MUSIC BY HEART

A Novella By

Dov Vinograd

♫ Aitz chayem he, la macha-zekem boh…

A tree of life to those who hold fast to it…

HOW could they have known? How could anyone have

known that the crushing ache that consumed them
constantly would soon be lifted - then quickly replaced by
oceanic pain beyond redemption, punishment without
discernible cause nor shred of mercy? Lilith’s progeny.
Only princes of darkness possessed evil so powerfully
malignant to perpetrate depraved torment of such
magnitude.

They lay awake pretending to sleep. Each a prisoner of his

own twisted thoughts. Thoughts that bound them by
common denominators and by projections of
unsubstantiated fault they silently hurled at each other.
Embittered thoughts turned foul by lack of confirmation.
The more tightly they grasped their untested convictions,
pressing them to their aching breasts, the more ugly they
became.
Silent accusations took on degrees of false certainty that
powerfully resisted even the most innocent attempts at
verification. The ever-increasing disheartening distance
between them was mocked by their physical proximity and
the nearness of the place where they had embraced the
embrace that sometimes gives life.

Filtering through cracks along the edges of the window

shade, shafts of light deflecting off passing vehicles, traced
dusty arcs across the closeted stillness on the walls and
ceiling in the room where they lay. Each waited for the
next light show and stirred when a car could be heard from
far away in the street below. Mindless diversion grasped
with eagerness to ease their pain with tincture of
evanescent distractions. Relief was as temporary as it was
unsatisfying.

Strange. How could this man and woman, how could this
man and woman who had stood beside each other under the
chupah professing undying vows to take care of each other,
vows which they both uttered with complete and total
sincerity, vows which they fully intended to honor with
respect and duty, how could this man and woman lay close
enough to each other as to hear the throbbing at their
respective temples, how could this man and woman be so
unresponsive to the agony of the other? Simple.

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Consumed by their own profound sadness, torn by grief,
raging at immense unfairness, raging at each other because
it was simpler and less frightening to do that than to
actually experience the enormity of their fulsome fear, they
turned inward to nurse their own wounds.

Their lack of attentiveness to the other reflected only the

depth of their own suffering, not an absence of decency nor
mentschlichkeit. Understandable. Sadly understandable.

♫ Aitz chayem he, la macha-zekem boh…

“Ruthie. Are you awake? Can you hear me?”

“Ummm.”

“Ruthie. We need to talk.”

“Ummm.”

“Ruthie, we can’t go on like this. We need to talk. It’s

going to kill us if we don’t.”

“Ummm.”

“What is it with you! I can’t tolerate it anymore! Why is

this entirely my fault? Why do you blame me? You insisted
I go to a bloody doctor; I went to the bloody doctor. He
said there was nothing wrong with me. Nothing! You hear,
nothing! Twenty-two medical degrees hanging on his office
wall, but he still couldn’t produce an answer.

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He did however, my dear sweet wife, state unequivocally,
that it wasn’t my fault! It’s not my fault! ”

“Are you intimating it’s my fault? How dare you? How

could you? The report from the gynecologist is right there
on my night table. Go ahead. Read it again. Don’t believe
me if you don’t want to, but you can’t dispute what’s in the
dammed report!”

“Please Ruthie, please stop. I can’t endure it anymore. I’m

not blaming you.”

More softly, more pleadingly, with a trace of reconciliation

in his voice, “I’m not blaming you. It’s not your fault...but
it isn't my fault either.”

So much for peace initiatives. Impotent.

“Maybe God doesn’t want us to have children,” mused

David. “Maybe He’s not interested in our fervent desire to
bring another child into this chaotic world.”

Back down they tumbled, down the steep stairs to the cellar
of silence. Deadly silence. Deathly silence. Killer silence.
Golden silence? Not this night. Not this time. This silence
crept in through their pores like a poisonous, odorless gas.
Silence to die by. Silence that multiplies like cancer with
each passing moment of silence.

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Sleep, if one could call it sleep, gave itself grudgingly to
them by default. Exhaustion. Weariness. Fitful thrashing
interspersed by flashes of terrorizing images. Partially
believed accusations flung at the other provided protection
for neither of them. Grizzly images of massively deformed
infants haunted them both. Where were such images
conceived? Why did they conjure up such monstrosities?
Dark, deep slimy thoughts turn to nightmares; turn to night
terrors, which turn to the agony of sleep poverty.

Infants with goat heads, ram horns and frog feet floated by.
Flippers for arms and hands. Infants crawling on all fours
with eviscerated entrails dragging beneath them.

Mah-ma! Where are you? I need you. I’m dying. Please

help me. My insides are becoming outsides. My ears are
weeping. Answer me!

Where are you? Oy, where are you? I can hear your
wailing, but I can’t see you. My eyes are frozen shut. I’m
blind! Is this punishment from God? Why? It’s not fair. My
eyes are blind, but where are His? Is He sleeping? Wake
Him up! I need him NOW! Oy vay.

Sleep, the universal balm abandoned them. Dawn blessed

them with more cruelty. Lack of sleep left them craving the
sanctuary of unconsciousness, but daylight robbed them of
a rationale to keep hiding under the bedcovers.

Ruth and David Moss resided in a modestly upscale

apartment that reflected their middle-class social status.

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It was furnished with refined good taste, even if the
furnishings were not luxurious. Their home had a
comfortable feel to it. The warmth of their home and its
contents greeted visitors in the same way they were put at
ease by the gentle intimacy they observed in their hosts.

It was said that in Ruth’s presence there was always a sense

of peace and tranquility. This was said with simple honesty
and was in fact a true reflection of Ruth’s cheerful
personality.

If asked to do so, David would describe Ruth as being the

epitome of the biblical woman of valor. She was
responsible, sensible and hard working. She was mature
beyond her years. If he were in an introspective mode, he
might admit his rank embarrassment for each of the times
he had misunderstood her quiet words of wisdom and had
reacted to them as if they were stupidities. He also would
have sheepishly admitted that more likely it was he who
had been a bit dumb and thick. Ruth's physical beauty was
universally acknowledged. People actually stared at her in
public places. Mouths agape in wonderment and awe.
David remembers still an acquaintance confessing that he
had never before seen a woman of such beauty. His own
wife, he claimed, was beautiful, but Ruth was even more
so.

They each came from similar family backgrounds, replete

with successful parents, siblings and extended family
members in the world of commerce and the professions.

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Theirs was a background that held a high premium on both
personal achievement and cultural involvements. Music,
literature and art were inimical to their way of life.
Attachments to the community were typical for them.
Volunteerism was a concept that they learned from an early
age. The needs of those in need were never far from
consciousness.

David thought of himself as somewhat of a renaissance

man and those who knew him probably perceived him in a
similar light. As a child David had struggled because his
early academic performance had been underwhelming. His
family had placed a very high premium on scholastics and
had discounted David's considerable artistic, musical and
athletic talents. Although in grade school he began to
believe that he was unintelligent, he persisted in his studies
and succeeded not only in shucking the dumbbell script
which had been ascribed to him, but also in attaining more
than modest academic achievement with the receipt of the
highest degree granted at the university level. David
maintained his very broad range of interests in the arts and
he was an avid, proficient photographer whose photos were
occasionally bought by admirers of his work. When an
internationally- known actor came to perform, David had
the thespian pose for him. The photographic portrait David
produced pleased the actor and he bought 150 copies for
publicity purposes. Throughout his adult years he had
continuously been a member of one or another athletic
club, when doing so was not yet a fad. He played tennis, he
skied, he owned horses and was known as a skilled
equestrian.

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David's paternal grandfather had been in the Russian
cavalry which, because of his being Jewish, was quite odd.
Sometimes, David had heard, that joining the enemy was
the option of choice in order to be protected from it. Maybe
this was one such instance. He had never had the
opportunity to ask his grandfather Anshel about it.

As a child David had been skinny, had freckles, bucked

teeth and ears that seemed to have roamed from whence
they had been attached to his skull. As a young man all his
earlier physical liabilities seemed to correct themselves and
he developed into a tall, muscular, handsome man with
piercingly bright, blue eyes. The young girls found him
much to their liking, which at first surprised him, but later,
pleased him immensely.

Performing the morning rituals common to the entrance to

a new day, Ruth and David moved about with a stiffness
that reflected the strained link between them. It was as if
they could not find nearly enough space to move about
without bringing themselves too close to the other. Adrift
on the wide Atlantic Ocean might not have felt a broad
enough space for them to breathe. For them the air was
totally suffocating in the apartment even though the day
had dawned bright, crisp and clear, and as was their usual
habit, windows were left partially open to fresh, clean air.

Not totally isolated from one another, they silently acted

out the steps in the preparation of breakfast.

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Each dutifully, albeit dully, went about this routine chore
with muted heaviness. When they could no longer stall with
any further distractions, they found themselves seated
across from each other at the kitchen table. In vain, David
tried to hide behind yesterday's newspaper while Ruth
pretended to be engrossed in the shelling of her soft-boiled
eggs. The rustling of the newspaper and the cracking of the
eggshells shattered the silence with a painful startle.

“What did you say?” asked Ruth.

“Nothing. I said nothing. Did you say something?”

“No. Nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing at all.”

It was obvious that David and Ruth had reached that

terrible moment of loneliness when each desperately
wanted to end the terrifying and terrible isolation. But the
chasm between them seemed too wide to bridge. It was too
hard. They were too far apart. They could barely touch. If
they spoke, if they could speak, they believed, they’d not
be heard.

At moments like these, David terrified himself with

repulsive outcomes. Owing to a mind momentarily, but
critically, unhinged.

This is it. It’s over. We won’t survive the pain Maybe it is

my fault that Ruth can’t conceive. She’ll leave me; find
someone else and in less than a year she’ll be with child.
And me, and me, who knows? What I’m certain of is that

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I’d wither and die. My blood would congeal, limbs would
seize, hair would vaporize and my face would be
unrecognizable for fissures crisscrossing forehead, chin,
nose and lips. Skin would slough off leaving bone and
suppurating fiber exposed.

As is so often the case, it was an unbidden slippage of raw

emotion previously stifled which brought an abrupt and
tender end to their yearning.

From behind his newspaper David could hear Ruth’s

restrained sobbing. He knew she would not have done so
had she been able to conceal her anguish. David knew that
Ruth was not the kind of person who used fake emotion to
play on his sympathies. He knew that when she expressed
her feelings, allowing them to the surface, he knew they
were genuine. And in that knowing he was touched by her
crying. He was touched because he truly loved her and was
pained by her pain. Tears filled his eyes and overflowed.
He lowered the newspaper; their eyes met. Without a word
spoken, he slowly lifted himself to his feet, shuffled over to
Ruth’s side as she rose up to meet him.

With tenderness familiar to them but faint from too long

abstinence, they reached out and gently touched finger-to-
finger, then hand to hand. He gazed down at her lovely
hand as if he were holding it for the first time.
It reminded him of those long ago moments when he held
her hand at the park in winter. The park that transformed its
swan pond into a marvelous circular skating surface with
the ornate building in the center.

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Predictably, beautiful Viennese waltzes were piped through
the outdoor sound system. They first met at the park when
adolescents and he shyly asked her to skate with him. She
shyly agreed and through gloved hands he could feel the
warmth of her fill him with longing. So many years later
he again thrilled with an ache as he held her hands in his,
bent down and kissed them tenderly, lovingly. Tears fell
onto their hands. They could hear them.

The power of their unleashed desire could no longer be

contained. He swept her off her feet and carried her to their
bed. The last thing he did gently was to place her on it.
Their passion could accommodate nothing but unbridled
sensuality followed by furious coupling.

♫ Aitz chayem he, la macha-zekem boh…

CHAPTER 2

"THIS is your first time, isn't it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said, this is your first time, isn't it?"

"Wha?"

" It's OK, I too was distracted the first time. This is to be
your first born child, isn't it?"

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"Why yes, how did you know?" asked David in mild
befuddlement.

"Easy. I've been through this six times. I'm what you’d call
a veteran. After awhile you get to recognize the first-timers.
You all have that dazed, far away look, with more than a
tinge of sheer terror written all over your face."

"Is it that obvious?" said David with a slight smile of self-

recognition.

"Ya. But after awhile, you just learn to put your trust and
faith in God and the doctors, in that order, and pray for the
best.”

"Did you say that you've been through this six times
already?" asked David.

"Yes. Six times."

"You have six other children?"

"Had. They've all died. None survived beyond his fifth

birthday."

David sat in stunned silence. "My god! How did that

happen?

"My wife and I are of Eastern European stock. We are both

Jewish.

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It's not at all clear, but there has been some suggestion that
we carry genetic matter that predisposes our children to
certain early deaths.

"But if you know this and the death of your previous six
children is proof of your terrible circumstance, why do you
keep having more?"

"Because it’s God's will. It is our duty to conceive and

bring life into this world for no matter how brief a time.
Also, it is not for us to question God's intentions. All this,
by the way, has been confirmed to us by our Rabbi and we
are not only bound to comply, we are honored to do God's
bidding." The man spoke with emotional detachment but
with an air of certainty. Something about what David just
heard gave off a scent of the macabre, the bizarre and the
not-to-be-believed.

David stared at the man incredulously. His thoughts

multiplied as if caught in some mental vortex, each one
crashing against the other, so that not a single lucid idea
held center stage by itself.

How many times has this ignoramus witnessed the cruel

death of a child less than five years old? What twisted
perverted thinking. So he had impregnated his wife six
times previously, knowing the likelihood of the child dying
prematurely was extremely high. This is insanity. Bedlam.

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How could anyone continue to have kids one after the other
when they all die so young? Does God really want this to
happen?
Is this what it takes to be considered a religious Jew?
Would I, could I, do the same? What about his wife? What
does she have to say about all this?
Does she have a say about all this? What would Ruthie do
in similar circumstances?

David actually shook his head vigorously in an attempt to

force some clarity onto his awareness.

Never mind all that. Will my child suffer a similar fate?

Could I survive? What would I do? What would this do to
Ruthie? It would kill her for sure and maybe me too. This is
too insane to contemplate. But we both are Jews from
Eastern Europe. It could happen. Oh, no, it could happen!

David felt his head swell. He was sure that it was

physically expanding in tandem with the grinding,
exploding thoughts bouncing around his skull. His eyes lost
focus and his vision blurred. Salty sweat swept down his
forehead and flowed jaggedly into both eye sockets with
sudden fiery heat he didn't feel. His ears reverberated
vulgar alarm bells, but was there a fire? Where? What
should be done? Oh, my God, what have we done? What
have we done?

"Hey mister, are you OK?"

David didn't reply.

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David was gone. David was lost.
Lost in the grip of incapacitating fear borne out of fatigue
and unconfirmed dire expectations. He was certain that his
child, his first child, his only child, his and Ruthie's love
child, conceived after so much agony and travail, would
soon die!

How could this be? This can't be. This mustn't be. This is
not fair. Not at all fair. What God? Who God? There is no
God! An invention for people who cannot bear the
heaviness of reality. For those who can't abide the notion
that life is actually an arbitrary whim of chaos. Now
there's a God! Chaos! King of the Universe. Chaos! We
bend our knee to thee. Here I am Oh, God of Chaos! Do
with me what you will. Chaos. King of the Jesters. Royal
Trickster.

"Hey mister, don't worry, things are going to be fine. I just

know it. How about, if I say a little brochah, a prayer, for
the well being of your child and mine?"

Oh no! Don't you dare mention your child and mine in the
same breath. I don't want them linked in any way. What
befell your other children and maybe this one too, cannot
happen to mine. I won't let it happen. I won’t.

Intense fear bids a swift farewell to reason and extends

open, welcoming arms to superstition. And what, pray tell,
is super about superstition? Nothing. It breeds ignorance
and transmits alarm like fornicating poisonous vermin.

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David came back. He found himself. What a moment ago
had been terrible anguish was replaced by murderous rage.

The words of the man beside him had registered slowly but
clearly and David was on the absolute verge of attacking
the man. Not a physical attack. Violence was not who he
was. The attack he readied was verbal viciousness.

What a stupid, stupid man you are! There is no God. What

you have done has merely heaped unnecessary obscene
pain and suffering onto yourself and your wife and the
whole universe. Who needs it? Who asked for it? Stop
already.

The actual words David uttered baffled him.

"I'm fine," he said blithely. “I'm fine. Thank you for your
concern. It is my first go at becoming a father and I guess I
just let my thoughts run a bit wild. But I'm OK, really."

When at first the pain is too much, deny, deny, deny. The
dance of denial is performed on cue and always in time to
miserable music.

“By the way, please forgive my terrible manners. I didn’t

even introduce myself. I’m David Moss.”

“Not to worry. I don’t stand on ceremony. My name is

Baruch Steinmetz. My wife is called Leah.

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Just before you arrived, the doctor told me to go home
because he thought that Leah wouldn’t deliver for at least
another 8 or 10 hours. So I’m off.
We live only a short 15-minute walk from the hospital and
the fresh air will do me a world of good. I’ll go home, have
a bite to eat and then try to have a nap. I’m not sure how
successful I’ll be because my neighbors have been feuding
like you wouldn’t believe. Such yelling. Such screeching.
How can anyone sleep with all that tumult?
Worse still, they’re fighting because the woman is probably
pregnant again. They have four healthy, boisterous kids,
thank God, but I remember he became livid each time his
wife informed him that she was pregnant again. Go figure.
Here they are blessed with God’s greatest gift, four times
over, and he complains bitterly. It’s not that he can’t afford
the children. He is a very successful businessman. From
what I can gather, a trifle or so competitive, but still, quite
well to do. Enough already. Sorry to have assaulted your
ear. Leah keeps telling me I talk too much. But what can I
do? I love people. I love life. I love to be with people.
Otherwise life gets too hard. And besides, with all those
awful rumors about the increasing attacks on Jews by those
hoodlums dressed up in stupid uniforms and claiming to
represent the law and the government, I need to share my
good fortune with like-minded people. Be well, David
Moss. And remember, listen to me, everything will be just
fine. So don’t worry. I’ll be back later. I’m sure our paths
will cross again very soon. If not here in the hospital, then
somewhere else on other happy occasions.”

♫ Aitz chayem he, la macha-zekem boh…

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 CHAPTER 3

BARUCH Steinmetz, you are a fake. Baruch Steinmetz,

you‘re a hypocrite. Baruch Steinmetz, why don’t you tell
the truth? The truth is that you have doubts. Serious
doubts. What does God want from me, anyway? Am I the
latter day Job? Is all this just a test of my faith?
Well, I’m beginning to have my doubts. I can’t swallow it
anymore. And what does Leah think? What does she really
think? Oh, she openly insists that we carry on with God’s
will. But I’m not so sure about her either. Who in their
right mind would keep on conceiving babies knowing that
they will likely die even before they start kindergarten?
Stupid, ignorant Jews, that’s who.

Did you see the look on the face of that David Moss? I
thought he would have a heart attack right then and there.
The incredulity. The disbelief. And all the while I had to
pretend that I had no feelings about it. No! Worse! I had to
make belief that I was fully convinced of all that stuff about
doing God’s will. Willingly!

Baruch Steinmetz had had no major quarrels with the

universe. He was born into a large orthodox family whose
prime objective was the adherence to the very
stern laws of religious Jews.

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As a young boy, he had the temerity to question some of
the numerous prohibitions of Judaism, but quickly gave up
any serious inquisitiveness when all discussions inevitably
ended when his father reverted to the argument that humans
were not wise enough to comprehend God’s will and that
Jews had to accept His way on the basis of faith and belief.
Baruch Steinmetz often wondered if this kind of faith was
blind and this belief, bogus. As a young person, Baruch
Steinmetz decided to travel the path of least resistance and
on a practical level, accept that which he was told. But
deeper down, he wondered. He questioned. He doubted.
Had he read more extensively, had he read texts other than
the ones ordained by his rabbis at the Yeshiva, he would
have learned that for some it was even OK to cherish
doubts, because doubt leads to truth. Opening the room
containing knowledge is achieved with a key called doubt.
Doubt works for discovery. We are bound to err when we
refuse to question beliefs. Every belief is imperfect and
incomplete. Don’t fear doubt.

But in the Steinmetz home doubting was blasphemous,

tantamount to openly challenging the ascendancy of the
Steinmetz patriarch. That was just too dangerous, so
Baruch Steinmetz declared a truce by outwardly going
through the motions of complete adherence and, after a
period of time, which he could not measure, nor tell when it
began, he actually came to believe that which he formerly
doubted.

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But this is too much. What purpose, hidden or obvious,
could God have for conceiving beings condemned to die so
soon after having arrived onto the earthly plane. Then
again, maybe it wasn’t God’s will at all. Maybe it was only
some unholy injunction promulgated by misguided people
and a process that may have made sense thousands of
years ago, but no longer. Maybe it was just a form a
laziness that precluded a more recent and rational
assessment of the tradition. Go forth and multiply. No
matter what. In the far recesses of history it may have been
understandable to encourage people to prolific
procreation, thereby increasing, if nothing else, the sheer
number of the tribe. Maybe it was long past the time when
a more enlightened approach needed to see the light of
day.

Maybe it was time to doubt. Timely or not, Baruch

Steinmetz was deep in the throes of troubled doubt.

As he continued his fast paced homeward march, Baruch

Steinmetz firmly resolved not to endorse his passive stance,
not to “go-along-with.” He decided that he would broach
this difficult dilemma with his wife Leah, vowing at the
same time, not be deterred by fear and trepidation.

The neighborhood in which Baruch Steinmetz lived was

one of those urban anomalies that placed extremes in socio-
economic variables cheek by jowl.

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At his end of the street, one would find the homes of those
with just a bit more than modest incomes.
These structures were sturdy, well-constructed, no
nonsense houses. Very functional. Not much in the way of
aesthetics such as ornate brickwork, for example, nor large
surrounding flower-filled gardens. A person would walk by
these houses and never pause to gaze in admiration for any
reason whatsoever. But just a few hundred meters away,
were some very substantial homes of the wealthier,
culturally more advanced citizens. It wasn’t certain if their
culture was wafer thin, but at the very least they carried
themselves with a certain air of self-ascribed superiority. It
could not be argued that they did in fact live like wealthy
gentry. At what true cost, was another matter.

Baruch Steinmetz was nearly home. His walk from the

hospital hadn’t taken very long. Lost in thought was he,
about life, death, man, God, children, obedience to higher
powers. It was the shrieking voice of Mrs. Goldschmidt
that alerted him. He was back in his neighborhood. She and
her husband were among those who lived in the houses
with “high windows”, the term used by those less wealthy
folks when referring to the rich ones. There could be no
mistaking her voice. It wailed, it pleaded, it threatened, it
rose, it fell, but never below a decibel level that would keep
her voice within the confines of her abode. Whenever Mrs.
Goldschmidt was locked in mortal combat with the very
explosive Mr. Goldschmidt, which seemed to be every
Monday and Thursday, the whole district knew about it.

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How could they not? Unless afflicted by total deafness.
And, as per usual, they were fighting about the same stuff
again. Again and again.

Mrs. Goldschmidt, Mrs. Esther Goldschmidt, appears to

have been born with a bitterness that she nursed for most of
her lifetime. She convinced herself that for her, life had
been an unending series of events, the purpose of which
was solely to torment and poison her existence. It could not
be argued that some, but certainly not even a majority of
her experiences, were extremely difficult, scary and
painful. The furniture in her mind was dark, threadbare and
heavy and planted so immovably that everything she saw,
heard or felt was filtered through a rusty sieve and came
out and went back in, grossly distorted. Any resemblance
between her twisted delusions and reality was purely
coincidental.

Esther Goldschmidt’s worldview had been formed to a

large extent by her family of origin. Her father Adam was a
simple hauler. Hardly any formal education. He was a
crude man, but sometimes kind. Her mother, Lenah brought
to the family whatever compassion and caring it possessed.
Lenah’s fundamental goodness partially neutralized her
husband’s ill temper and meager social tendencies. As her
parents aged, Esther was burdened with caring for them.
She was angry that her two brothers were unwilling to
share the load. For most of their adult lives Lenah and
Adam lived with Esther, her husband Erich and their
children.

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For an extended time even her brother Mendel lived with
them.

Esther was insanely jealous of her distant cousins who were

much wealthier than she and her husband.
Not that she was poor. Not at all. But if they had more, she
saw herself as having less. Much less. She was a frustrated,
proud woman who was consumed by her jealousies.
Because she lived a mentality of scarcity (scare city) the
paltry givings she gave, she gave without goodness.

♫ Aitz chayem he, la macha-zekem boh…

CHAPTER 4

“I DON’T believe it!”

“So don’t believe it. You’ve been saying that for the last
nine months. Maybe when I give birth again, maybe then
you’ll believe it.”

“How could this happen? We already have four kids. Four

kids are more than enough!”

“And you’re asking me how this could happen? Were you

also asleep when you were doing it to me? You certainly
were right after you did it to me. ”

“ Look, I’m in no mood for your sarcasm.”

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“And I’m in no frame of mind for your stupidity. If you
drank less before coming home and had a clearer sense of
what you were doing, then maybe I wouldn’t be pregnant
again.”

“Sure, sure, it’s all fine and dandy for you to natter and
complain. Just once, I’d like to trade places with you. Just
once. You have no inkling of what’s going on out there.
You think it’s easy running a business that keeps getting
squeezed out by Goyish competitors.

My suppliers keep breaking their commitments to deliver

orders on time and they’re even beginning to tell me that
they can’t guarantee future orders because of pressures on
them. They don’t actually say so, but those pressures are
directly related to my being Jewish. You can’t keep
ignoring the fact that life for Jewish businesses has become
hazardous, at best. So please don’t preach to me if I take a
drink or two or ten if I want to.”

What wasn’t said by either combatant was that they really

did want another child. What they manifested in angry
words was merely a flimsy cover for their base fear. Fear
that the thunderbolt clouds hovering over the land could
burst at any moment, to unleash horrors that they couldn’t
even begin to guess nor measure.
In fact, if truth were told, and despite his loud protestations
to the contrary, it was Mr. Goldschmidt who was more
eager than his wife to have a fifth child. Eager, but oh, so
fearful.

24
Of course, I want another child. Who wouldn’t? Children
are the gold of our golden years. But who, at this moment
of worldwide madness, could even dream of golden years?
More like leaden. Everything we live, everything we eat,
tastes like metal. My supposed anger is really just sham
rage, feebly trying to cover over my naked fear. Fear for
my wife and children, fear for my unborn child, fear for me
and for all Jews. Why is it so difficult to realize how
dangerous, murderously dangerous, our situation really is?
We Jews especially, who have known centuries of pogroms,
massacres, slaughters, and exterminations, should know
better. This time will be different, they bleat.
This time we’re so entrenched in the local fabric of society
- judges, members of parliament, physicians, scions of
enterprise – what can happen? Certainly nothing bad.
What can they do? Kill us? Never.

There are none so blind as them that will not see. There are
none so deaf as them that will not hear. Until it’s too late.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The killing hours are upon us.

♫ Aitz chayem he, la macha-zekem boh…

25
 CHAPTER 5

“MAZEL Tov! Mazel Tov! Mazel Tov. Who would have

had the temerity to guess that we’d be celebrating the
healthy arrival of fully formed, infant children? What did I
tell you David Moss? Huh? What did I tell you? Did I tell
you or did I tell you? Let’s drink a l’chaim. We’ve all
came through the ordeal happier and healthier than before.
And also hungrier. I could eat an elephant! Kosher, of
course. Ha! Wait a minute. Are elephants kosher? I don’t
think so. They don’t have cloven feet. And what is it about
animals that do have cloven feet that make them kosher?
I’ll have to ask the rabbi. He’ll know. I think.
Till this morning, I could barely keep down a bit of soup
and a piece of bread. And best of all for my wife and me,
the doctor is convinced that our tiny tatteleh does not have
the same condition as our previous children. This one, God
willing, will live to see great-grandchildren. God willing.”

“I’m no scientist,” said David, “so I wonder how we

transmit to our unborn children certain characteristics we
possess. For example, if I’ve become an expert in quadratic
equations, will my offspring be similarly skilled? How?
Not just in mathematics generally, but quadratic equations
in particular. If I’ve trained to be a professional violinist,
will my children become violinists or, at the very least,
musically inclined? And if I learned certain kinds of music
and even specific songs, would my children automatically
acquire familiarity with them?
Even before I taught them anything? I ask the questions,
but I hear no answers.”

26
“What can I say? I have no idea and, Oy, I’m so confused,”
sputtered Baruch Steinmetz. “David, did I forget to
introduce you to Erich Goldschmidt? Erich is my neighbor.
His wife also gave birth this morning. She and the baby, as
they say, are doing fine.
David, meet Erich, Erich meet David. The three
musketeers. Papa’s-in-arms. Soon be papas in arms-full.
Ha!”

“A pleasure to meet you Erich. Mazel Tov to you and your

wife. May you have much nachas from your new-born
son.”

“Thank you. Thank you. I must confess that I had my

doubts about having another child. This is our fifth.
But I’m without doubt right now. I am overflowing with
pride. And also a bit of shame for having treated my wife
so badly. As if it was entirely all her doing. I am very proud
to claim my not insignificant input to this blessed event.”

Erich turned toward David and said: “I too am amazed by

the fact that children so resemble their parents. And all that
precise information is contained in one microscopic sperm
cell. A lone cell out of millions, a single cell with resolve,
determination, strength and persistence to achieve its
unique goal in life – reproduce. So when I tell my son that
he’s one in a million, the assertion will be based on
scientific truth.”

27
“I’d like to propose a toast,” gushed David, “to us, to our
wives and especially to our blessed brand new gifts from
heaven. The nurse told me that our wives and our infants
would be joining us here very soon. And Baruch… hey,
doesn’t Baruch mean blessing? Would you be willing to
recite the appropriate prayers for such an auspicious
occasion? Don’t we Jews have blessings for everything?”

♫ Aitz chayem he, la macha-zekem boh…

CHAPTER 6

THE next morning, the long black, bleak, hellish night of

Nazi horror began in earnest with ghoulish house calls to
Jewish homes, including the families Moss, Steinmetz and
Goldschmidt. Their respective newborn children could not
be vouchsafed. Of course this was not the beginning. The
beginning began centuries ago. Whenever, wherever
trouble brewed in the land, no matter the cause, no matter
the appropriate solution, the persecution and slaughter of
Jews was the perfectly logical, illogical answer. Jews and
Siamese cats cause all the world’s troubles. Why Siamese
cats? Why Jews? What was erupting in force, the
commencement of the “Final Solution”, no longer even

28
slightly disguised, was nothing new to the Jews. And as had
happened before, throughout history, either because of fear
or disbelief or deadly complacency or the devil knows
what, so many Jews refused to acknowledge the ominous,
obvious, signs which clearly presaged the immensity and
inevitability of grave danger. It can’t happen here. Jews are
members of parliament. Jews are prominent leaders in the
world of commerce, Jews are doctors, lawyers, professors,
and Jews are judges. It can’t happen here.

Never Again, the slogan adopted by Jews after each episode

of massive killing sprees decimated their numbers, was
replaced by a more accurate catchphrase, Not Again! And
for so many, millions many, it was Again. Too late to run.
Nowhere to hide. Death on the march. Massive death.
Death that for some would be a welcome “blessed” end to
their suffering.

tap. tap.
Nothing.
tap. tap.
Nothing.
knock. knock.
Nothing.
Fleeting, fearful moments pass.
Tap. Tap.
Nothing.
KNOCK! KNOCK!
“David! David! Wake up! David wakeup!”

29
“Wha? What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Tell me. Tell me
what’s wrong. Is the baby OK?”
“David, someone is knocking at the front door. Someone is
knocking! It’s the middle of the night! Who can it be?”
“Is the baby OK? Go check. I’ll go to the door.”
KNOCK!! KNOCK!!
“OK, OK, I’m coming!”
David rushed quickly, quietly, to the door but didn’t unlock
it. He leaned toward it and asked, “Who is it? What do you
want? What time is it?”
“It’s time,” came the muffled voice on the other side of the
door.
“Who are you? It’s the middle of the night!”
“It’s late.”
David imagined he recognized the voice and slowly,
carefully, opened the door a crack.
The light in the hallway, although dim, made David’s
sleep-filled eyes squint. He couldn’t yet identify who was
there.

“Moss, it’s me, Steinmetz. Come quickly. The murderers

are on their way. They’re going from house to house
searching for us Jews. For you and me, it’s probably too
late. But we must think of our children. There is a way we
might be able to save them. But now, David, now, in a few
minutes it will really be too late. The Catholic Church two
streets over is taking in newborn Jewish infants. It’s the
only way, David, the only way. I’m going there right now
with my Yankele. I may never see him again, but maybe,
just maybe, with God’s help, he will live. You must do the

30
same. The Goldschmidt’s have already made their sacrifice
at the church, having just surrendered their newborn.”

“Oh, no, this can’t be. My Yonatan is only three days old. I
won’t abandon him. With goyim, no less.”
“David, what is it? Who’s there? What’s going on? While
David was listening incredulously to Steinmetz, Ruth had
shuffled to the door and leaned in.
“Steinmetz says that the Nazis are going door to door
rounding up Jews. They’ll soon be here.
He says that we can save our Yonatan by taking him now to
the Catholic church. They are taking in Jewish infants.”

“No, no, no, no! Never. I will not let this happen!”
“Ruth, Ruth, listen. Listen to me please. We have no
choice. The bastards will kill him. They’re crazy. Insane.
Please. We must do this. For his sake.
This way, at least there is a chance he will survive. If we
try to keep him with us, he’ll perish. Please Ruth. Please.”

Raking sobs escaped her twisted mouth. Spittle ran down

her chin and tears, spilling from her blurry eyes burned her
cheeks.

Doing something he never imagined he would have to do,

he slapped her hard across her face. He knew he had to
extricate her from her incoherent turmoil and if possible,
connect with her rational self.
She stared at him with fierceness. But suddenly the sobbing
stopped. It was as if a new person, a much more focused
person, emerged.

31
“Yes, we must hurry. Yes. To save Yonatan. Yes. This way
he may live. Yes. I’ll go get him.”
She quickly retraced her steps to their bedroom, grabbed
any piece of clothing she could put her hands on and hastily
dressed herself. David did the same. Together they entered
their infant son’s bedroom; assaulted by the sweet aroma of
innocent, steady, breathing. Yonatan. With hands that could
barely function, they wrapped him in blankets, careful not
to cover his face.
Supporting each other, they rushed unsteadily down the
stairs to the street below, which was dark, deathly quiet and
sleek from a recent rainfall. Moments later, they could hear
unsettled voices coming from somewhere close by. The
sounds added to their barely contained panic and spurred
them to move more quickly toward the church. As they did,
they began to notice other people also rushing, hugging the
sides of buildings, all of them clutching tiny bundles to
their breasts.
Every so often they heard muffled, desperate moaning. It
didn’t take more than a few minutes for them to reach the
church. There, they saw a steady, struck-dumb flow of
people, all of them going around to the back of the church.
They followed. A moment or two later, they saw the people
ahead of them proceed to a small window in the wall of the
church. They watched stricken-faced parents knock quietly
at the window, which opened quickly, revealing only two
out- stretched hands ready to receive their precious cargo.
The instant the transfer was complete, the hands holding
their future, disappeared and the window closed with a
thud. Not a word was spoken. Soon, oh too soon, it was

32
their turn. They hesitated only a moment, exchanged
excruciatingly pained glances, knocked softly and together,
let go when the hands reappeared. Nothing else.
Like walking dead, they turned from the window, from
their only child, from their Yonatan. They turned toward a
world on fire. Toward their obscene emptiness. Toward
nothing. Nothing.

But their obscene emptiness wasn’t empty. Nothing was

something.

What did we just do? Where is he? Who’ll take care of

him? No one could care for him as well as we could. Let’s
go back to the front of the church, knock on the door and
take him back. We’ll insist. We’ll hide him like Moses in
the bulrushes. I’ll bet they’re already preparing to baptize
him. No. No. Maybe we should offer them money. Kinda
like ransom money. Maybe we should convert. Maybe then
the monsters would leave us alone. We’re innocent.
Guiltless. Have mercy, God in heaven have mercy. Where
are you? Give us a sign. Please. Please.

Silence. Desolation. End.

♫ Aitz chayem he, la macha-zekem boh…

CHAPTER 7

33
RABBI Moses (Max) Wiseman had been aptly named.
Even as a very young boy, Max demonstrated
characteristics that eerily reminded his family of the
patriarch Moses. At the tender age of three he was able to
identify and remark on the personalities and emotions of
those around him. That man is angry, he would confide to
his father, a rabbi. Even though the person he was speaking
about showed no outward sign of anger.
That person is possessed by secrets he dare not utter.
In each and every case, what the boy observed turned out to
be true. It was this innate ability and a penetrating
intelligence that propelled him to a stature in his
community reserved only for the exceptional. More than all
these attributes, it was his basic decency and fulsome love
of people that really endeared him to all those who came
under his sway. By the time he reached the age of 20, he
ascended to revered status as a beloved teacher, fully
accepted by his community as their rabbi.

Years passed. Rabbi Moses far exceeded the promise he

had shown as a child. He was unique in that he did not limit
his religiosity to fervent prayers, but lived his life in the
service of others. The more he gave, the more he seemed to
possess. When the Nazi nightmare came to the ignominious
end that it rightfully deserved, it was natural for him to
assume the grave responsibility of finding and returning
them to their flock, all those children who had been placed
within the Catholic church 6 years earlier, when that was
the only hoped-for guarantee that they would survive. He
would not rest while young Jewish souls were not back
within the bosom of their families. If not with their

34
biological family, then certainly within the larger, but just
as important, Jewish family. The task was more than
daunting. No formal adoption papers existed. Records were
never kept. Those who might have had some inkling as to
where they left their infant children had been murdered.
Along with 6 million other innocents.

After some careful and considered thought, he decided that

the place to start would be at one of the innumerable
Catholic orphanages which had sprung up all over Europe
during World War ll.

Jews, Rabbi Moses knew, weren’t the only victims and

from that he concluded, correctly, that the orphanages also
housed many other non-Jewish children.
His proverbial journey of a thousand miles began by his
going to the local orphanage, where he hoped his rescue
mission would succeed. Early one bright morning, he
knocked at the outer gate of the orphanage.
After a few moments of anxious waiting, the gate opened
slightly. On the other side, bent both from age and tragedy,
a caretaker asked the rabbi what he wanted. From his outer
appearance – haunted, hooded eyes, long black coat and
Homburg, skin translucent yet browned – the caretaker
knew that it was a Jew confronting him.
“I’m here to see the priest who’s in charge of this
orphanage.”
“He is not here, go away,” he barked and promptly
slammed shut the gate.

35
Not to be deterred, the Rabbi knocked again. Again the gate
was opened, but only a crack.
“I told you! He’s not here. Leave now.”

Before the caretaker could throw the gate shut once more,
the rabbi spoke again, spoke with a voice that spoke
confident authority. Confidence and firmness he knew he
surely did not possess.

“I am here to collect the Jewish orphans who were placed

here 6 years ago at the outbreak of the war.”

“We have no Jewish children here! We never had any

Jewish children here. We’ll never have any Jewish children
here,” he shouted hoarsely.

“How do you know that?’ inquired the Rabbi.

“Because I’ve worked here since this orphanage was

created. There are no Jewish children here.
I know because none of them has the mark of Cain on him.
None of them is circumcised.”

“And what of little Jewish girls?” questioned the Rabbi.

“None of those either. None of them has a hooked nose.”

By now the caretaker was shaking with rage, raising his

arms with fist-clenched hands, threatening to strike the
rabbi.

36
“Leave now!” he howled ferociously, “or I’ll strike you
down like a dirty pig.”

“What’s going on here? What’s going on?” The tumult at

the gate had alerted the priest in charge and he came
running to put a quick end to any threats of aggression by
anyone against anyone.

“Calm down right this instant,” he demanded of the

caretaker. Go attend to your other duties
and I’ll deal with this situation.”

With obvious, intense reluctance, the caretaker stepped

back; all the while shooting murderous glances at the rabbi.

“Now, now, Rabbi. I’m so sorry for the extremely rude

behavior of that ignorant man. My name is Father Stephan.
Please follow me. We can talk more civilly
and privately in my office. Would you please join me
there?”
The priest gently took hold of the rabbi’s arm, smiled
genuinely at him and began ushering him into the
orphanage and toward his office.

“May I offer you tea? We do have a few paper cups,

reserved for our Jewish guests who adhere to strict dietary
laws.”

Rabbi Moses Wiseman was greatly impressed by the

gentle, warm, hospitality of the priest. Arm in arm, like two
old friends, they slowly walked to the priest’s office.

37
“Tea?” asked the priest again.

“Thank you kindly, I’m fine.”

They sat.

To say that the office was Spartan would not be an

exaggeration. Just the essentials. An over-used desk, some
wobbly chairs, a threadbare carpet, a few faded, religious
artifacts on the walls and a standing lamp that gave off
barely enough light to read by. What the office did not lack
were books, books and more books. On the desk, on
shelves, on the floor and any other horizontal surface. The
room was chilly. It felt as if the room was never anything
but chilly. But the charm and genuine warmth of the priest
was enough.

“I’m not entirely sure why you are here rabbi.

But first, let me please offer my heartfelt condolences over
your tragic losses these last terrible years. The world has
gone mad. Totally insane. Beasts. Worse than beasts, who
rarely kill for anything but survival. And I know that
throughout history, whenever upheavals occurred, the first
targets, the last targets, the only targets many times, were
the Jews. I am so, so, sorry.”

“Thank you for your words. They are comfort, when

precious little comfort can be found. I’m Rabbi Wiseman.
The reason, the only reason I’m here, is to collect all those
little, lost Jewish children who were brought to your

38
doorstep six years ago. You saved many lives that way and
for that, may God grant you long, fulfilling years and a
special place in heaven. Now it’s my turn to save them by
reuniting them with Jewish folk in a Jewish home.”

“May God truly bless you for your heroic effort. However,
we have a serious problem. Very serious. I can think of no
solution. Please come with me. I’ll show you what I mean.”

They left the priest’s office together, walked down some

long, dark, corridors and through a door onto what
apparently was a playground. But what they saw was
anything but playful. Two dozen or so 6 year-olds,
scattered about the outdoor space, sat or stood in a state of
listlessness. The Rabbi was a member of the Chevra
Kadishah, the Jewish volunteer burial society and as such,
had seen many dead people, including the ones who had
been murdered during the reign of terror.
In what may have been understood as a simplistic notion, it
occurred to Rabbi Wiseman that something was missing in
the dead people he had seen and also in the orphans.
Orphans beget orphanages. Orphanages beget wounded
souls. It was already a known fact that children raised in
orphanages or in long-term hospital care, did not develop in
the same way as children reared within loving, affectionate
families.

In many instances, institutionalized children actually die

because of insufficient human contact. In orphanages
there is a constant shortage of funds and personnel.
Orphans that survive are severely underweight, have

39
constant serious illnesses and radiate a stench of
lifelessness. Dulled eyes, dulled emotions, dulled beings.
The rabbi and priest stood side by side watching in sad
bewilderment.

“Rabbi, here they are. If you can distinguish which ones are
Jewish from those who aren’t, take them with you.
Remember, they came to us when only days old. They were
brought to us during the night, they were handed to us
through a tiny window, hands reaching out to hands, no
words exchanged, no papers signed. All the baby boys were
less than 8 days old and as such were not circumcised. How
can you distinguish a gentile 6 year-old little girl from a
Jewish 6 year-old little girl? I can’t. Can you?”

The Rabbi quickly understood his dilemma. The priest was

correct. He stood there, staring at the children, holding back
painful tears. The priest could see that the Rabbi was
suffering terribly but didn’t know how to help.

“Here rabbi, sit on this bench. I’ll leave you to your

anguished thoughts. Would you like for me to get you a
blanket or something to keep you warm?”

“Thank you, you’re very kind. I’m OK.”

“Then I’ll leave you now. I’ll be in my office if you need

me.”

40
“Thank you.”

♫ Aitz chayem he, la macha-zekem boh…

CHAPTER 8

THE rabbi seated himself heavily on the bench. The weight

he felt, felt paralyzing. With strained effort he gazed from
child to child trying to identify the Jewish ones. Impossible.

A habit, which he had acquired many, many, years ago,

began manifesting itself. Slowly, involuntarily, nearly
imperceptibly, he began swaying back and forth. It was the
way he rocked when he was in the synagogue, intense in
prayer. And then, unbidden by any conscious decision, he
began chanting softly.

♫ “Tam didi, tam, Tam didi tam tam, Tam didi, tam”

Melodies from the synagogue formed and lyrics were sung.

♫ Aitz chayem he, la macha-zekem boh…

Slowly, quietly at first and then more powerfully.

41
♫ Aitz chayem he, la macha-zekem boh
V’soh-umay-cha, may usher
Derah-chay-ha d’rach-hay no-am
V’chol net-teevoh-techa, shalom
Ha-shee-vay-nu adonai, ay-lecha v’naw-shoo-va
Chadaish, chadaish, yom-may-eh-nu, k’kedem
Chadaish, chadaish, yom-may-eh-nu, k’kedem.

Suddenly, he heard a child wail. A piercing shriek, thin, but

substantial. “Mama, Papa, where are you? I’m here! Where
are you?” He identified the child who was shouting and
saw total incomprehension on the child’s face.
Eyes twitching in blind fear. Tears falling like melting
snow from a roof overhang. The child began running
uncontrollably around the yard, searching for the author of
familiar melodies. A moment later, a second child began
screeching. “Mameh, Tateh, ich bin doh. Ich bin doh!” This
child also lunged erratically across and around the
playground, desperate to find the source of the chanting.

From the periphery of his vision, the rabbi noticed vigorous

movement far off to the right, in a corner of the
playground. When he shifted his gaze, what he saw was
perplexing - to say the least. There, on the well-trodden
ground with nary a blade of grass, a young boy thrashed

42
wildly on his stomach, arms and legs whipping to and fro.
Pelvis pumping up and down.

Although the rabbi tried unsuccessfully to banish the

thought, he could not purge the unmistaken conclusion that
the boy was emulating the movements of a person
copulating. Yes, that’s exactly what it was. He rushed over
and gently but firmly bent over to take hold, embraced the
boy in his arms and persuaded him to stop. With slow
rocking motions and soothing tongues. It took a moment or
two, but the boy calmed.

What was all that about? The Rabbi’s mind was in turmoil.
So much to assimilate. Suddenly from some remote region
of his brain, an unfragmented memory emerged. It
concerned what first appeared as irrational thoughts
besieging a woman who had just returned home from the
cemetery where her 8-year-old daughter had been interred
an hour or so earlier. An intoxicated man, who drove his
car through a school crosswalk, had killed the young girl.
The girl’s father had abandoned his wife and daughter
shortly after her birth. Her closest friend was comforting
the distraught woman. No one else was there.

“I have something to tell you, but I’m terribly ashamed.”

It didn’t take long for the woman to tell her friend that she
was having “crazy” thoughts. She trusted her friend
implicitly.

43
 “Please don’t think ill of me, but I can’t shake the urge
that I have to have sex. Now! Violently. But this is
madness. I just buried the love of my life, my sweet
daughter and I’m obsessing about sex? What kind of
monster am I?”

Her friend listened compassionately. Then, after a few

moments of shared silence, the friend spoke.

“No, my dear, you’re not mad or crazy. You’ve just

experienced the death of your daughter and your thoughts
naturally gravitate toward matters of mating that
sometimes bring forth life. Although you can’t bring your
daughter back to this earthly plane, it’s completely
understandable that at this very wretched moment you’d
focus on love making, the actual genesis of all life.”

Maybe that thrashing child on the ground was going

through the physical motions related to conception and
birth, as his entire being engaged itself in a dynamic
symbolism of his own re-birth.

As the rabbi returned to the bench he had sat on only

moments before and still carrying the frail boy in his warm
embrace, he spotted the priest dashing off to a different
corner of the playground. There a fledgling child was
vigorously smacking herself in the face, punching her
stomach with tiny bunched fists and shouting at herself,
“Schlecht!” “Schlecht!”

44
Horrified the priest dashed over and smothered her with his
body so she couldn’t hurt herself any further. Although he
understood that “Schlecht!” meant “very, very, bad, he
couldn’t comprehend why she was hitting herself, why she
was yelling and at whom.

God in His heaven and the soul of a child are equally

impenetrable.

He did wonder, however, if the girl’s actions were a

measure of her being overwhelmed by the rescue. Could it
be survivor’s guilt? Maybe. Maybe not.

Carrying the young boy in his enfolding arms, the rabbi

walked back toward the other Jewish children. When fully
9 children discovered who had been chanting, they all
rushed at him en masse. After that, mayhem. An avalanche.
They jumped all over him, they pulled at him, they kissed
him and they sucked at his cheek. They bowled him over.
He didn’t care. He loved every moment. He loved them all.
He laughed, hugged, kissed, held them to his breast.

“Schma Yisroel, Adonai Elohaynu, Adonai Echad,”

chanted the Rabbi.

A miracle. Truly, one of God’s many miracles. How else to

understand? Is it pure randomness that accounts for the
rebirth of these precious children? God’s children aren’t
accidents. Maybe now the doubters will begin doubting
their doubts. We Jews are not only not a dying breed, but

45
also we’re very much alive and we have kept vital our oh-
so-precious traditions from the past. This miracle of
miracles gives ample proof that we are very much part of
the future. I’m not mistaken.

I can still hear the old haunted and haunting melodies and
harmonies of the shtetl. They’re infused with verve,
strength, fervor and irresistible soul-stirring sound. My
ears are weeping. They give witness to those who came
before and keep alive the memories of those who died; they
mock those who tried to wipe us out. Listen, listen! Can’t
you hear the bitter wail of the lone and lonely rebbe as he
mourns the loss of another child to the hateful Cossacks?
When I listen, their grief echoes and reverberates and
rattles my kishkes.

It’s so easy to hear the forlorn, puzzled wail of the

wandering Jew among the strangers of the nations as he
draws his rickety bow across his warped fiddle. Let us sing
and dance together.

If we do listen attentively we’ll hear our bubbies and

zaidies laughing with weeping eyes and if we look intently
into our common memories we’ll see them tantz around
wobbly on skinny legs that still vaguely remember the
steps. Amen! Amen!

Still hugging the frail little girl, the priest saw and heard the
commotion around the rabbi and came hurrying over. The
rabbi quickly explained what else had happened. It was

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sheer joy to observe these two men “of the cloth” gather the
Jewish children and walk, arms entwined, toward the
orphanage building. Nobody seemed to notice or care that
the other, non-Jewish children, joined the parade. Once
inside, tumult reigned.

Children running, jumping, shouting, pushing, pulling,

hugging, laughing. Elders, with authentic smiles they could
not suppress, could only watch in stunned amazement.
Tables and chairs were hastily arranged, juice and cookies,
brought out by convent staff materialized for the
celebration. While the children were thrilled to be feasting
on such a rare treat, Moses asked the priest if he could use a
phone. Given immediate permission, the rabbi made
several rapid phone calls to those who had been notified in
advance that such an occurrence might arise. Thus the
reuniting process was set in motion. Within no more than
forty-five minutes, car after car came to hurtling stops
outside the orphanage.

From them emerged men and women who practically

sprinted into the main building. Their expressions, all of
them, seemed identical. Expectant. Hopeful. Slightly
anxious. Eyes alert and alive, mouths agape. Now the
celebrating escalated. Motion. Movement. Raucous voices
rising and sometimes falling into quiet moans. Soon, very
soon, trucks full of delicacies arrived and were added to the
meager juice and cookies. The tables groaned under the
mass of food and drink. Smoked meat, knishes, verenekas,
challah, chopped herring and chopped liver, salami, matzo
ball soup with knaidlach, borsht, blintzes, bulkahlach,

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honey cake, mandel broit, seltzer water, orange and apple
juice. And halvah! As the fressing commenced in earnest,
no one noticed that more adults were pressing themselves
into the already over-crowded room.
Unbeknownst to everyone, the priest had also made
telephone calls to Gentile families who had previously been
confirmed as ready to adopt all the non-Jewish children.
Now they were all present and the reunions could begin.
No instructions were given nor announcements made.
Driven by an inexplicable, invisible, gentle force, children
and adults attached themselves, creating what surely
resembled genuine, joyful families. Even as the joining up
process continued, those who had “found” each other,
moved toward the exit. Embracing.

Not very long after, the room contained only the priest and
the Rabbi. Exhausted but exultant.

They sat close to one another. Gazing into the depths of the
other, they conveyed love.

Another miracle? Absoludle!

The Gentiles who adopted the Gentile children returned to

their native cities to begin their new lives. Many of the
Jewish families who adopted the Jewish children, were
fortunate enough to be moving to North America by ship.
As is usually the case, the quay from which a loaded ship
was leaving to cross the Atlantic, was in turmoil. Afraid of

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missing the departure, people rushed around desperately.
People waving flags, people shouting their tearful good-
byes. The excitement was palpable.

Soon the ship began its ponderously slow move away from
the quayside. At that very moment a horrifyingly loud,
moments-long horn blast escaped the bowels of the ship.

Achtung! Achtung! Juden rouse!

This is not a love boat!

As it maneuvered out of the harbor and the ship’s horn

slowly, painfully, faded, an observer turned to her
companion and asked, “By the way, what’s the name of the
ship?”

“It’s too foggy. I can’t tell. Wait, I’ll try with my

binoculars. Ah yes, I can see the name clearly now. It’s the
S.S. St. Laurent.

The S.S. St. Laurent sailed from Germany in June of 1945

bound for North America. It was referred to as The Ship Of
Fate because the vessel was never allowed to dock when it
reached the shores of the New World. One is too many.

It was forced to return to Europe, which was then still in

the arms of death merchants, in thrall of pyromaniacs and
unrepentant assassins. Cuba, the United States and Canada
offered no welcoming arms, no hands to greet and embrace.

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Only a divine being, if ever there was one, could prophesy
their fate.

------------------------------------------------

Author’s note: This novella is fiction. In reality though, the

S.S. St. Louis sailed from Hamburg on May 13, 1939 with
more than 900 Jews aboard. It was bound for Cuba, but
because of bureaucratic bungling, the ship was not allowed
to dock and it was sent back to Europe.

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