by Bodie Thoene
The rabbi rolled his eyes upward and thanked the Eternal. The white kitten bounced up, arching its back in warning of battle. The two remaining grays followed in a charge as the white leaped to snag the fabric with sharp little claws. He hung there for a moment. The old man pulled him up and unhooked the claws, then slid him into the roomy pocket of his baggy trousers. Yes!
Down went the sleeve again, and up came the blustery little gray. He scratched and hissed unhappily as the rabbi dropped him in on top of the white.
Darkness descended. The old man waved the sleeve while the two captives in his pocket fought. The tiny calico did not move forward to join her brothers in the game. At last little paws scampered over the rabbi’s aching feet. Another attack on the fabric netted the second gray.
Shouts began to ring out across the domed rooftops of the Old City. “Hey, Jews! You think you will live through this night?”
The old man was uncertain. Perhaps they would find his body in the morning and stop to wonder why the old rabbi’s pockets were full of kittens.
He dared to speak. “Come on, little one! I will take you to Tipat Chalev for a drop of milk, nu?”
The last gray kitten snagged claws and fangs on the fabric. The rabbi swung him up and dropped him into the other pocket. That left the last calico. The sweet one. The shy one.
There was no time. Back toward the Haram, a single shot was fired—a call to arms for the bandits in the Old City.
Rabbi Lebowitz drew a deep breath. He could wait no longer. “Sorry, little one,” he whispered as he slid out of his hiding place and plastered himself against the wall. “May the Eternal keep you safe in His pocket.”
More shots. The old man could plainly see the fire leap from the guns. Five shots. Five different guns on the roofs of the Old City. They fired up into the air. Flashes momentarily illuminated the ghostly forms of men in Arab dress.
He hesitated, thinking which would be the safest path. He had thought of it a thousand times throughout the day, but confronted with the need to run, he could not remember where to run! His heart pounded as it had during the riot. His breath grew short, as if he had already run ten miles. But he had only taken one step!
The kittens wrestled in the deep pockets. Little needle-sharp claws penetrated the fabric and stuck his thighs as if to wake him up from a stupor.
Angry Arab voices advanced. The old man looked toward the Square. Two blocks, and then the Armenian Quarter! Yes—now he remembered!
He tried to find breath. And then, from the hiding place came a tiny voice. The old man peered down. A small shadow moved. Be patient with me, God! The calico!
He stooped and gathered the little one up, and then he ran, kittens bouncing against him. He held the calico in his right hand and dragged himself forward along the stone facades with his left.
Gunfire cracked like a whip. He had not run like this since he had been a young man. Uneven stones jarred his old bones. Kittens clawed him through his pockets. The calico dug into his arm until he bled.
At last the outline of the jagged wall loomed up. Would British soldiers mistake him for the enemy? No time to think! Under his breath, he muttered the name of his daughter. “Etta! Etta!” It was Shabbat in Poland. Peaceful Shabbat. Etta must never come back to Jerusalem, never come home to this!
The corner was a few yards from him. Merciful God! The eyes of Death turned toward him.
“Someone is moving down there!”
“Shoot! Shoot him!”
More gunfire rang out behind. He did not stop. He did not turn to look.
“Shoot! He is getting away!” Boots ran toward him from the Armenian barricade.
“Don’t shoot! I am a rabbi! Gevalt! Don’t shoot!”
***
The floors of the tents were wooden slats, salvaged from packing crates discarded by the British military.
The entire camp was asleep now. Or at least the confusion had died down into a stupor of exhaustion. A dim light still burned in the cubicle next to that of Leah and Shimon. Beyond the thin canvas partition, a family of six from Württemberg occupied two small spaces. The children slept more soundly than the parents, who groaned like the springs on their bunks.
From the top bunk of their allotted space, Leah studied the letters of shipping labels that remained on the slat floor.
B-L-A . . . Perhaps the word had been blankets? Blankets for the British soldiers? Or maybe “Black boots”? On the slat at the head of the bunks the initials H.M. were stenciled in red paint. That must stand for “His Majesty.” The floor was courtesy of His Majesty King George of England. She wondered if the English king in his palace could imagine that the discarded rubbish of the government in Palestine would be put to such good use by the Jewish Agency on behalf of the new immigrants. And if it was discovered that the Jewish Agency had created floors out of His Majesty’s wooden slats, would the English demand the crates be returned?
Shimon slept soundly in the bunk beneath her. He had hardly touched his supper after reading the sheet of precautions that had come with the issued bed linens:
CAUTION: ALL LINENS SHOULD BE CHECKED NIGHTLY BEFORE RETIRING.
“Checked for what?” he had asked a man who looked as if he might know.
“Scorpions. And bedbugs. They come up through the slats and climb the legs of the bunks. You will notice that each leg is set in a tin can half filled with water. When the creatures climb up the side of the can they fall in and drown. You will be saved by this device mostly. Except for the ones that come up the inside of the canvas and drop down from above.”
This had been meant to comfort, somehow, but it had left Leah sleepless and searching the cracks between the planks. Tonight she was more terrified of things than she was of the Arabs who seemed to be tearing up all of Palestine at once.
CAUTION: UPON RISING, BE CERTAIN TO CHECK BOOTS AND ALL ARTICLES OF CLOTHING BEFORE WEARING.
What sort of place is this? she asked herself again. Why had the Zionist lecturers not spoken about bedbugs and scorpions and . . .
CAUTION: USE OF WASHING FACILITIES SHOULD BE RESTRICTED TO DAYLIGHT HOURS WHENEVER POSSIBLE.
The same fellow who had told them about bedbugs explained how snakes like to curl up beneath the washbasins. It was not so bad this time of year, but one could not be too cautious. And now with the Arabs on the rampage, it was not at all safe to leave shelter after dark.
With trembling hand Leah had added this information to the letter addressed to Number 36 Red Lion Square in London. She told Elisa that such things did not distract from the joy of being here in the Holy Land. But Elisa knew her well enough to know the truth. She would close her eyes and picture Leah lying sleepless and terrified in a sandy tent while Arab bands slaughtered whoever crossed their paths and scorpions tried to find ways around the tin cans on the legs of the bed.
“Oh, Lord,” Leah whispered, “at last I am here, and I am afraid. This does not feel like home. No place feels like home.”
Shimon’s sleepy voice drifted up. “If we were not so desperate we would let the Arabs have it, eh?”
“You’re awake?”
“I keep imagining little things trying to get into bed with me.”
“Me too.”
“Then why don’t you come down and get into bed with me?” He was laughing at her, but she didn’t care.
“We will break the bed.”
“We will frighten away the enemy. Two of us together. Come down, will you? I need something sweet and soft tonight.”
“Oh, Shimon,” she chided him, but before the words passed her lips she was climbing down to slip between the sheets. The lower bunk complained loudly and sagged down another three inches. Leah snuggled close to Shimon. With her head against his chest, her arms and legs tangled with his, somehow she felt much safer.
“There now.” He stroked her hair and then held up his cast. “If anything tries to get you, I will squish it with my plaster arm!”
“Much better.” She sighed. �
��Much more . . . comfortable . . . down . . . ” Her voice trailed away as sleep at last came to her.
Shimon lay awake beside her for a long time before his own troubled thoughts finally let him sleep.
***
It was Shabbat night at Tipat Chalev. They had hardly noticed that Rabbi Lebowitz had been gone all day. No one was worried much. No one asked where he had been or if he was stuck in a crack between two buildings. And they were not happy about the kittens either. He had broken a Shabbat commandment by carrying them.
Hannah Cohen faced off with Rabbi Lebowitz on the back step of Tipat Chalev as the orphan kittens scampered over his scuffed shoes.
“Kittens make cats!” said Hannah. “And cats make other kittens! And kittens make other cats!”
“And all of them kill Old City mice and rats!” the old man argued.
“Not in the kitchen of Tipat Chalev, they don’t!”
“Not in the kitchen! Here in the alleyway!”
“We do not wish to listen to the endless bawling of a chorus of cats!” Hannah stamped her foot and kittens jumped straight up and then took refuge to peer out from behind the legs of their protector rabbi.
“The mother of these five kittens saved my life! And so I made a vow—”
“Not in my kitchen!”
“So! I told you, already! Not in the kitchen . . . in the alley. Maybe in the basement! They will kill the rats, and now, as head of the charitable distribution of food in the Jewish Quarter of the Old City—”
“No females!” Hannah shouted. “Oy! Sort them out! No females!”
At the sound of shouting, six round, wide-eyed faces peered into the kitchen. Hannah Cohen and Rabbi Lebowitz were arguing about kittens, which was unusual. The children whispered to themselves in amazement as the learned rabbi picked up each kitten in turn, lifted its tail, and scrutinized each backside as if he were searching for a message. “There!” he cried, thrusting the gray into the arms of Hannah. “A boy!” Then again, “A boy! A boy! A boy!” The calico was the last to be examined. He picked it up. The kitten meowed sweetly and batted his beard. The old man scowled at Hannah Cohen angrily and then slipped the calico into his pocket. “This one will be mine. She almost got me killed saving her, and so I am responsible for her now, nu?”
Four kittens purred in the arms of Hannah Cohen. She looked away haughtily and then peered down at them. Her expression changed briefly to one of pleasure, but she caught herself quickly. “All right, then! They will grow up to be big man cats and they will fight all day, and you will be sorry.” The kittens purred louder. “What will we name them?” Her voice was alarmingly gentle.
The rabbi reached out to scratch the chin of the white kitten. “I thought . . . Genesis. Exodus. Leviticus. Numbers.” He smiled and lifted up the calico. “And this will be Psalms.”
“Just keep her away from my boys.” Hannah’s eyes narrowed in threat. “That is all we need around here! More cats!”
9
Sabbath Travel
It was Saturday in Catholic Warsaw.
A low-flying biplane rattled noisily over the roofs of the city. To the south and east and west a forest of red-brick chimneys belched smoke and soot into the cold autumn air. These were the Catholic chimneys of Warsaw. During the cold Polish winters this dark mist rose up from Catholic hearths seven days a week without stopping. Like the incense of Mass or the light of votive candles before a saint, the smoke was a sign that clearly showed which chimney belonged to a Catholic.
It was Sabbath in Jewish Warsaw.
In the northeast quarter of the city, ten thousand red-brick chimneys pointed heavenward. Not even one wisp of smoke drifted up from Jewish hearths. On this holy day of rest, work was forbidden for the Chosen. Adding even a handful of coal to the fire was considered labor; the grates had been stoked with fuel in the last moments before the evening star signaled the beginning of the Sabbath. Hour by hour the coal had been consumed as the soft chants of prayer and blessing had risen up.
“Lights are shining, hymns outpouring,
Welcome, holy day of rest!
Now the soul, unfettered soaring.
Hold with God communion blest.”
The fervor of Sabbath greetings warmed the homes in Jewish Warsaw even as coals glowed and cooled and finally tumbled to ash.
Those who bargained and bartered and shoveled coal in Catholic Warsaw viewed the cold Sabbath chimneys of their neighbors with suspicion, even hatred. The peddler would not stop to sell where such a chimney stood. The milkman made his route blocks around the smokeless chimneys, lest his milk sour on the stoop of a customer who would not carry it indoors. A shrug and a shake of the head was the Polish answer to the clear blue sky above Jewish Warsaw. Strange creatures, these Jews!
From the high viewpoint of a clattering biplane, Warsaw was easily divided. And from this perspective, the sight of one lone plume of smoke rising from the Jewish district caused the pilot to turn his head and look again.
The thick double chimney of the corner of Muranow Square and Nalewki Street spewed a column of gray into the air. This tall three-story house was not the house of a Catholic in the midst of the Jewish residential district. It was too near the rounded dome of the synagogue—almost within the shadow of the great iron Star of David. It was a large house, square like a box, with three windows on each floor facing the Square below. The brick construction had been faced over with stucco and painted pale yellow. The cornice work was cast with scrolls of leaves and flowers. This house on Muranow Square was the house of a well-to-do Jew. Perhaps, the pilot thought, the owner hired a Gentile to build his Sabbath fire for him. A Shabbes goy, as Jews call their Gentile help.
Just then the stately mahogany door burst open and a young woman ran down the steps—dark hair, bouncing curls, dark blue dress with a dropped waist, high-button shoes. Even from this distance he could see that this must be the daughter of a wealthy Jew. A pretty thing. Perhaps she was in her early teens. She did not look up at the biplane as children usually did. Instead she stopped at the bottom of the steps and turned her face upward toward the second story where the window swung back and a bearded Jewish man leaned out to shout instructions. His words were indistinguishable, drowned by the roar of the engine. But something was up. The man was in his shirt sleeves—open collar, suspenders off. His face seemed pale, almost angry behind the thick black beard. The girl nodded, and with a fearful look, began to run across Muranow Square, past the sleeping facades of Pokorna Street where the traffic gradually thickened and Jewish Warsaw melted into the bustle of Catholic Warsaw.
The pilot caught one final glimpse of the girl before her figure became only one among ten thousand in the streets. Then other children looked up and pointed at the biplane. They shouted and chased its shadow. The pilot dipped his wings in salute and laughed and forgot all about the one chimney in the Jewish district that smoked even on the Sabbath.
***
The chill wind cut through the fabric of the young woman’s blue Sabbath dress. She had forgotten all about her coat when her father had sent her on this urgent errand. In spite of the wind, the note in her hand was damp from perspiration. Her fair skin was even paler than usual from the exertion of running.
Ahead, the rail tracks ended at the Umschlagplatz. Great locomotives puffed and hissed, impatient to be gone from Warsaw. The girl was only halfway to the doctor’s house. Her lungs burned and her legs ached. For an instant she considered slowing to a walk. Why did Papa not send David? He is younger, yes, but he runs faster than I. She stumbled and almost fell at the feet of a group of broad-faced Polish railway workers. A man in a black wool cap reached out to break her fall.
“Careful, pretty one! Hurry too much, and you will miss your train because your head will be broken!”
She tried to thank him. There was no time to explain that she was not running to catch a train at the Umschlagplatz. She had no breath to explain. Willing her legs to move, she broke away and called an apology over her shou
lder.
Her Polish was tinged with a heavy accent, causing the workers to joke that they had caught a little Jew running on the Sabbath. They would watch and see if the Jewish God would hurl a bolt of lightning down on the Umschlagplatz when He noticed the violation!
Such a joke brought a round of laughter that gave the girl a new strength born of fear. She would not speak to one of them again. It was forbidden by Papa to speak to the goyim. They were dangerous; she knew that. She had not meant to speak. Had not meant to stumble. Had not meant to be caught by one of them!
A strange sense of guilt dogged her. She forgot her lungs, forgot her aching legs. Before her was the picture of Mama’s strained face and the soft apology she had whispered to Papa. “So sorry, Aaron. I had not meant to begin this on Sabbath.”
Papa had touched her forehead as another pain came. “I tried to call Dr. Letzno. They have cut the phone wires again. I will send a note to fetch him.”
Mama had blinked back tears and bit her lip as she nodded. “Yes. Dr. Letzno.”
The girl clutched the note tightly. She was afraid she might drop it and it would be trampled beneath the shoes of Saturday Warsaw. Grandmothers pulling their apple-cheeked grandsons to the barbershop. Cliques of young women gathered outside the theaters. Couples crowding into the cafés for long talks over coffee and fresh pastry. Shopwindows displaying the latest Parish fashions. Brightly colored dresses and pert little hats and silk stockings with high heels . . .
This was a foreign world to the girl. Only blocks away from her home on Muranow, within sight of the cupola of the synagogue, the world seemed to mock the peaceful Sabbath. Did they not know of the commandment? The girl had never been beyond the borders of her own neighborhood on Sabbath. She had not realized, could not imagine, how they spent the holy day. She felt ill. Was it from running so far, or from passing through the streets where certainly every one of the 613 commandments were being broken all at the same moment—and on the Sabbath?
