Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 15 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.
Copyright © Israel Bookshop Publications.
The Pri Megadim explains that we are machmir on a problem of a lung, based on the Rashba and those who pasken like him. And there is also an explanation that…the lungs are a problem both in chayos and beheimos…
“What are you busy with now, Binyamin?” A shadow fell over the notebook. It was his cousin, Aryeh, rubbing his hands, which were wet from washing them before davening. “What are these notebooks?”
“They’re my father’s, zichrono l’vrachah. About the subject of treifos and lungs.”
Wide-eyed, Aryeh studied the stack of notebooks, Binyamin, and then the stack again. “Oh, yes. I remember, he used to write a lot.”
For a moment, Binyamin raised his head in a questioning motion; then he went back to the notebook. He finished reading the last page and closed it with a sigh. There was just one left.
“You don’t look like you slept much last night,” Aryeh commented.
“That’s nearly accurate.”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t sleep at all.”
“Why? How are you going to function at work today?”
“I worked harder yesterday to finish more than I had to, to cover part of today’s quota. I should be able to doze here and there at the factory.” He leaned back and stretched. “Is it already ‘misheyakir’? Can we put on tefillin?”
“Yes.” His cousin glanced out the small window. It was still dark outside, but the sky was beginning to turn a bit blue on the eastern horizon.
“So I’m the second one today for Belsky’s tefillin. If I don’t finish reviewing these pages before my turn, Aryeh, take it please, alright?”
Aryeh nodded and turned to see who had the black leather bag now. “And I’m fourth—I’ll tell you when that turn comes. What were you looking for all night? Something connected to what you’re learning now with Rabbi Schwartzbrod?”
“No, although I did see a few things that I want to go back to more thoroughly later on.”
“So what are you looking for?”
“We’ll talk afterward. It’s not for shul,” Binyamin said, and silently opened the last notebook.
Aryeh didn’t know if his evasiveness was because the subject was not suited for a mikdash me’at, or if Binyamin was uneasy talking about the notebooks with his cousin who struggled to read to this day, even though he was already in his twenties. It could also be because of the “ears in the walls” that had to be taken into account whenever they were in a closed place.
He glanced at Binyamin out of the corner of his eye; the younger boy was engrossed in the notebooks. Aryeh waited for his turn with the tefillin, while listening to the discussion among the men about how the time had come to add more pairs to the nine existing ones.
Binyamin scanned the pages of the final notebook. Based on the date, it was less than a month and a half before his father’s passing. Why had Mamme been so afraid of these notebooks? There were no secrets in them, only very clear summaries of various sugyos in Shas, most of them from Maseches Chulin.
At the end of davening, Binyamin caught up to Aryeh as he was leaving the shul. “You said that my father wrote a lot. You remember that?”
“I was almost seven when he passed away, so yes, I do remember it. But let’s talk in the factory, okay?”
Aryeh hastily ate his breakfast ahead of what was sure to be a busy day. He also needed to speak to his mother before he answered Binyamin’s questions.
The passing of Dovid Asher Shvirtz had always been a painful subject. Mamme and Aunt Rechel didn’t discuss it, or at least not in his presence. Binyamin, the young orphan, had only mentioned his father once, months after the passing, when he whispered hesitantly, “My Tatte went to Shamayim. But we don’t talk about him, because Mamme says he’s happy there and doesn’t want to come back.”
What had happened suddenly?
“Rechel told me she was going to give him Dovid Asher’s notebooks,” Chani replied as she quickly got ready to leave for the manor-house kitchen. “Take a hard-boiled egg and some bread, Aryeh. I’m running to work.”
“Thanks, Mamme. But tell me, what happened suddenly?”
“I don’t know. He asked for them.”
“And can I answer his questions?”
Chani, who was already standing outside, walked back in. “Which questions?”
“About the memories I have of his father.”
“Why not? Let him know something about his father. It’s important. I never understood why Rechel chose absolute silence, although I can’t judge her. But if she went now and gave him the notebooks, which almost certainly awakened all that pain again…then I assume she doesn’t mind if he wants to hear a bit about his father.”
“Whatever I remember.”
“Whatever you remember.” She smiled at him and dashed out.
The stripping of the hides at the slaughterhouse was as strenuous and disgusting as always, and it made Aryeh forget every topic of conversation not related to foxes. But as he attended to the carcass of the second fox, someone entered behind him. “Can we talk now?” he asked.
Binyamin’s voice.
“It’s pretty awful scenery to be discussing your father, zichrono l’vrachah,” Aryeh said, putting down the knife. “Especially since what I remember of him are very pastoral scenes.”
“Pastoral?” Binyamin leaned on the drab, gray wall.
“I was with my mother in the manor-house kitchen a lot, and it looked out over their garden, and I remember your father walking there along the flowerbeds. And he spent every spare minute seated at the table in the garden, writing.”
“At their table? In the manor-house garden?”
“Yes. I remember him to this day with the backdrop of trees, leaves, and flowering greenery, sitting with his pencil and writing.”
“What did the Nazis have to say about that?”
“I don’t think they usually said anything to him about it, except for two vague memories that I have.”
“From his last day of work for them?”
“No, actually my mother wasn’t feeling well that day, and we went home early. But I remember once, when old man Wangel, Josef’s father, shouted at him and took away his notebook. The other memory I have is of someone standing and photographing him while he was busy writing.”
For a moment, Binyamin was quiet. Then he asked, “And what happened with the notebook that the old man took away from him?”
“It’s hard for me to remember. I was about six at the time… If I’m not mistaken, he leafed through it, and then gave it back a few minutes later.”
“Gave it back?”
“Yes.”
Binyamin nodded. “Okay,” he whispered. “Thanks. And that’s all you remember of my father?”
“I really only remember your father sitting and writing those chiddushei Torah,” Aryeh said. “Not much else.”
“So why was my mother so afraid of these notebooks?” Binyamin’s eyes were luminous. “And who is she angry at when she talks about my father and the notebooks?”
“Angry? Are you sure? Maybe you’re just imagining it. You know, anger and grief sometimes intermingle…”
“Maybe,” Binyamin said. But it was clear to them both that the answer did not satisfy him. “Maybe.”
Aryeh was quiet for a long moment. “Do you know what I think you can do?”
“What?”
“Ask her about it.”
***
“Bobby,” Duvi said bashfully as he walked into the large room, “do you let me color in the coloring book on the shelf, the one that has the pictures of cars and planes in it?”
“Sure,” his grandmother said. “But darling, we don’t take out all the crayons at once, okay? Use a color and put it back in the box, and then take out another crayon.”
They were sitting in the most fully equipped playroom that Dena had ever seen, and taking into account that most of the toys and games were from her husband’s childhood, it certainly said something about her mother-in-law’s investment—both in the massive purchase of the toys, and in the way she kept them in pristine shape.
Toys that lit up, spun around, flew, and drove; building toys; thinking games; books, crafts, and writing supplies…they were all there. Duvi and Shloimy walked around with sparkling eyes, moving from one thing to the next with the speed of light. Dovi had left his coloring book and returned the crayons to their drawer. Now he was checking out a rocking horse painted in bright colors.
In her parents’ house, they’d never been able to keep toys in this type of condition, not to mention that they didn’t have all that many toys to begin with. She had no idea if anything remained from her childhood. Maybe a few baby rattles and an old game of Monopoly that was missing half the cards. But that was not a new flaw; already when she was twelve it wasn’t play-worthy. They kept the game only because of the nostalgia.
“I have nothing to play with friends who come to me,” she would complain. “All our games are missing pieces.”
“So trade stickers instead!” her older sisters would suggest, and that was always what she ended up doing. But then, fiery-eyed, she would promise everyone that in her own home, b’ezras Hashem, she’d make sure that her kids took very good care of their games and toys, and they wouldn’t lose a single piece. The room would also be cleaned up perfectly every day.
“You can start now, you know,” Bina told her one evening with a laugh. “Why wait until you are a mother? Everyone would be so happy if the room was cleaned up every day by you; you’ll be like our personal cleaning lady!”
At first Dena had considered getting offended, but then she decided to take the advice seriously. Not that it helped for toys that were missing pieces, or whose boxes were torn. But the room looked great. She didn’t miss a single day, not even before her huge math final that she’d been so pressured about. At the end, she’d passed the final, albeit with tremendous effort—and throughout it all, the room was clean.
It had become a family joke between her and her sisters, and when Bentzion Hanter of Vienna had been suggested for her, they’d all said that a “yekke” would be perfect for Dena, absolutely.
But who’d ever thought they would also try to turn her into one?
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