Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 66 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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Permit to be outside for worker David Elkovitz
In order to complete lost work hours, David Elkovitz has hereby been granted permission to be outside of his residence after official work hours until 3:00 a.m. for the coming week. The permit is valid only for the area of the factory, the residential area, and the route between them.
Signed,
Leo Sherer
Foreman
“And your father-in-law gave me a permit to come early each day—and only that.” Toward the end of the meal in the communal dining room, Binyamin glanced at the paper that Elkovitz had put on the table. “I’m supposed to finish at the regular time with everyone else, and then I have to come back at three in the morning.”
“Yes, I heard him. That’s why I wanted to show this to you now.”
“I wonder if it’s intentional.”
“I’m afraid it is.” Elkovitz put the paper back in his pocket and picked up his soup spoon again. “He told me clearly that he doesn’t like our friendship.”
“And what did you answer him?”
“That it’s not a personal friendship, and that I’m just getting closer to your community in general.”
“So maybe it isn’t good that we’re sitting next to each other now.”
“But what am I supposed to do if that was the only empty seat when I came to the dining room, after he kept me so he could talk to me for six precious minutes of my break?”
Binyamin smiled into his soup. After a moment he grew serious again. “But if he comes in now, he’ll see that we’re among the last ones still eating, and that there are other empty places that you could move to, if you’d want.”
“Well, he doesn’t expect me to offend you.”
“In any case, it’s probably not a good idea for them to see us sitting and whispering to each other for a long time. What do you think we can do?”
Elkovitz was quiet as he emptied the last few drops of soup from his bowl. “I told him clearly that if I don’t finish some of my tasks, it might take me a few minutes longer, and that I imagine that might happen some of the days. And guess what? He agreed.”
“That means we’ll have just a few minutes together.” Binyamin sighed. “And not every day, either. You don’t want everyone to see that in those few minutes that you have to stay beyond the time stipulated in your permit, you somehow always end up working alongside me.”
“I also don’t have so much to do next to you.” Elkovitz sounded apologetic. “Tonight I have to fix your sewing machine, because the Hauptmann is planning to come tomorrow morning.”
“So we basically have tonight, and even then, just a few minutes.”
“It will be enough for you to tell me about the rest of the conversation your sister had; I was updated only about a specific part of it.”
“I’ll tell you everything. The problem is that with every day that passes, she’s less sure of herself.” He stood up. “So I’m afraid we will have no choice but to call and ask all the questions ourselves.”
“A few minutes probably won’t be enough for that,” Elkovitz said, and Binyamin wondered if he was hearing a clear note of relief in his tone. But he didn’t have a moment to spare to study the other man’s expression; he had to hurry back to the factory. Nothing would happen to David Elkovitz if he was a few minutes late. Leo Sherer wouldn’t do anything to his son-in-law, except perhaps frown in disapproval. As one of the senior maintenance workers at the factory, David mostly walked around and made sure everything was in order, and here and there, he lent a hand to whoever needed it.
But Binyamin? He had to be back in time. He could not deviate one iota from anything right now, so as not to draw fire to unwanted directions at unwanted times—from his perspective.
Binyamin dashed out of the dining hall and went up the path leading to the factory. Without a word, he sat down and began to work steadily, bent over his furs. He advanced one millimeter at a time on the finishing seam of the light-colored fur, wondering, as always, who was going to be wearing it. And if he usually envisioned a plump Nazi, now the delusional image of a wealthy, well-liked Jew rose in his mind, the type his grandparents described in stories they told about the times before the Nazis. The Jews who would wear elegant fur coats on Shabbos and Yom Tov as they walked through the streets to shul, together with dozens of other mispallelim.
Was it possible that there were Jews living freely like that right now, traveling the world and buying furs made by Wangel?
The thought was so amusing, on the one hand, yet it enthused him on the other. If it was possible that a Jew would wear the garment he was working on now, then he wanted it to be as beautiful as possible.
He continued with his precise work until the bell rang.
“You’re leaving now, and you’ll be back at three, right?” Leo appeared beside him, studying the fur. “You did a fine job on this.” He couldn’t help but deliver a compliment.
“Thanks,” Binyamin replied as his fisted hands massaged his aching back.
“Let’s hope that by the time you come back, David will have finished fixing your machine.”
“In any case, the next stage is by hand,” Binyamin said casually, so as not to show that he had to remind Leo—the father of the factory—what the exact stages of the finishing process were.
“Yes,” the man said, studying the fur again. “Absolutely. So in any case, even if the repair takes him longer, you can move forward.”
Binyamin went home, thinking about a plan for the night. He would speak with Elkovitz, and together they’d try to plan out the call they’d make to Hanter. When Naomi had spoken to the secretary there, she didn’t say a word that gave away where they were and that they were Jewish. He would also be quiet about that, of course. But he would have to speak in a way that would gain their trust, in the event that they were indeed Jews who would not understand who he was and what he wanted.
“Hello, Binyamin,” his mother greeted him. “What’s going on? You didn’t stay on at the factory? There’s no make-up time this year?” She already knew the schedule for after Yom Tov.
“Sure there is!” he said with a laugh. “No one is reducing our quotas. But this year they spread it out over a longer time, and that’s actually good for me. This way I don’t have to work through the night, only from three in the morning.”
“That’s great!” She was happy for him. “You can sleep normally, instead of catnapping at the factory. I’ll quickly warm up something for you to eat. I didn’t know you’d be coming home for supper.”
“It’s fine, Mamme. I don’t want you to make the effort.”
“When will you daven Shacharis?”
“At the regular minyan, with everyone, when I finish the night shift.”
“And when will you eat breakfast tomorrow? After davening?”
“I’m not sure I’ll come home for breakfast. I think I’ll take the food with me to the factory, to gain the time. Because in the end it works out that I don’t have so many overtime hours at night, and I have to finish the backlog within two weeks. I don’t want to drag it out longer than that.”
“That’s true,” she said softly and turned to the table. “Wash, Binyamin—I want you to have time to sleep.”
He did too, but he had to get to Naomi before the nine chimes, to take the phone from her. Maybe tomorrow, during breakfast, when most people hadn’t started their workday yet, and the Wangels were still deep in their sleep, he would find a quiet corner in the factory from where he could call Hanter?
Of course, he wouldn’t do anything risky. He’d do it only when the opportunity that arose was totally safe. But what if he’d have that opportunity tomorrow? He needed the phone to be with him.
“Mamme, I’m going out for a few minutes,” he said. “To take care of something small.”
“Okay, I’ll cook some eggs for you in the meantime. Then I’ll be able to make you a hot egg sandwich.”
“Thanks.” He smiled and walked out. There were a few people on the path, and his brain was pulsing with all kinds of thoughts, but he made the effort to push the thoughts aside so he could focus on the most urgent thing: an excuse. Why was he going to Aryeh and Naomi’s house now?
Preferably something relating to Aryeh; it would sound more truthful.
When had Aryeh asked him something about Shev’i Shel Pesach? It was on Chol Hamoed, and he’d answered him that day. But it was a good cover story: He was coming to answer him now.
“To answer me?” Aryeh opened the door. “About the question regarding Shevi’i Shel Pesach? Oh, wonderful, wonderful, thank you. Come inside.”
Naomi was standing near the table and checking the temperature of a soup of some kind. “Oh, Binyamin!” she exclaimed. “Welcome. When are your make-up hours?”
“I’m supposed to be back at the factory at three,” Binyamin said.
Aryeh closed the door behind him. “You answered me about the question I’d asked you,” he said with arched eyebrows. “Do you have another answer on the subject?”
“Not exactly,” Binyamin said, trying not to think about the fact that Naomi would not have had to ask anything to figure out that it was all a cover story. Aryeh was on the ball enough—which was necessary for anyone who lived in this place—and he would not have expressed his surprise aloud next to a stranger. But the difference between Aryeh and Naomi was so stark…
And this shidduch came about simply because she was a preschool teacher and thus didn’t have the chance of finding someone on her own wavelength?
“I answered you, yes,” he replied calmly. “But let’s say that I came only now to answer you. I actually came for the telephone.”
“The telephone,” Naomi whispered, raising her gaze.
“Yes. I’m taking it from here. That should make you happy, right?”
“Of course I’m happy to get rid of it,” she said, and walked into the inner alcove. A moment later she returned with her arms folded, casting a glance at the closed window, and then she pulled out the telephone that had been concealed in her folded arms and handed it to Binyamin. “Where are you going to hide it?”
“Now? In my sock, I think. My pants are long enough and it will cover up the protrusion.
“And after that?” she asked.
“Naomi, it’s better if you don’t know the answers. And for that, you need to not ask questions,” he said, and stuck the rectangle deep in his sock. It felt very tight, and he hoped that the sock would not rip open on his way home.
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