Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 47 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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On the paprika label, in tiny letters, in German:
This product was packaged with the highest standards of hygiene, quality, and freshness. But there is the rare possibility of insects getting into the product after it leaves the factory. Checking is necessary.
“Naomi?” Chani, her mother-in-law, noticed her strange position.
“Yes,” Naomi said as she slowly put the glass jar down on the shelf.
“Is everything okay? You…you weren’t offended by anything I said, right?” She fell silent because at that moment, her sons came back to the kitchen.
“What else should we take to the table, Mamme?” Eli asked, and before he finished the last word, the cloth napkins were placed in his hands, along with napkin rings and silver chargers.
“Everything should be folded very precisely!” Chani instructed, and the two boys scampered out again.
“Aren’t they tempted to sometimes taste the food?” Naomi asked, sounding as if she’d just woken up from an afternoon nap and was still groggy and confused.
“Why, you think they would be? I make every effort to ensure that the food in our house is delicious and plentiful. Here, too, I always make sure they have food, so that the meat and the other problematic foods in this place shouldn’t be a nisayon for them.” Chani shook her head. “But you still haven’t answered me if you were insulted by something I said.” She was on the verge of being offended herself by the probing and apparent rebuke that her daughter-in-law was insinuating, but shviggers don’t have the privilege of being offended; only their young daughters-in-law do.
“I’m not insulted.” Naomi sat down. “You didn’t offend me at all.”
“So what just happened now?”
“Is-is this the same packaging on the paprika that they always have?”
“The shape of the jar is the same, for years. This orange and green label is relatively new—maybe ten months old, a year…I don’t remember exactly.”
“And this statement?” Naomi glanced at the kitchen door, stood up, and took the canister off the shelf. She handed it to her mother-in-law and pointed to the words that had shocked her.
Chani read them quietly, and her forehead creased. “Nu?” she said after a minute.
“Are there other nations that are careful not to eat insects?” Naomi asked.
“In principle? I don’t know about that. Baruch Hashem I am not so familiar with other religions. But from a hygienic point of view, for sure. Who wants to eat bugs?”
“To the extent that they’d write that it’s ‘necessary to check’?”
Chani’s lips puckered. “Could be,” she said. Then she laughed. “Apparently, this factory owner has bugs on his mind, okay? Maybe someone once got upset after finding insects in his product, so he wants to stress that when the product leaves his factory everything is fine, and after that, the customers are responsible for the cleanliness of their own food.”
Naomi was quiet.
“Why, what did you think when you saw this?” Chani asked.
Naomi glanced again at the door. “That…that maybe there are other Jews in the world,” she whispered.
“Jews.”
“Yes.”
Chani snickered, and then a second later, she caught herself. “How?” she asked. “Don’t you read the newspapers that get here, Naomi? How would Jews have a chance to survive in this world?”
“How did we have a chance to survive here for fifty years already?”
“Theoretically, you could be right, of course. But practically? I don’t know. It’s hard for me to believe that it makes sense, and this short message doesn’t justify such a conspiracy. My simple explanation seems more reasonable. Don’t you think?”
Naomi nodded and put the little jar back in its place. “I think I’ll go now,” she said. “Babbe is waiting for me, and so are the children.”
“Good luck!” Chani said warmly. She mused at how those who had warned her were right; the fact that you are your niece’s mother-in-law doesn’t exempt you from sometimes feeling like a real mother-in-law, with all the nuances involved. She picked up the jar that had cast Naomi into such a state, and read the statement again. Then she put the jar back in its place again, one of her eyebrows arched.
Yes, there are always those who claim that a daughter-in-law and mother-in-law should not work in the same workspace. She’d always waved that rule away, because it wasn’t noge’a; she was a lone worker. But it was interesting to discover that even a one-time courtesy visit from her daughter-in-law could leave a bitter taste in her mouth.
***
Binyamin had a feeling that the break he’d taken had lasted longer than expected today. It was true that Hauptmann Wangel wasn’t around, but there was no knowing when he’d be back, or if he would send someone else in his family in his place, or even worse, if Lieutenant Bernard himself would show up.
Actually, Leo Sherer wouldn’t let Binyamin’s lateness pass either, certainly not a late return from his special-privilege break. He picked up his pace as he strode from the cemetery toward the factory. Suddenly he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, a figure leaning against a tree and observing him.
He paused for a moment and bent down to fix something on his shoe. Then he stood up and casually glanced in that direction. Immediately, he relaxed; it was just Yanku Elkovitz.
Binyamin waved, but the boy pretended to be checking something on the wide-trunked tree and didn’t seem to notice him. That was a bit strange, because Binyamin was sure that the boy had been standing and gazing at him just a moment ago. He wondered how long Yanku had been watching him—perhaps already from the moment that he’d stood near Tatte’s kever? Well, if Yanku had seen him come, bend down, nearly flat on the ground, and then freeze in place for a few long moments, it was no wonder that this strange behavior had made him stare.
Maybe he was waiting for no one to be around, and then he’d go over and see what was so interesting on the lower side of the headstone? That was a risk of sorts, because there was no way of knowing if he would stay quiet about it. And the fact that this word had been written on his father’s matzeivah could not get around.
Binyamin slowed his pace, trying to think if he had any way of preventing Yanku from going to the cemetery now. Suddenly, two shaggy-haired children ran toward Yanku, almost bumping into him. “Yanku!” one of them gasped breathlessly. “Gusti is sick!”
Gusti?
“Sick?” Yanku leaped up from his place behind the tree. “Who told you?”
“His tail is down, and he left all his food!”
Binyamin’s wordless prayer had been answered. He smiled as he watched Yanku turn and run with the two children toward the fox kennel. Binyamin continued on his way, trying to think of a suitable excuse that would allow him to return to the cemetery immediately to clean the suspicious word. Maybe he’d quickly finish the inner border of the cross-stitches, and Sherer would be pleased, so he’d allow Binyamin to run and take care of something important. Then he’d make up the lost time after work hours.
The most significant question was first whether he was late now, which would make Sherer angry.
The large clock at the entrance to the factory indicated that he was six minutes late, but Leo Sherer was nowhere to be seen along the corridor, nor in the production hall that Binyamin dashed into, out of breath. He sat down at his table and began to press on the pedal of his machine. His eyes were fixed on the tiny stitches that the thread was drawing along the hem of the light-colored fur, but in fact, with each stitch, he saw only the word that he had left behind in the cemetery.
Turpentine should do a good job of removing it, right?
“I’m happy to see you are working with precision, Binyamin,” a deep voice said from behind him. “This fur is a private order. You remember that, right? We need top-quality work.”
“Yes, Mr. Sherer.” Even if his memory was short, chalilah, after four reminders to the same effect, there was no chance he’d forget this.
“Are you doing it the way you should be?” Leo bent down and grabbed a corner of the fur, examining each stitch closely. “Looks very good,” he finally said.
“Baruch Hashem,” Binyamin replied, trying to control his panting. “Mr. Sherer, I remembered that I need to take care of something urgent before the sun sets. Can I go out for a few minutes? I’ll give back the time at the end of the workday.”
“How will you do that? You don’t have a permit to be outside later.”
“The permit the Hauptmann gave me is not time-limited.” Binyamin raised his eyes to the foreman. “I stopped using it when I became ill, but it’s still valid.”
The man sized Binyamin up with his gaze. “Herr Wangel will be back this evening,” he noted. “So don’t think he’s not around, and don’t try to do anything foolish, okay?”
“Of course. What kind of foolishness could I do already?”
The man nodded and continued on his way. Binyamin continued to sew, his eyes focused on the white seam. A few more stitches, and he’d be done with this border. When he’d come back, he’d complete the final row of stitches, and then the job would be done.
He passed quickly and quietly between the workers, looking for his brother-in-law, Aryeh. He found him standing at the first soaking pool, using a long stick to agitate the liquids. Binyamin sniffed. “Aryeh?” he whispered. “Aryeh, can you come with me for a minute to the small storage room?”
“What do you need?” Aryeh wasn’t the talkative type.
“Turpentine. To clean something. It’s urgent.”
“We have it. How much do you want?”
“I don’t know exactly. Maybe a cup or two…”
“Fine. Anything else?”
“Do you have sandpaper? Or something else I can use for scraping?”
“That’s not my domain, but I can give you some. Come.”
***
Dena’s eyes flitted every which way. She’d passed a few streets trying to find the factory, and the whole area was becoming less and less familiar. What was she supposed to do now?
Perhaps it was a shame she wasn’t a little girl anymore; had she been, she could have stood right here and started to weep. Weeping was a wonderful tool; it made an impression in any language. Although she wasn’t sure that the cold Viennese gentiles would be very impressed, and that was even before she’d assessed their level of anti-Semitism.
How could she tell her mother-in-law that she’d gotten lost? Maybe it was better to try calling the factory and speak to Bentzy. There was a public phone on the corner, but she had no coins or tokens to pay for the call! That was very foolish on her part. Her mother always said you don’t leave the house without money.
She should try to reach out to someone here on the street. She’d manage with the language, one way or another.
“Excuse me,” she stammered in German to a woman who looked decent. “Can you tell me where—”
“No, I cannot!” the woman barked, and marched off.
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