Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 39 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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Sodium Chloride (15 kg)
Sodium Silicofluoride (1 kg)
Zinc Chloride (2 kg)
Formaldehyde (200 ml)
Sodium Bisulfate (2 kg)
Norsulfazol/Sulfidin/Furacilin (25 tablets)
Mix the ingredients well until it becomes a smooth mixture. Soak the fur in the mixture for a few hours until the hard top layer disappears entirely—
“Binyamin, how are you? Baruch Rofei cholim!” Mottel Kush cast a shadow on the paper his young friend was working on as he chewed on an apple.
“Baruch Hu u’baruch Shemo, I do feel much better.”
“What’s this paper?”
“This? These are instructions plus a list of ingredients for the initial soaking of the furs.”
“I got that much.” Mottel smiled and sat down on a nearby tree stump, far from the other workers who were using the break to grab a snack. “I meant to ask why you are sitting and writing it, and more than that—why are you writing nonsense? Fifteen kilograms of Sodium Chloride? You can throw that fur right into the garbage! What else did you write there? Twenty-five tablets…really! It’s one thing if you put in Norsulfazol, but Sulfidin? You need at least fifty if you want to keep the proportions that you started with.”
“I know.” Binyamin nodded as he studied the paper in front of him.
“So what’s this about?”
“Don’t talk about it so loudly, but Leo Sherer asked me to draft something about fur production. A few of the secrets of the trade, so to speak.”
“For his newsletter? Who does it interest here?”
“Not for his newsletter. If I understood correctly, it’s for a newspaper on the outside.” He took a deep breath.
“What happened?” Mottel grew serious. “Why do the Nazis suddenly want to publicize the secrets of this trade?”
“So, as you can see, they don’t really want to publicize it…they told me not to write the truth, so that no one should try to compete with them. But there is going to be a series of articles in one of the Austrian newspapers interviewing Wangel on the subject of processing furs at home. Don’t worry, no one is going to try it based on this, because we are not going to share the whole production process, but Wangel says that even what we do write should deviate from the real thing.”
“And what happened that he’s agreeing to have our brand written up?”
“I think that some of the Austrian media was writing against him because of what happened during the solar eclipse last week. You know, when he didn’t let a lot of the curious onlookers come close to the area, and he sent guards to chase them away, claiming that it was private land and that there were enough other places where they could observe from…”
“Guards? Where does he have guards from?”
“I guess his friends from the Wehrmacht came to help.”
“And is that true? Is it really their private land?”
“Sherer told me he thinks that it is.” Binyamin made a Borei Nefashos, got up, and stuck the paper and pencil into his pocket. “In any case, they want to generate some positive public opinion, after some Austrian journalist wrote against their zealotry for privacy and their impolite behavior.”
“So why did they ask you, specifically?”
“They actually asked my brother-in-law Aryeh,” Binyamin said tersely. “He’s been very busy with creating the formula for the soaking, aside for the initial cleansing, and he’s seen a lot of success with what he’s doing. So I’m writing this up for him.”
Mottel Kush followed him to the door of the factory, a bit breathless. “Very strange story, these articles… Do you think it means we’re in danger of being discovered?”
“I hope not.” Binyamin shrugged. “I don’t think Wangel is being accused of anything so terrible. I think he’s just afraid of his brand losing popularity. You’re out of breath, Mottel.” He turned around to the young man walking half a pace behind him. “Are you feeling okay?””
“Me? Yes, I’m fine.”
“You’re very pale.”
“Me?” Mottel laughed, but his lips curled into a distorted smile, and he appeared anything but cheerful. “Since you collapsed, Binyamin, you suspect everyone who you meet of being unwell, don’t you?”
“Not everyone. But you really don’t look good,” Binyamin answered simply.
“I’m tired, I guess.”
Binyamin nodded but didn’t ask anything more. He went into the big building and continued to the production hall. Sitting down, he positioned his foot over the pedal as he guided the needle to the stitch he had been working on before the break.
He raised his eyes for a moment to look around. The buzz in the production hall was the usual, but his eyes searched for Mottel. There he was, with his steel scissors. Standing next to a fur that was stretched onto the frame, preparing to cut it along the marking in the middle.
He shouldn’t do it. Didn’t he realize that his hands were shaking?
“Mottel!” Binyamin called in a loud whisper.
“Yes?” Mottel turned his head.
Binyamin stood up. “Don’t cut, Mottel. It’s not worth it. Your hands are shaking. It will be bad news if the fur is ruined.”
Mottel studied him for a long moment and then turned his gaze to the hand holding the scissors.
“Maybe you are sick, Mottel,” Binyamin continued worriedly. “Please, don’t ignore what I’m saying. You don’t look good. It’s not worth it for you to work in this situation. If you cause them damage, it will cost you several times more than going home to rest for a day.”
An inscrutable expression crossed Mottel’s face, but he put the scissors onto the little stool next to him and sat down on the other stool.
“I’ll get you something to drink, Kush,” Binyamin said.
Mottel didn’t object. His hand was still shaking as he took the cup of water and sipped it. Binyamin kept his eyes on him. “You look like someone who skipped a good breakfast…” he joked. “But you ate, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t have much of an appetite. But yes, I ate a little bit.”
“And now, during the break, did you have something to eat?”
“No. I don’t always eat during the break.”
“Can I bring you an apple?”
Mottel cleared his throat. Binyamin didn’t know what his considerations were, but he had a strong feeling that it was only his self-respect that made Mottel answer “no.”
Suddenly, Leo Sherer appeared next to them. “What is going on here?! Chatting on account of work hours?!” He looked behind him for a moment, and Binyamin noticed Wangel’s brown uniform entering the production hall. Binyamin stood up and hurried to his table, glancing at Mottel, who remained sitting on his stool, the scissors still sitting on the stool beside him. He didn’t touch them.
“What’s with you, Kush?” Leo clasped his fingers. “The furs are waiting to be cut!”
“I don’t feel well,” the younger man answered quietly. “I don’t think it’s right for me to accidentally destroy the expensive materials…”
“You don’t feel well? Another one?! What’s been going on here lately is becoming impossible!”
Leo was tense, nervous, afraid for his own skin. “It’s a good thing you used your discretion, that’s all I can say. And this day will come off your salary, of course.”
The Hauptmann stood at a distance for a long moment, observing the scene but not interfering. His eyes traveled around, and then he came straight over to Binyamin’s sewing machine. “Your brother-in-law said you are writing material for him for the newspaper,” he snapped angrily. “What’s with it?”
“It will be ready this evening, Herr Wangel.” Binyamin stopped pedaling and raised his gaze. “B’ezras Hashem,” he added softly, under his breath.
Wangel stared at him for a long moment, and then said, “We’re going to need a series of five articles with instructions on how to process furs at home. So you will do that. Is that clear?” He came around the worktable so he could get closer to Binyamin. His eyes fixed on the soft fur whose edges spilled off the table, and the gorgeous finishing seam that adorned one third of it.
“Continue working!” he said sharply. The hall suddenly fell silent, with only the regular rustles and rumbles of the work getting done generating a melancholy hum in the background.
“We didn’t know that you’re good at writing,” the Hauptmann said, after a few long moments of following Binyamin’s actions. “But your sister knows how to write children’s stories, or so I’ve heard. And your father also wrote very well. He had lots of notebooks.”
He folded his arms and his eyes locked on Binyamin’s. “Have you come across some of the stuff your father wrote? Maybe a letter from someone, or an important note?”
***
“Dena, am I calling you during your work hours?”
“Yes, but it’s quiet here now.” Dena pulled the red and black elastic band over the cardboard file and slid it into the shelf. “How are you, Charna?”
“Very good, baruch Hashem.”
“How did you know to call me here?”
“What do you mean? Your mother-in-law told my mother that you started working at the factory. Listen, I wanted to tell you that we’re getting together tomorrow.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“The group. I told you about our women’s group.”
“Oh, yes…” Dena stuck the last delivery forms of the day into the photocopy machine, one after another. She just had to file them in the right place and then she could go home.
“So, will you come?”
“I need to see if I have someone to watch the kids.”
“Their grandmother. No excuses, Dena. I’m sure you learned in seminary over there about how you have to be proactive if you want to get anywhere… Although you probably don’t want to get anywhere here. You probably want to move away from Vienna as soon as possible, because you’re sure that you can only be a righteous wife in Eretz Yisrael, and there’s nothing for you in Austria—right?”
“I…” Dena didn’t have time to ponder if she should get insulted or be impressed by the distinctly un-European bluntness. The sound of a motor coming to life outside drew her to the side window, and she watched two huge trucks leave the factory area, loaded with cinnamon, black pepper, cayenne pepper, and sweet paprika.
Did she really have nothing to do here in Austria?
“You know what? I’ll come to the get-together,” she said to Charna. “B’ezras Hashem.”
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