rebellion that grew in such places.
“Salaam, Isaak,” she said flatly as he took her by the arm.
“You are late,” Ismael said. “We came looking for you.”
“Worried,” agreed Daud, who was the least intelligent and least offensive of the three.
“You need not have worried. The bus is usually late.” She shrugged off the hand of Isaak and began walking home as if they had not come for her.
Now began the probing questions. “The English politicians are coming to the King David Hotel again tomorrow.” This was a statement of fact.
“What time are they to arrive?”
Victoria laughed. “How should I know who is coming? Or when they will arrive?”
“Everyone in Jerusalem knows they are coming back from Galilee tomorrow.”
She looked hard at Daud. He was the only one she could intimidate with a look. “Well, I do not know of it!” she snapped.
Daud looked confused. Could they have the date wrong? His questioning look was nudged away by Isaak.
“You must sleep all day at your job for the English, Victoria. You never know anything.”
She did not reply but pushed her way through the crowds of late shoppers in the souks. I know enough to have you arrested if you were not the sons of my father, she thought angrily.
“You can tell us,” Daud tried again clumsily. “We are your brothers, after all.”
Victoria turned on him. The look on her face made him put up his arms in case she would strike him. “Ibrahim is my brother!” she hissed. “That is all I can be certain of since I see no resemblance to my father in any of you.”
Isaak took her roughly by the arm. “You . . . ,” he threatened.
She let her voice drop as shoppers in the souk stopped their bargaining to stare at the confrontation. “Take your hand from me . . . unless you wish to deal with my brother.”
Grudgingly Isaak released his grip. She glowered at him another moment, then spun around to walk the remaining distance through the vaulted souks to her home, alone.
***
When she entered the house, Victoria did not answer the shrill voice of her stepmother.
Another cry, “Change your clothes and come fix dinner for your brothers! I have a headache tonight!”
Now Victoria called back over her shoulder, “I have a headache also! They will have to fix their own meal!” At that, she slammed the door of her bedroom and then stood panting in the center of the room. She expected her stepmother to pound at the door and then beat her, but the only sound she heard was the ticking of the clock on the night table behind her and then the slamming of the front door as the three brothers arrived home.
***
Theo refused to allow Elisa to accompany him to Heathrow airport with Anna. “You know how I feel about good-byes,” he remarked lightly. “Take care of my grandbaby, now promise me.”
Elisa nodded. Her father’s eyes were radiant and happier than she had seen in some time. He told her he was going away on business. The nature of the business was not discussed, but Elisa knew her father well enough that his business had something to do with the refugee questions. She did not ask. His unspoken calling gave her peace. Not everyone in the world was silent, after all. While great governments made proclamations and held meetings about the refugees, Elisa knew Theo was doing something!
So it was that Theo kissed her good-bye on the sidewalk in front of the Red Lion house. He hugged Charles and Louis and told them that he had left a birthday gift for them with Anna in case he could not get back to London in time. At these quiet words, Elisa thought she saw an instant of pain on her mother’s face. Perhaps not.
Anna kissed her and promised to be back in time for a nice lunch at Claridge’s Hotel with Sir Thomas Beecham and Frieda Hillman.
“Bring the notes about the next charity concert,” Anna reminded her. “We are going to stage it right in the Claridge’s ballroom, Theo,” she said proudly. “The management is donating the place for the night.”
Theo shook his head in amazement. “From Claridge’s to a soup kitchen in Prague and a refugee camp in Poland! Only you, Anna!”
The banter seemed almost too superficial. They had talked about this, after all, this morning over breakfast. For a moment Elisa wondered if the record was playing over again to avoid other things being said. But what things?
Freddie Frutschy glanced at his watch and then at the threatening sky. “If we don’t hurry, sir, you’ll not be going anywheres from the looks of the weather.” He opened the car door and stepped back as Theo cast one last look at Elisa. Again she t
hought she saw something in his eyes. Sorrow, hope, love seemed thinly veiled beneath light chatter about an already much discussed event.
Could she ask him in these final moments if there was something more he was not saying? How long would this good-bye be? Suddenly Elisa felt like a small child being left behind on her first day of school. Freddie started the car. Theo raised his hand to her behind the glass of the window.
She stepped forward and put her hand against his through the glass. “I love you, Father!” she called.
He mouthed the words back, God bless you! And then Freddie pulled away from the curb.
***
Ibrahim knocked softly on Victoria’s bedroom door. She did not answer, so he knocked again and turned the latch, nudging the door open slightly.
He had expected to find her in the room, but instead she sat on the balcony where the last rays of sunlight had made the western sky a tapestry of bright colors like the fabrics in the souk.
At the sound of the groaning hinges, Victoria turned to look at him. Her dark eyes smoldered with anger. She put her finger to her lips to silence him as she stood, reentered her room, and closed the door to the balcony behind her.
“Have you come to warn me?” she asked coldly.
Ibrahim simply blinked at her in amazement. Indeed, he had come to warn her about the demonstrations tomorrow, but how did she know? “Where did you hear?”
“On the bus.”
“The bus!” he exclaimed. That meant that everyone in Jerusalem was aware.
“And—” she gestured back toward the balcony—“our brothers are talking. There. Down in the courtyard where every little bird may carry its voice to the ears of the English.”
“The English will know soon enough.”
“If they know my brothers are involved, then they will dismiss me from my job at the Mandate administration. They will think I am a spy.” Her eyes glistened with tears as she sank onto the bed.