Raven 1

by D M Barrett

  “I know the old adage about the inescapability of death and taxes but what about Mr. Weitz?” the preacher inquired a second time.

  “I can’t be 100% sure, but I’d bet an arm and a leg that he’s suffering from end-stage pancreatic adenocarcinoma,” the doctor opined.

  “In plain language, doc, please,” the preacher requested.

  “His skin has a yellow cast. He has both abdominal and back pain. He has lost considerable weight lately. He eats very little, by choice. He is constantly nauseated. In my medical opinion he is very close to death,” the physician explained.

  “How much time does he have?” the preacher inquired sympathetically.

  “Pancreatic cancer symptoms don’t appear until a very advanced stage. According to the history he gave me, he’s had these symptoms for almost a year. I think he’s clinging to life by sheer force of will,” Dr. Whitman explained.

  “Where’s he from? Where’s he going? What needs to be done with his grandchildren?” the preacher asked in rapid succession.

  “Preacher, that’s your department. Mine is confined to treating injury and disease as much as medical science permits,” Dr. Whitman suggested.

  “What are we going to do?” the stunned preached asked.

  “I’ve done all that can be done for this man. I recommend that you work with him on all the familial issues and end of life arrangements. I’ve got patients waiting at my office that I can help,” the doctor said in a rather sharp but professional tone.

  The preacher made, what seemed to him to be, a long, almost endless trek up the stairs to Mr. Weitz’s room. When he got there, the elderly gentleman was reclining on a divan with the children seated nearby.

  “Preacher, have you recently heard of The Night Of Broken Glass or Kristallnacht?” the old man asked.

  “I heard from a radio broadcast by President Roosevelt that on the night of November 9th and the following day that the Nazi party brown shirts attacked Jewish owned businesses, burned synagogues, murdered almost 100 Jews, and took tens of thousands of Jewish men from 16-60 into custody for imprisonment in concentration camps,” the preacher replied.

  “The father of these children was in the group of men taken from our community. Their mother is still there but cannot obtain a visa to enter the United States. Although President Roosevelt seems sympathetic, he has not eased travel restrictions or immigration rules to accept displaced European Jews,” the old man explained.

  “How did you and the children escape and make it here?” the preacher asked.

  “I am not their real grandfather. I am a longtime German friend and neighbor. But I am not Jewish. When I retired, I sold my jewelry business to their parents. After Kristallnacht, the mother begged me to take them to the United States hoping that she would be able to rejoin with us later. I lied about their identity to get travel papers,” Mr. Weitz said.

  “Do they know about your health situation?” the preacher queried.

  “Yes, I have explained things to them. I told them that you would be helping to find them a place until their mother arrived – if she could get out of Germany,” Mr. Weitz said.

  The preacher looked at the two children. They nodded their heads in agreement to what had been said.

  “What do you expect from me?” the preacher inquired.

  “Keep them close to you. With the help of rabbis in the middle Tennessee area, find them lodging with a good Jewish foster family,” the elderly man requested.

  “Anything else?” the preacher asked.

  “Yes. Perform my funeral and bury me atop that mountain outside Ferguson.”

  “There’s a nice cemetery on that ridge. It’s called Jerusalem’s Ridge,” the preacher said pointing to the view outside the large glass window of the room.

  “As you wish,” Mr. Weitz said as a tear trickled down his cheek.

  The preacher said his temporary good-byes and slowly walked to the discount grocery. His thoughts about Mr. Weitz’s final journey caused him to recall some words from an old gospel song called, ‘Where I’m Bound.’ The most compelling part of the song seemed to be:

  “Can you hear it cross the valley?

  Can you hear that mournful sound?

  I’m riding rails of silver

  Going to where I’m bound.

  High above the fields of clover

  On a lazy, hot July,

  When I get to where I’m goin’

  I’ll hold my head up high.”

  The preacher walked into the discount grocery. It was unlike the other times he was there and joyfully met Jack Wright. He had a sad demeanor and a downtrodden look.

  Jack Wright spoke first, “Doctor Whitman stopped by for a soft drink and a sandwich on his way back to his office. He told me the situation you’re dealing with.”

  “The worst thing about all of this is that it didn’t have to be like this,” the preacher said with a break in his voice.

  “What are you saying, Tom?” Mr. Wright asked.

  “All of this is because of religious persecution: the destruction of property, the deaths, the displacement of a race of people, the separation of families, turning children into orphans and even the shortening of Mr. Weitz’s life,” the preacher said with disgust.

  “I need to call Nashville and talk to Rabbi Saperstein. I will pay you for the charge,” the preacher said.

  “We’ll put it toward this week’s donation,” Mr. Wright suggested.

  The preacher spoke with the operator, Miss Sarah. He asked her to try and connect him with Rabbi Saperstein in Nashville. In about ten minutes, the phone rang and Miss Sarah had Rabbi Saperstein on the line.

  Rabbi Saperstein said, “Preacher, are you hoping for us to open a synagogue in your town? I understand that in the past year you’ve opened and reopened every imaginable business and helped lots of people during this depression.”

  “Your kindness is appreciated, Rabbi Saperstein. I am in serious need of your help and guidance,” the preacher said seriously.

  “What can I do for you?” the rabbi inquired.

  The preacher explained the situation with Mr. Weitz and his journey with the children. He also explained the mother's and Mr. Weitz’s hope for the children’s future.

  “I understand your situation, Pastor. Unfortunately, we are seeing a steady stream of these situations in the Jewish community. Every resource is stretched to the limit locally. Most of us are sending funds to help smuggle Jews out of Europe,” the rabbi explained.

  “Do you think you can help in the near future?” the preacher asked pleadingly.

  “It is not likely. The situation in Germany and other areas under Nazi control has gotten much worse. It has gone from political and social ostracism to outright murder and long-term imprisonment,” the rabbi said.

  “What is your recommendation?” the preacher asked.

  “Protestants are resourceful. You have personally been very resourceful. Your predecessors in New York City founded and operated the Orphan Train for years. Do your best. I will diligently inquire within our community for foster parents for these children. Shalom,” the rabbi said as he ended the call.

  “Orphan Train, my ass,” the preacher remarked as he slammed the receiver onto its hook.

  “What is the orphan train, preacher?” Jack Wright asked.

  “From about 1854 through the early part of the depression, charitable institutions and churches in the larger cities sent orphaned, abandoned, abused, and homeless children to the Midwest by train to families seeking to adopt children to work on farms,” the preacher explained.

  “Sounds pretty good to me,” Jack Wright remarked.

  “It served its purpose until the depression and the dust bowl, when orphanages sprang up and there was less call for children for farm families. The downside was that siblings were often separated and left in different locations; a small percentage suffered long, abusive, work schedules, and some were abused physically and sexually by foster parents,” the preache
r said.

  “What is your major concern?” asked the shopkeeper.

  “I made a solemn promise to Mr. Weitz that I would look after them until their mother arrived; or, if she was significantly delayed, until I could oversee them being placed in a proper Jewish foster home,” the preacher replied.

  “I will tell you a verse from one of your sermons a few weeks ago, preacher,” the proprietor offered.

  “Say on, Brother Jack,” he replied.

  “This kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting,” Jack Wright said.

  “Indeed, Brother Jack, indeed,” the preacher remarked.

  As he walked slowly back to Miss Rosie’s, the preacher thought about the ‘Orphan Train’ song. It began:

  “Once I had a darling mother though I

  Can’t recall her name

  I had a baby brother who I’ll never see again

  For the Children’s Home is sending us out

  On the Orphan Train

  To try to find someone to take us in.

  Take us in, we are on the Orphan Train

  Take us in, we need a home, we need a name

  Take us in, oh won’t you be our kin?

  We are looking for someone to take us in.”

  * * *

  The next morning found Dr. Marcus Whitman pounding on the door of the Community Church. The preacher was engaged in his morning study but intended to check later on Mr. Weitz and have breakfast at Miss Rosie's.

  When the preacher opened the door, the physician exclaimed, “Nurse Bilbrey went down to check on Mr. Weitz before she made her rounds and found him gravely ill. I’m headed up. You need to come with me. It sounds like this is that old man’s last day in mortality.”

  The preacher grabbed his black coat and the two men started walking toward Miss Rosie’s. When they arrived, Miss Rosie was drying her eyes with a handkerchief. The county nurse looked at the two men and shook her head.

  “What’s the situation, nurse?” Dr. Whitman asked.

  “He expired about an hour ago. Only the preacher can help him now,” the nurse said with a slight break in her voice.

  “I’ll check on him to be able to complete the death certificate,” the physician said.

  “Where are the children?” the preacher asked.

  “Anna Mae is caring for them. They’re playing in the back yard,” Miss Rosie replied.

  “Do they know the situation?” the preacher asked.

  “I told them. They took it as well as could be expected. Their name is not actually Weitz. It’s Dormitz,” the nurse explained.

  “I’m going to the discount grocery to collect my thoughts, check on a coffin, and do some prayin’,” the preacher explained as he walked toward the front door.

  On the road back to the discount grocery, the preacher prayed aloud, “Now Lord, I do my best to handle your business the way you want it handled. I do get a little creative shaping of the facts and manipulating the circumstances. But you haven’t sent a lightning bolt up my ass yet.”

  After a short pause to let a car pass, he continued, “Lord, this is a situation I need your help with. As we used to say in the army, ‘This is beyond my pay grade.’ I am up against it with very few options. I’m asking . . . no . . . I am begging for a miracle for those two little Jewish children. Amen.”

  At the discount grocery, the preacher made arrangements with John Norris at Martin Salvage and Sawmill for a new, solid oak coffin for Mr. Weitz. The preacher offered to pay but Finis Martin took the phone and refused the money. He said it was time for him to make another donation.

  Nurse Bilbrey spent the night with the children. The preacher spent a rather sleepless night uttering prayers similar to the one he had made on the Ferguson Road.

  Early the next morning, John Norris arrived at the church with Joe Scott, Dr. Marcus Whitman, and the coffin. The preacher went out to the pickup truck to meet them.

  “We’re going to prepare the body and place it in the coffin,” Dr. Whitman explained.

  “Bring Mr. Weitz back to the church afterwards. He can lie in state until we bury him at the Jerusalem’s Ridge Cemetery at 3:00 pm today,” the preacher instructed.

  “Are you preaching a funeral sermon here or at the burial?” John Norris asked.

  “I’ll be doing a short graveside service. Why do you ask?” the preacher inquired.

  “Everybody plans to shut down and attend,” John Norris explained.

  “That is very nice, very nice,” the preacher said nodding his head affirmatively.

  The truck pulled off to make its way to Miss Rosie’s. The preacher decided he would go across the road to the discount grocery and spend the morning with Jack Wright.

  “Come in preacher! I've got your country ham, red eye gravy, biscuits, grits, and eggs from Miss Rosie. She said you had a big day today,” Jack Wright reported.

  “I don’t feel very hungry. Would you share it with me?” the preacher asked.

  “She gave me a plate full. I ate mine already and I’m stuffed. You’re on your own, preacher,” Jack Wright remarked.

  The preacher consumed his big breakfast and polished it off with a five-cent soda. There wasn’t much said during the meal. Mr. Wright left the preacher to his thoughts.

  A bit later a car stopped at the pumps. A man clothed in black wearing a black hat entered the store. He announced that he was looking for Pastor Thomas Mann.

  The preacher spoke and said, “I am Tom Mann. How can I help you?”

  “I am Rabbi Rudolph Saperstein. I have someone you must meet,” the rabbi said as he motioned for someone to enter the store.

  The Rabbi continued, “This is Ruth Dormitz. I believe you have something that belongs to her.”

  “I have two wonderful children named Dormitz – a young girl and her little brother,” the preacher exclaimed.

  “Where are they?” the tearful mother asked.

  “They are with the county nurse down the road at Miss Rosie’s Bed and Breakfast,” the preacher responded.

  “Are they ill?” the concerned mother asked hurriedly.

  “No, she has just been caring for them for the last two days while Mr. Weitz has been sick,” the preacher replied.

  “How is Mr. Weitz?” Rabbi Saperstein asked.

  “He has passed away,” the preacher said with a slight break in his voice.

  “What are your plans?” the rabbi asked.

  “He said he was not Jewish. He asked to be buried on Jerusalem’s Ridge above Miss Rosie’s,” the preacher said.

  “His father was Jewish but not his mother,” the lady explained.

  “I know that his mother would have needed to be Jewish; but, is he partly Jewish?” the preacher asked the rabbi.

  “He was a righteous person,” the rabbi said avoiding the issue of lineage.

  “That being the case, would you offer a Jewish prayer for him at the graveside service this afternoon?” the preacher asked.

  “Under the circumstances, I will be honored to participate in your service,” Rabbi Saperstein said.

  The mother and the rabbi left the discount grocery headed for Miss Rosie’s Bed and Breakfast. Jack Wright said nothing but wiped a few tears from his eyes.

  The preacher looked to heaven and said, “Lord, thank you for this blessing!”

  Jack Wright remarked, “Preacher, you and the Lord have done some amazing things in the past year. I thought a lot of those qualified as miracles. But this is the real deal. It was of the Lord and not of man.”

  “What amazes me was that Mr. Weitz’s illness placed him in Ferguson and our actions helped conclude his journey to reunite those children with their mother,” the preacher said.

  “This is God’s country,” Jack Wright replied.

  “Indeed it is. Indeed it is,” the preacher remarked.

  Many years later, Jack Wright’s family found in his journal, the account of The Night Of Broken Glass and how it affected the people of Ferguson.

  The journ
al entry ended: At the graveside service, I don’t remember much about the sermon given by Brother Mann. I recall that it was timely and eloquent. What I recall most are some of words to the song sung by Miss Marilyn Mitchell titled on ‘Heaven’s Bright Shore’:

  “When I must cross that rolling tide,

  There’ll be someone on the other side

  Welcoming me to that fair land, made perfect by love

  When I walk up the milky white way,

  I’ll see that home coming in a ray

  How great it must be for angels to see

  A pilgrim reach home.”

  10: Ginger Men

  The preacher had driven his old Ford truck from Ferguson to Lebanon to make his monthly visit to see Henry Wooden and retrieve the monthly commission check on the extract sales. He decided that there was time for him to have lunch at the Bluebird Café before delivering the check to Joe Scott at Scott’s Apothecary.

  It was a little early for lunch at the Bluebird Café since it was another hour before the Mountain Excursion arrived. However, there were a few vehicles there from travelers on Highway 70 that runs between Nashville and Knoxville.

  When the preacher walked into the Bluebird, he was greeted by Cecil Smith’s wife Doris with her usual inquiry, “How many biscuits can you eat?”

  The preacher replied, “NOT 49 and a ham of meat.”

  The restaurant patrons laughed as the recognized the song that played regularly at the Friday Night Frolics broadcast from the Bluebird and on the Midday Merry-Go-Round programs on WNOX-AM.

  “What can I get for you today?” Doris Smith inquired.

  “What are today’s specials?” the preacher asked.

  “It’s chicken and dumplings, pinto beans, turnip greens, and corn bread.” Mrs. Smith responded.

  “I’ll have the special,” the preacher replied.

  “YOU are what is special,” Doris Smith remarked.

  “You say that to all the preachers in Ferguson, Doris,” the preacher responded.

  Doris smiled as she headed to the kitchen to complete the preacher’s lunch order. The preacher knew that Doris would include a little extra chicken with his dumplings.