Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 84 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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From a letter that Leo Sherer z”l wrote, published in the Nogot Heyet(Fortified Place), Issue number 10, Year 1978:
From my sickbed, I wish to send my thanks to all those who have sent me letters with warm wishes for a recovery. I will also utilize this distinguished platform to thank Dr. Baruch Grodotzky for his dedicated treatment to save my eye, and to his daughter and assistant, Dr. Annie Katzburg. And of course, to our compassionate benefactors, Katarina and Josef Wangel, who provided the right equipment for my treatment, and in general, over the years, have made sure to provide materials and updated medical information so that our doctors can keep learning and advancing, so that we can continue living here in good health and tranquility.
From the incident that happened to me, I turn to you with a simple request: Be careful about sharp, protruding branches, because such a distressing accident can happen to anyone who is not careful enough.
And another request: Even when I am not around, try to keep up your work productivity, for the sake of the honesty, fairness, and gratitude that we owe to the supervisors here.
Wishing you good health and peace always,
Leo Sherer
Sol, the nephew who stood with his head bowed near the bier, folded the yellowing paper and raised his tear-filled eyes. “I don’t think there could be a better will than this letter, written sixteen years ago, after that accident. Our beloved Leo, may his memory be blessed, wrote with great effort, with one eye bandaged, his instructions to the residents of this place. And if I may note, it is not only to the Wangel family that we owe gratitude, but also to him, the man who headed this blessed factory for some fifty years.”
He took a handkerchief out of his pocket. “And perhaps, indeed, it is worthwhile to look at the two requests that he wrote here as his final wishes: to continue working with as much dedication as possible, for the sake of fairness and honesty, and yes,”—his eyes flitted over the large crowd—“to be careful about sharp and protruding branches. And by that, I mean the lesson that is clear to us all: Don’t let people with delusional ideas sow discord and ruin all that our Leo has built here for decades.”
He lowered his eyes to the mittah. “Dear Leo, we loved you so much. We are anguished that we have to part from you, and we promise that we will do everything to follow in your ways.”
“Speak only for yourself,” Yidel Klein whispered, standing next to his Aryeh. “It looks like indeed, he is planning to do everything to follow in his uncle’s path—and to inherit his position.”
“Sol?” Mottel Kush turned to him. “But Leo has sons-in-law!”
“David Elkovitz won’t run this place,” Yidel muttered dismissively. “The Reform people won’t let him. And neither will the Wangels, because he…well, it’s clear to them also that he is not a copy of his father-in-law. And Irwin? Nu, really, he knows nothing about furs.”
“And how much did Leo know, already?” Elimelech Kush muttered. “He mostly talked, and left the hard work for others. Like your nephew Binyamin, for example.”
“Come on, let’s not take from Leo what he did have,” Yidel whispered back. “His knowledge in the field was tremendous. The fact that others had far better hands than him is not his fault.”
“What’s strange,” David Elkovitz said, suddenly appearing from behind them, “is that Sol took from this letter only what he considers a ‘will,’ and he’s doing what he wants with it. How is he ignoring the words of thanks for the medical devices that Wangel provided to treat my father-in-law’s injured eye, without mentioning their behavior last night—which led directly to his death?” He fell silent as Irwin, the oldest son-in-law, stood near the mittah and—somewhat clumsily—read the words of Kaddish from a paper.
“Just one more thing,” Elkovitz whispered, as Sol once again imperiously took his place right opposite the bier. “I have no idea what will be now with the Wangels, and what’s with Binyamin. But it should be clear to people that if they put Sol on top of us, he will be far less gentle than my father-in-law. And to prove his absolute loyalty, he might also actively report anyone who he considers to be transgressing the laws of this place. Excuse me if it’s lashon hara, but based on what I have learned, we are allowed to be cautious and concerned, aren’t we? So please, be concerned.” And without another word, he returned to his place in the first rows, with the members of the mourning family. Eva was weeping into her hands, and Suzy, her sister, was leaning on her shoulder.
Sol cleared his throat and suggested that they sing Leo’s old song. He began first, and many joined in, singing the familiar words: In the hard and bitter world, in a dreadful world—I found myself a fortified place, I found a place…
They had no reason to fear that any of the Nazis here would get angry at the words “dreadful world,” and it wasn’t only because this song complimented the Wangels for the fortified and protected hiding place that they provided for the Jews. The reason was much simpler: Not one of the Wangels had come to escort the devoted, longtime work supervisor on his final journey.
***
Even if he had planned to slip into the top floor during the night, the voices from the courtyard below made it clear to Binyamin that it would not be wise. Something had happened in the quiet camp, and he had no way to know if it was something that would cause the Wangels to come up to the third floor in the middle of the night.
He would wait one more day, and then climb down the following night.
Only when morning came was he able to discern from the distant voices that someone had passed away, and based on the loud exchanges between Bernard and his sister, which came through one of the open windows of the manor house, he also realized who that person was.
Leo Sherer!
A muted sense of sadness spread through Binyamin. In recent years, he and Leo had not really gotten along, and Leo had sometimes acted in an irritating and unfair way, especially when he served as the spokesman for the Reform group in their disputes.
But all in all…he did have some feeling for tradition, and respect for Rabbi Schwartzbrod. He was the one who had discovered Binyamin’s talent and had brought him to the place where he was today.
Today… Binyamin looked around with a bitter smile. This was where he was today, hiding on the rooftop of the manor house. If everything would have continued normally, he would be sitting now in his little corner, sewing peacefully and precisely, one seam after another, to the satisfaction of those in charge.
But who wanted to live this fake life? After learning of the truth beyond the walls of the camp, he could not make peace with this huge lie. He was waiting every day for the liberation to come, b’ezras Hashem.
And Leo—
Leo Sherer wouldn’t be there.
Binyamin was surprised to discover how significant a role Leo played in his dreams of liberation: How he would stand openmouthed when he came face to face with the life outside, how perhaps he would shake Binyamin’s hand and admit that he, Binyamin, had been right… Or perhaps he’d double down and blindly insist on staying to work for Wangel until the end of his life? That didn’t seem likely.
Binyamin felt sad, not only because he wanted Leo to agree with him and to admit to the truth—and yes, there was a twinge of a desire for Leo to see that he had been right. But primarily he was pained that Leo would never have the chance to see the truth.
Although in the place he was coming to now, the truth was known to all.
***
“Hello, is this Peter Karol?”
“Yes.” The voice was thick and raspy, maybe from years of smoking, or of drinking.
“We…are conducting an interview, an important interview. And we would like to ask you a few questions.”
“Are you recording me now?” Peter sounded excited.
“No,” Bentzy Hanter replied. “We’re writing questions and answers, not recording.”
“Ah, for a newspaper… Okay, what do you want to ask me?”
“We are interested in villagers who engage in work outside their villages.”
“So what do you want to ask?”
“Do you have private land, in the village?”
“A very small area,” Peter said carefully.
“What do you for a living?”
“I have a van, and I drive people.”
“Nice. Do you make good money?”
“It’s okay.” He was hesitant to share too many details.
“Who do you service as a driver?”
“Sometimes I bring tourists to our area, but it’s not such an interesting place, so there’s not a lot of work doing that. I mostly bring supplies from the city, and sometimes I transfer merchandise from our area to there.”
“Which city?”
“Mostly Vienna, and sometimes also to Baden and to Krems.”
“What kind of merchandise do you transport, for example?”
“Food, small electric appliances, clothing, furs.”
“Clothing and furs? From the village to the city, or from the city to the village?”
“Both.” From minute to minute he sounded more distant, but then he continued, “Furs usually go from here to the city.”
“Furs? Who makes furs in your village?”
“Not in our village, in a different place in this area. I’m sure you’ve heard of Wangel.”
“The name rings a bell. Listen, it sounds like very profitable work. Furs is an expensive business.”
“But I hardly do it. Maybe once a year, just about. They have their own van, so they hardly need me. How many furs do they produce already, five a month? And a lot of their work is also done in their factory store in Vienna. But what do I care, as long as I’m registered at the Labor Ministry, so this way I’ll have a pension in six more years. That’s what I’m after.”
A few seconds later, Bentzy put the phone back down. “Five furs a month?” He looked at his father. “Does that make sense to you?”
“They are probably playing with the reports on how much they produce. To the government offices they present themselves as a small, boutique family business, that hardly needs workers except for a few times a year. But in reality, their work is of a much greater scope.”
“And the government offices rely on their declarations without actually looking into things on the ground?”
His father was thoughtful. “Look, either they are very well connected, or they present the factory store in Vienna as their main production site. And maybe both are true. In my view, they export furs abroad in all kinds of ways, without anyone knowing the real amount that is produced in the factory.”
“Or the real number of workers who are enslaved in their factory,” Bentzy finished grimly. “And their identity.”
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