Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 7 of a new online serial novel, Nine A.M., by Esther Rapaport. Check back for a new chapter every week. Click here for previous chapters.
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Weekly work hours report for Binyamin Shvirtz:
Sunday 5/2/93 – 12/12
Monday 5/3/93 – 12/12
Tuesday 5/4/93 – 12/12
Wednesday 5/5/93 – _______
Thursday 5/6/93 – _______
Friday 5/7/93 – _______
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Again a siren!
Well-trained as they were, the workers hurried to the huge storage room two levels down, deep under the factory. In the distance, they could hear Schubert’s Symphony that had stopped them in the middle of whatever they had been doing. They were all used to the odor in and around the factory, and for the most part, they hardly smelled it. But here, in this closed, dim place, it was especially strong, and Binyamin couldn’t even think in learning. Instead, he pulled out his work report and scanned the information he’d filled in the night before.
The older children came running from the paddocks and automatically sat down and began to play their regular games. A few of them sat around twelve-year-old Eliyahu Miller and studied his hands as they rapidly whittled chessmen, one after another. Some of the children just daydreamed.
Suddenly, the background music switched to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, and they all looked at each other, puzzled.
“It was a false alarm.” Josef Wangel was standing at the doorway of the large shelter, his eyes flitting over all of them and stopping when they reached Binyamin. “Everyone back to work.”
With large strides, he approached the seventeen-year-old and pointed to the paper he was holding. “I received a similar paper to this in my office last week, all filled out,” he said. There was a certain gleam in his eye, which Binyamin was not sure how to interpret. “Full number of work hours, huh? So how is it that your output was short of the regular quota?”
“Indeed, there was a certain problem, Herr Wangel,” Binyamin said respectfully. Nothing would happen to him, b’ezras Hashem, even if they would be a little annoyed. But Pinchas was afraid that if he would admit that he was responsible for the lapse, his salary would be reduced, and he might even be switched to another job. Rabbi Schwartzbrod had ruled for him half a year ago that in such a case, he was allowed to alter the truth.
“A problem with what? Raw materials that didn’t get to you?”
“No…” Binyamin wondered if he should get up. Almost everyone else had risen already, hurrying to get back to their work routine. But if he stood up, he’d stand taller than the Hauptmann, and that might be interpreted as defiance. On the other hand, if he remained seated, Wangel might think he was indifferent and impudent. Fortunately, Wangel moved off, thus resolving Binyamin’s dilemma. But not before he put a firm hand on Binyamin’s shoulder and told him, “You’ll make it up this week. I hope that that is clear to you.”
“I’ll have to add to my twelve hours of work,” Binyamin said cautiously.
“Then do that. Failures need to be paid for.” He was quiet for a moment, and then his eyebrows furrowed, the gleam in his eyes turning angry. “We do a lot to protect your lives, Schvirtz, and you are still wondering if you are supposed to add hours to complete what you owe us? Speak to Sherer. Let him give you a permit to be out at night.”
He turned and left the windowless, concrete storage room, heading for the stairs. Binyamin followed. One level above them, and one level below the ground floor, were the soaking pools, at the end of which there was a small hidden corner, Binyamin’s workstation. Three rectangular wooden frames stood at the entrance, upon which three brown furs were stretched. A pale light entered from the narrow windows near the ceiling, weakly illuminating them. Binyamin ran a finger over the first fur, then the second one. When he reached the third one, he paused for a moment, removed one of the clamps, and then tightened the fur onto the frame.
Someone squeezed over next to him. “Did you tell him?” he asked in a somewhat squeaky voice, looking over his shoulder. Wangel was already out of the hall, and only Leo Sherer, the Jewish foreman, remained. He was deep in conversation with two fifteen-year-old students about smoking the fur to prevent rotting.
“No, Pinchas, I didn’t say a thing.”
The man, whose whitening hair stuck out of his head in curls that seemed as rebellious as a ten-year-old’s, looked at Binyamin, wide-eyed. “But he asked you—I saw! And I also saw that he was upset!”
“It’s alright, I told him that I had an issue with something; I made sure to be vague.”
“And what did he reply?”
“He wants me to make up the missing quota this week.”
“But how are you going to do it? You don’t work on Shabbos.”
“I made up with him that I’d work additional hours to make it up. He agreed.” Binyamin went into his corner, with Pinchas on his heels.
“And I’ll also need to…?” Pinchas asked hesitantly.
“You don’t have to,” Binyamin said. “He doesn’t know that my output right now depends only on what you give me. But we do need to think how I can get more furs from you to finish, if those two hardened and were ruined.”
“We usually have extra hides in the pools of alkaline solution, so raw materials shouldn’t be a problem. And if I take another two youngsters to help with the cleaning, I’ll pay them from my vouchers.”
“The question is how we can speed up the process that comes after that. Do you think they’ll be able to put more furs into the emulsion pool in the next two days?” Binyamin sat down at his table and put a hand on the heavy sewing machine.
“In the next two days? Why two days?”
“Because we’re already at the end of the week, and I absolutely refuse to allow them to do it on Shabbos. And in any case, Wangel is expecting results from me at the end of my work week next week, meaning on Friday.”
Pinchas nodded. “We can put more furs than usual into the emulsion bath,” he said finally, his tone inscrutable. “But for that we’ll need more of the substance, and more manpower for scraping. Can you speak to Leo about it? Maybe he’ll offer to assign me the two new boys…”
“He’s sending them to the fur smoking department—I heard them talking about it. For months, Alex has been pleading for help, because he’s alone in that job.” Binyamin climbed onto a chair to open the slats of the small window. From there, he primarily saw the roots of the thick trees, but when he squinted his eyes and slanted the slats, he could also see the wide path on the slope of the hill.
Who was that there, frolicking around? The children had gone on an outing with Naomi? She’d mentioned something like that yesterday. It was a good thing the siren hadn’t alerted them in the middle of their outing; that would have gotten her very nervous.
The musical siren had probably caught Babbe in the kitchen of the older people’s residence and the preschool, or in the infirmary hut. Zeide had probably been in the shul. The Germans chose to turn a blind eye to the activities that took place in the “Jewish synagogue.” Even though the official schedule was hung on the door, noting when there were services, when someone was there at other times—if it was not on account of their work hours—the Germans didn’t say a word.
It was hard to know if they were aware of the mikveh that had been dug under the floor of the shul.
He continued to gaze at the path. The children walked obediently in a line, in pairs, with Naomi at the lead. At the bend before the factory, they turned and disappeared one by one, out of his field of vision.
“Binyamin? Would you speak to Leo Sherer instead of me?” Pinchas’s hand was at Binyamin’s side, knocking on the wall to bring him back to the conversation. “I cannot let him think that I already belong in the old people’s house. That must not happen.”
“You don’t belong there,” Binyamin said soothingly, as he got off the chair. “And even when, b’ezras Hashem, you’ll get old enough to go there, it will be fine. My grandparents are very happy there, and they were definitely worried about the move.”
“You’re young, Binyamin; you don’t know anything. I was also young once, in Poland. I was only thirteen, and it was a big sin. If I would have said my real age in Auschwitz…” He fell silent for a moment. “But I lied and they believed me, and that’s how I survived until that horrific march, before I fortunately landed here.”
“And b’ezras Hashem, you’ll have many more good years, Pinchas. They benefit from having us here, you know.” He suppressed a sigh and put his foot on the pedal of his machine. “But fine, I’ll talk to Leo about it.”
“You will?” The man’s eyes sparkled, and the wrinkles at their edges suddenly seemed very pronounced. “Thank you, Binyamin. I knew I could trust you. Your father was also such a good person…”
“But what will be if two furs are missing at the inventory count at the end of the month?”
“They won’t be, because I hope to save something of them,” Pinchas said confidently, sounding once again like the experienced tanner that he was. “So don’t tell Leo that you didn’t get enough materials from me for the work. Just tell him that there were a few hides that were thicker than usual, and harder for you to work on, and you asked me to take them and deal with them again before you try to work on them further.”
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