Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 9 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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Binyamin’s Heart – A Composition Written by Naomi at Age 9
The sun rises brightly as Bilhah, the preschool teacher, and I walk to the bakery. Today is my turn to help her bring the loaves of bread to the kindergarten. Suddenly, on the hillside, we see a commotion: noise, screaming, the boys running every which way. “What happened?” Bilhah and I ask each other. We don’t have an answer. We listen and hear calls: “Here he is!” “There he is!”
“One of the animals must have run away,” Bilhah says, and continues on her way. The aroma of the bread has already reached my nostrils, but I stop. I want to see my brother Binyamin. What is he doing at this hour?
Am I seeing right? Is that the blue shirt that Babbe sewed…? Yes, it is my brother. But why is he running in the opposite direction of all the other boys? I stop and watch. I see that he is bending down and hiding next to a bush. Why?
Bilhah calls me to hurry, and I continue on my way with her, wondering about my dear brother’s behavior. It’s not like him to be different from everyone else!
At home, I ask him about it, and he explains: “I didn’t want to chase after the poor lamb that escaped; it was so frightened! But the boy in charge of us screamed to me to help catch the lamb, so I went to hide. And what was there, among the branches of the bush that I ran to? That little lamb. I sat next to it, and we hid together, quietly. No one found us.”
It’s just like Babbe and Mamme always say: Binyamin has the most sensitive heart. He acted just like Moshe Rabbeinu! Maybe Binyamin will be the one to take us out of this galus, when he grows up—the way Moshe Rabbeinu took the Jews out of galus Mitzrayim???
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How many years had passed since Naomi had written that piece? Binyamin did not remember exactly. Since then, Naomi had written lots of stories, songs, and essays; Mamme asked Katarina for paper, and she provided it as a token of appreciation for Mamme’s excellent sewing skills. Sometimes Katarina also asked for copies of the nice stories, though Binyamin had no idea why she needed them. In any case, Mamme did not give her all of Naomi’s work—and certainly not that composition. Mamma kept it deep in her closet; it was testimony to her children’s kind hearts, and it was precious to her.
Why was he remembering this now? Not because of the compliments that Naomi had showered him with at the end of her cute piece, but because of that feeling of being pursued that he felt right now, as he silently got off the chair and cautiously walked backward. Just like that poor lamb.
Now he wasn’t only worried about himself. The talk that he had heard concerned him. What had the Nazis been referring to? What was the J1000 gene?
And how was Bernhard connected to this whole story? Most days, he wasn’t even in the camp; he just popped in here and there, but these short visits were enough to make everyone edgy, just by the virtue of his presence.
In another minute, Bernhard would get to the main entrance of the factory. Binyamin needed to find a hiding place, urgently, because it would be dreadful if they’d discover him and realize that he had been there the whole time and had heard their conversation. The first part of the conversation had actually been very clear: The anonymous Hans was chiding the Hauptmann about the risk they were taking by saving Jews for so many years already, but Wangel was convinced that just as they had been doing it undiscovered for fifty years, there was no reason for the authorities to suddenly find out about it now. It also sounded like this Hans helped them out in certain areas, perhaps relating to the bureaucracy and the financial affairs of the factory, and the Wehrmacht people in charge here paid him for it.
And the rest of the discussion? That wasn’t clear at all, but the fact that Wangel had gotten so nervous that he, Binyamin, may have overheard them, sounded suspicious.
Binyamin hugged the walls as he tiptoed in the silence of the ground floor to the side rooms. With his shoes in his hands, he ran to the little room that had the piles of raw furs, waiting for the initial cleaning. It was no small risk, because this area was very close to the main entrance of the factory, and within seconds, Bernhard would be walking through the doorway. And yet, it was the best hiding place that came to mind right now.
He entered the room a second before he heard the squeak of the factory door opening. Light flooded the entryway. On the floor in the dark room there were piles of salted furs waiting to be treated, and Binyamin dived under a huge mountain of lamb wool. The material was moist, and the stench was horrendous, nearly choking him. Binyamin closed his eyes and didn’t move. He thought about his siddur, back in the house, and how he couldn’t even hug it right now. Since he was little, Mamme had taught him that when it was impossible to daven because of the smell in the factory, he could instead hold the siddur that had belonged to Tatte a”h and think with all his might about what he wanted to ask Hashem for.
What did he want to ask for?
Oh, the list was long, and at the top right now was the strongest desire that Bernhard should not discover him. Bernhard had plans, his father had said. And somehow, it had something to do with his grades.
What did he, Binyamin, know about Bernhard? He studied at some university in Austria—that much was known. His father was very proud of him. He only served in the Wehrmacht for part of the year, and during those times, he preferred to do his service here. And with his father’s connections, it always worked out for him.
What was he studying? Something in the chemistry field? Biology? But he had talked about an article that had been published. Would it also get to the newspaper that they sometimes received here?
Bernhard’s footsteps echoed off the walls as he walked down the concrete hallway, and based on the intensity of the sound, it seemed as though he had passed—and skipped—the small, dark room. There were bigger halls to inspect, apparently.
“Is anyone here?” the young man shouted. It was evident that he was enjoying the echoes bouncing off the walls of the empty building, much like a little child. “Heeyyyy, Schvirtz, heeeyyy! If you’re here, I’m on my way to you!”
And if I’m not here? Binyamin mouthed to himself, and continued to listen with effort.
The thick, tangled wool on his head muffled the sounds, but he didn’t dare poke his head out. Based on what he could hear, Bernhard had walked down to the lower level, as he shouted, whistled, and sang. When the noises sounded very distant, Binyamin cautiously stuck his leg out from under the fur. Silently, he stood up and extricated himself from the damp, malodorous pile. He walked out of the room and hurried to the front door of the factory. He had to get home as quickly as he could, but he couldn’t walk on the normal path. From the factory’s position high up on the hill, most of the camp below was in its view. The two older Germans waiting for Bernhard to complete his search might spot him. Binyamin would have to use a more roundabout route.
The fluorescent light affixed to the ceiling of the factory threw a bright rectangle of light on the floor. Binyamin stopped one step before the lighted area and studied what was happening outside. The path and trees were dark, as far as he could see. Was there a chance that Wangel and his friend had followed Bernhard here and were waiting outside, or had they waited behind the back window? That sounded more reasonable.
With a slight hesitation, Binyamin stayed as close the wall as he could and drew near to the door. He crouched to a crawling position, and silently leaped behind the first bush outside. Everything was quiet. No one made a sound; nothing leaped at him from around any corner. Thank You, Hashem.
Binyamin raised his eyes to the watchtower, located ten meters away. It was dark and empty, as always. He quickly slipped through the trees, and after a few seconds, reached the southeastern wall. Now, under the cover of the bushes that lined that wall, he could get home.
The wall continued behind the factory, and then behind the small cemetery, and from there, it went around the paddocks. He walked as close to it as he could, on a long and convoluted path. Only when he finally reached the residential area, after more than twenty minutes, did he allow himself to move away from the wall that separated him and the abyss, and to cross, in a crouched position, the open area that separated him from the small houses. Almost the entire camp was visible from the factory at the top of the hill—but the part behind the residential huts was not.
He had to hurry. If Bernhard hadn’t worked too hard to search the factory thoroughly, he was probably finished. And if his father would decide to come and check if Binyamin was in his bed that night, he’d come the regular way, which would take him less than ten minutes.
Here was his house.
And it was a good thing Mamme had left the back window open.
Binyamin tiptoed over to it and quickly climbed inside.
“Binyamin?” Mamme whispered. She had been waiting up for him.
“Yes, Mamme.”
“Did you finish? But why are you coming in from the window?”
“I… Mamme, if anyone asks, tell them that I had a headache, so I came home earlier than expected.” He kicked off his shoes and grabbed his pajamas from his bed. “And that I went to sleep right away.”
The moon outside shone for a moment on his mother’s pale face, and she hurried to shut the window. “I see,” she said, and took a deep breath. “What did you get mixed into now?”
He washed his hands and face. “I didn’t get mixed into anything, Mamme. But I don’t want them to know I was in the factory until now, okay?”
She nodded, and he didn’t add anything more.
Thankfully, no one knocked at the door the whole night.
***
The delicious aroma of the bread being baked, and the light coming from the huge oven, captivated five-year-old Dror Elkovitz. Today it was his turn to come with the teacher to bring the bread for all the children in the kindergarten. He dropped Naomi’s hand and tried getting a bit closer so he could peek into the oven. “Dror!” Naomi called, as she waited patiently on line. “It’s dangerous—don’t go there!”
He obediently came back to her, but he stood on his tiptoes, still trying to get a peek. “What brachah do we make on bread?” he asked suddenly. “Hamotzi, right?”
“That’s right,” Naomi said slowly.
“My mother told me that she first thought it might be a Borei Pri Ha’adamah, because it’s from wheat that grows from the ground, but I told her that Bilhah always makes Hamotzi on her bread, and so do all the religious kids. So since then,” he puffed up with pride, “my mother also makes Hamotzi on it.”
“That’s really nice,” Naomi said. She studied him. Hamotzi and tefillin... Very interesting.
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this is the same chapter as last week!
Thank you for catching that. We updated it now.