Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 22 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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Patient Report – Aryeh Klein
Temperature – 40.8 degrees Celsius
Blood Pressure – 80/45
Respiratory Distress – Mild
Test Results – Bronchial Breathing
Diagnosis – Flu, Pneumonia
“You’re not going in.” Babbe sounded a bit muffled due to the white fabric covering she wore on her face. She stood at the doorway, with her hands resting on the doorposts to the infirmary hut. “There, another reason to be happy that your husband is also my grandson. I’m taking care of him as best as possible, Naomi’le. It’s not a place for you. Go home.”
“I brought him soup, Babbe.”
“I also did, it’s fine.”
“And he ate it?”
“He will eat it, b’ezras Hashem. I’ll make sure of it.”
“But he’s been like this for four days already!”
“I hope that very soon, b’ezras Hashem, he’ll feel better.”
“But Babbe, what is this disease that he has?”
“Dr. Katzburg says it’s very severe flu that sometimes also attacks the lungs and causes infection. That’s likely what the Elkovitz baby has also.”
“Oy.” Naomi’s voice trembled.
“It’s really going around. We have had twenty-three flu patients in the past two weeks. Seven of those patients contracted pneumonia too. I think that’s what happened to Aryeh.”
“Is Aryeh…is he breathing okay?”
“He’s breathing fine, Naomi. Now go back to the preschool. The children are waiting for you, right?”
“I can’t.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid that something bad will happen to him.”
“So go and collect some zechusim for him.” Babbe put a hand on her shoulder and almost pushed her backward. “Go to school, darling—you’ll see that Hashem will help.”
Naomi averted her gaze. “Okay, so I guess I’ll see you later…” she whispered. “Besuros tovos.”
She hurried on the path to the preschool building, and saw Chani, her aunt and mother-in-law, running toward her. “Naomi!” Chani was breathless. “What’s going on? How does he feel?”
“Babbe said that he…he’s breathing okay. Baruch Hashem.”
“Is it pneumonia?”
“It looks like it.”
Chani was pale. “And what about antibiotics?”
Naomi shrugged. She had forgotten that there was such a thing, so she hadn’t even asked her grandmother. But Chani wasn’t waiting for her answer anyway; she ran on.
Naomi stopped and turned around. Chani was talking to Babbe at the doorway to the infirmary. It looked like Babbe wasn’t letting her in either. They spoke heatedly for a few moments, before Babbe finally moved aside a bit, and Chani stuck her head in, craning her neck as far as she could. Then, with a wave, Chani parted from her mother and walked back down the path toward the manor house.
“Did you see him?” Naomi asked when Chani caught up to her.
“No.” Chani bit her lip. “Each bed is separated with fabric partitions. But Wangel promised that he would bring antibiotic doses this evening. The question is…”
“What’s the question?”
“If he will bring enough.”
“And if not?” Naomi hated herself for the question, but she had to ask it.
“They will have to see for whom it is most…urgent.” She paused. “Or who has the most protektsia.”
“Someone whose mother works in their kitchen for years already should have protektsia—I would think!”
“I don’t know how much importance they attribute to me,” Chani responded quietly. “I have more chances to plead with them, because I work alongside their family, but I’m not sure that it will help. They like the food I cook, but it’s not a key position that’s very significant in our camp.”
“I hope that you are minimizing your value,” Naomi said. It wasn’t something that would have been appropriate to say to a new mother-in-law, if she had not been her aunt as well.
“I hope so too. I hope even more,” the corners of her mouth turned up with effort, “that they’ll just bring enough for everyone. Then all this tension and pressure won’t be necessary, and with Hashem’s help, everyone will get well.”
“Amen. But tell me, if the grandmother of the patient works at the infirmary, isn’t that a bit of protektsia?” Naomi knew she was badgering like the little kids in the kindergarten did.
“Babbe? Are you serious? She’d never get involved to obtain medicine for her grandson if she thought that someone else needed it more, and that the dose was being stolen from that person.”
“But why would someone need it more?”
“Because Aryeh is a strong boy.” Chani bit her lip. “So they might decide to give the antibiotics to the weaker patients, and let Aryeh’s body fight the illness on its own. But I…I’m afraid, Naomi.” The worried mother’s voice shook. “Pneumonia is not child’s play, even for someone healthy.”
They walked in silence until they reached the preschool. “Daven hard with them, Naomi,” Chani said, her eyes looking off somewhere in the distance. “Daven well.”
“Yes,” Naomi whispered.
***
“This is for your granddaughter, Sherer,” Herr Wangel said, putting a white plastic bag, with a small logo in the corner, on the desk. “Her antibiotics. The infirmary should have syringes and all that. So let’s go, let them start giving her what she needs.” There was a trace of fake warmth in his voice.
“Thank you, Herr Wangel,” Leo Sherer said.
“And this,” Wangel placed another bag on the desk, “is what we were able to get for the other patients. But it’s not intravenous—it’s oral medicine. There are Amoxicillin tablets here, and based on the instructions I received, they need to be taken three times a day for at least a week. So see how much there is and who you should be giving all this out to.” He looked pointedly at Sherer, who stood motionlessly, and added, “And take into account that I’m not taking the risk of obtaining more antibiotics for you. So I suggest you use what I’m giving you now very wisely, and do everything in your power to stop this whole story.”
“Certainly, Herr Wangel,” Sherer agreed.
After the Nazi left, he hurried to open the bag. There were three packages; each one said it had twenty tablets.
What were sixty tablets for seven patients? It wouldn’t even be enough for three days for each of them, certainly not a week. And who knew what was coming in the days ahead?
He sighed and left his office with the medication for Suzy’s little one. “Mrs. Kush,” he said politely to the secretary sitting outside his office with the account books, “please bring this as fast as possible to the infirmary, with a message that it is for my granddaughter.”
Elky stood up quickly.
Just then, Eva Sherer appeared, as if out of nowhere. “Where is the rest of the antibiotics, Father?” she asked.
“In my office.”
Eva turned to Elky. “So please tell the infirmary that a small amount of antibiotics has arrived, and that they should prepare a list of those who need it the most. Alright?”
“Okay,” Elky said, thinking about her poor friend Naomi. It was only a week since Naomi’s wedding, and her husband was in the infirmary in pretty serious condition. She took the bag, hesitated, and then blurted out, “I have a friend whose husband is very sick. Naomi Klein. Née Schvirtz.”
Eva and her father exchanged glances. “Let them make the list of patients in the infirmary,” Eva said, after a long moment of silence. “That’s the first step. Before that, there’s nothing to talk about.”
***
A long moment of silence passed before the secretary raised her eyes to Dena. “Something strange?” she asked, again sounding distant and cool. “What is it?”
“Look!” Dina pointed to the shiny packaging paper. “What is this? The factory here doesn’t have a kashrus certification?”
“No kashrus?” The secretary was nearly offended at first, before realizing, a moment later, how absurd it sounded, and she began to laugh. “Are you asking me if your family’s factory has a kashrus certification?!”
“I know it’s kosher.” Dena fumbled for a moment. “But why isn’t there a kosher symbol on the package?”
“Oh, that…” The secretary’s laugh was replaced with a sigh. “I forgot that you come from Israel. There’s a lot of anti-Semitism here, and there are people who don’t want to buy products made by Jews. So one of the ways to get around this issue is not to put the kashrus certification symbol on the package.”
“So this way, the non-Jews don’t know that Jews produced it—okay, I can hear that. But then the Jews won’t buy the spices! I mean frum Jews.”
“They buy the spices, of course they do,” the secretary reassured her. “There’s a list of kosher factories in Europe, and the Jews know that they can use the products made in those factories. It’s really fine—you don’t have to worry about it.”
Dena smiled and nodded, and then Bentzy finally emerged from the conference room. He apologized for the delay and said something about how much pressure he was under and how busy he was today, and that he hoped his lateness wouldn’t mean they had missed their appointment at the clinic.
“It will be fine, b’ezras Hashem,” Dena replied. She was distracted, although she couldn’t put her finger on what was bothering her. It apparently had to do with the spices packaging. Okay, she understood why it was strange to her.
Then why was she still so disturbed about it?
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