Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 75 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.
We are sorry to inform you of the passing of the ishah tzidkanis, who taught all of our children with love: the preschool teacher, Mrs. Bilhah Shmilevski. The levayah will be at 2:00 p.m., near the shul. The lunch break will be extended by half an hour.
From his bed, Binyamin could not see what was written on the paper someone brought into the clinic, but he definitely noticed the pallor that spread on Babbe’s face, and the fact that she pulled over the nearest chair and sank down onto it.
“When did it happen?” she whispered to Dr. Katzburg, who entered at that same minute, looked sweaty and strained.
“While she was sleeping, apparently,” the doctor said, shaking her head sadly. “She’d become progressively weaker in recent weeks, and her family said that she fell asleep late last night, so they didn’t want to wake her this morning. But when they saw that too much time had passed, and she wasn’t waking up…”
Sarah Liba bit her lip. Outside, agitated voices could be heard, and Sherer’s son-in-law, sitting on the chair across from Binyamin’s bed, like a lion waiting to pounce, stood up. He fixed the boy with a warning glare, and then walked to the doorway. “What happened?” he asked loudly.
“Morah Bilhah passed away,” the doctor replied.
Binyamin, in his bed, opened his eyes wide. Morah Bilhah!
“When is the funeral?” Irwin asked, glancing outside.
“At two,” Babbe replied in a low voice.
“Was she very sick?”
“You could say that,” the doctor replied, blinking rapidly.
“She helped us a lot with our daughter, eleven years ago,” Irwin said. The meaning behind his words was in stark contrast to his ubiquitously accusatory tone, which was present now as well.
“She helped many people,” another one of the patients said, sitting up in bed.
The sad topic instantly took over all conversation in the clinic. Only Binyamin did not take part, both because of Irwin’s constant glares, and because he felt so empty inside. He didn’t know if this emptiness stemmed from Naomi’s betrayal, or the publicizing of the secret, or Wangel’s words. Or maybe it was because of the painful passing of the longtime teacher.
And what would this news do to Naomi?
No, he would not think about her now. She didn’t deserve it.
He closed his eyes and turned to the other side. Why work to be released if most of the people didn’t believe him, and now they would also consider him as delusional, sick, and everything else Sherer had disseminated about him? Didn’t Morah Bilhah have a nice life right where she had been all this time?
She did.
Maybe because she didn’t know that genuine freedom lay just behind the walls.
She had been born here, and had spent her days as a good Jewess, and today she’d passed away here, to receive her eternal reward. But he—sheyibadel l’chaim tovim,and a longer life as well—already knew what was beyond this place, and could not continue to live this lie.
Hashem, what do You want from me? Should I just lower my head and keep going, like everyone else, until the end, like Tatte and Bilhah—or should I instead try something else?
Those were not tears pricking at his eyes. It could not be.
He passed a finger along the suspicious moisture that dripped down his temples and onto the pillow, relieved that his back was to the rest of the room, where the others were still talking. What time was it anyway? He had no interest in turning around.
Footsteps approached the bed, and Binyamin closed his eyes. If he was not mistaken, those were Irwin’s steps. The man came very close to him, and then stopped for a few long seconds, apparently studying him well. Then the footsteps faded, sounding like he was moving away.
Binyamin waited another long moment in silence, without moving. The voices behind him grew fainter. Perhaps people were leaving the clinic and heading for the shul? Could it be two o’clock already? It was possible. Because a few minutes before the note had been delivered, Babbe had wordlessly delivered his lunch, which consisted of three slices of bread and clear beef broth, a special treat for the ailing patients.
He slowly turned around, blinking and squinting, as if he was still sleepy, and carefully studied the room. The doctor was sitting behind the counter—crying?—but aside for her, there was no one besides a single patient sleeping in another bed. The others had apparently felt obligated to get up and go to the levayah, despite their conditions.
And Irwin wasn’t here!
Binyamin carefully sat up in his bed and reached for his clothes, which were on a chair nearby. The Wangel family was surely going to the funeral, out of respect. It was like them to do that. Would it be disgusting for him to use this time to try reaching Hanter from the spices factory, and give them more details about their location and the fur factory? It was dangerous, that was true, but he was in danger already in any case.
And no, he would not capitulate to fear, to captivity, and to life here. He’d started something, and he was going to take it to the end, b’ezras Hashem. The Rav had also given them a brachah, though he had warned Binyamin to be careful. And he would be careful.
The doctor raised her eyes when he approached the door. “Where are you going?” she asked brusquely.
“There’s a levayah,” he replied, his eyes lowered.
She didn’t reply, and Binyamin didn’t wait for more than half a second before he left. A very large group was huddled near the shul, and he stood still for a moment, trying to see who was there, but it was impossible. He tried to pick up fragments of words, but the whole group was enveloped in silence. The hespedim had not yet started, so it seemed.
Without a word, he turned in the other direction, slipped behind the clinic, and from there made his way to the area behind the row of huts. Only after he was far away enough from the elder Kush’s house did he dare to peek outside, and he saw that no one was there. He jogged across the main path and began to climb toward the factory. If someone would meet him, he’d say he had to take one of the problematic furs, so he could use the time when he was confined to figure out how to finish the edging.
Or he’d come up with another excuse, whatever came to mind at that moment. A delusional patient had the privilege of offering strange answers as well.
The question was what would happen if he’d meet Leo Sherer. Did the man really believe he had suffered a breakdown, or was it an effort to silence him?
But he didn’t meet anyone. The factory looked dark and empty, and Binyamin climbed higher, past it, to the woodsy area of the camp. He wove his way through the tree trunks, trying to think how many moments he would have to take the phone out of his hiding place in the ground, speak to Hanter, and then put the phone back in its place. And then he had to get back to the clinic, too, of course. He didn’t have a long time—that was for sure. Irwin had gone to the levayah out of respect for the dedicated teacher who had helped him with his daughter. But to what extent would the man allow himself to abandon his watch over his sleeping charge?
He wondered if Irwin had asked permission from Leo to go to the funeral. Maybe he had, and they assumed that Binyamin—even if he’d wake up at one point—surely would not dare show his face in public after the explicit warnings, which meant he wouldn’t be able to share his delusions with anyone.
In any case, the dedicated guard would surely hurry back.
But taking the risk for two minutes of conversation…that was still not a real risk. Especially when, after all was said and done, he was not facing one of the Nazis. It was Leo Sherer. With all the criticism that was heaped onto him, Sherer still had never been a moser, an informer.
***
“Dena?” Suri, the secretary, raised her eyes. “Do you have any idea where your father-in-law or husband are now? There’s someone named Binyamin on the phone, and they said that any call from him should be transferred directly to them, right? But I’m trying to pass the call to the offices, and there’s no answer. Could they be on the packing floor?”
“I’ll check.” Dena stood up quickly. It was strange that the boy from the camp was calling at this hour. He usually called much earlier in the day, before she and Suri even got to work.
“You don’t need to go check,” Suri said. “I can announce it on the intercom. I just don’t like using that option for every random call.”
“If they said to transfer these calls to them, it’s probably not a random caller. Announce that there’s a call from Binyamin,” Dena said quietly. Suri was not aware of the strange story, and had no idea that their conversation with that strange “reporter” a few weeks ago had a continuation. Maybe something had happened to the Jews in that unknown hole that they were in?
Bentzy, speaking to one of the new workers, raised his eyes in surprise when he heard the loudspeaker’s announcement. He turned around, but didn’t see his father anywhere, so he hurried to the office section of the building by himself. When he entered the hallway, he broke into a run, and dashed into his office to pick up the phone. “Hi, Binyamin?”
“Hanter?”
“Yes, it’s me, Bentzy. Tell me, Binyamin, is everything okay?”
“I hope it will be, b’ezras Hashem. I’ve gotten into some trouble here, so I thought it would be wise for you to know some more details about our location.”
“I’m listening.” Bentzy leaned forward, without even realizing it.
“We are in a very mountainous, forested area—I told you that already. We produce furs—” he took a deep breath— “for the Wangel family. I can’t tell you much more than that—that’s really all I know about our location—but I’m aware that the Wangels are very well-known on the international market, based on the many kinds of orders that we get.”
“Very well-known.” Bentzy’s eyes opened wide just as his father walked into the room, out of breath.
“For now, still don’t do anything…” Binyamin hesitated for a moment. “But if more than a week passes and there is no call from—” A strange sound suddenly came onto the line, and he fell silent.
All the questions Bentzy wanted to ask remained stuck in his throat. He waited a few more seconds, but when the silence continued to stretch, he put the phone down.
“Their employers are the Wangel family,” he whispered to his father. “From the furs! We need to try to collect any information we can about them, urgently and discreetly. But why did he suddenly go quiet?”
thenextpage-israelbookshop.com 