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Rambam, Sefer Hamada, Hilchos Yesodei HaTorah, Ch. 5:5

…If the idol worshipers said to them, “Give us one of you and we will kill him, and if not, we will kill all of you,”…and they should not give…one of Am Yisrael. And if they specified and said, “Give us Ploni or we will kill all of you,” then if he is guilty…they should give him to them. And they are not instructed to do this l’chatchilah. And if he is not chayav misah…and they should not hand over…one of Am Yisrael.

Binyamin put the open sefer into David Elkovitz’s hands, his eyes flitting all around. “It seems that Wangel has specified me, because they are looking for the one who spoke on the device, and that’s me. The thing is that I didn’t really do anything that makes me deserving of death!”

“And even if you were deserving,” David answered, after slowly reading the relevant lines, “it says here that ‘they are not instructed to do this l’chatchilah’! But go and explain that to my father-in-law.”

“Thank you for warning me.” Binyamin’s face was ashen as he leaned on the tree. “In any case, this is what it says regarding everyone in the camp. But what am I, for my part, supposed to do now? The Rambam doesn’t say anything here about that.” He reached out, closed the sefer, and gave it a kiss. “I wouldn’t want to think that everyone will be punished because of me. Maybe it’s better if I go now to speak to your father-in-law. I won’t tell him, of course, who came to warn me.”

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Elky,

I know that you were just released from the clinic, but my father has been summoned urgently to the manor house. Please come right away and check that everything is in order in the accounts and the salaries, because we are afraid they are going to do a thorough inspection.

And destroy this note.

Eva                                                                                                                     

“Who gave you this note?” Elky asked the boy at the door, suspicion in her voice. It was Herzlich’s son, and everyone knew the open secret that he’d never learned to read in any language. Dr. Annie claimed that the issue was that he was severely cross-eyed, and she didn’t have the resources to help him. The office used him as a courier to send around written messages that they didn’t want anyone except the recipient reading.

“Eva. Eva Sherer,” the boy replied.

Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 76 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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Theresa was sitting at the piano, playing the overture for Brandenburg Concerto No. 3, when her sister walked in and sidled up behind her.

“You know I can’t stand it when people stand behind me when I play. And certainly not you—I know how happy you are to point out every time I go even slightly off-key!” Theresa muttered, her eyes fixed on her music notes.

“Stop playing now, please,” Helena said. She had a strange expression on her face.

Theresa could not see her sister’s face, but she heard it in her tone. She raised her hands from the keys and swiveled the round stool to face her sister. “What happened?”

“Something really odd. I wanted to call my friend in Vienna, because I forgot something in her house yesterday. But as soon as I picked up the phone, even before I dialed—I heard voices talking.”

“Maybe Papa is talking on his cordless now. Or Mama.”

“I don’t think so. They’re at the funeral for the Jewish preschool teacher.”

“What, she died?”

“Yes, this morning.”

“But she’s terribly young!”

“What?! Oh, no. Not Naomi. The one who preceded her, the older lady.”

“Oh. And you don’t think that in the middle of her funeral, Papa or Mama can talk on the phone, if they want to?” Theresa chuckled. “Come on!”

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.

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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?

Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 74 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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Naomi,

I never want to talk to you again.

Is this how the metzora felt when banished from the camp?

Binyamin sat in the corner bed on the far wall of the clinic, his eyes fixed on the small huddle taking place near the door. Babbe was there, as was the doctor, Leo Sherer, and his older son-in-law. Too bad Leo hadn’t chosen David Elkovitz to send him to the clinic; instead, it was the broad, husky man standing there with an expressionless face and his eyes flitting from one metal bed to the next. Every time they reached the bed in the far corner, they paused for a few seconds, and then moved on, to the window and then to the first part of the room.

Leo was pontificating animatedly, and Babbe listened to him with a somber expression on her face, without so much as a glance toward her isolated grandson.

“Overwork,” Dr. Katzburg concluded aloud. “So we will start with some rest and something to calm him.”

“Something serious to calm him,” Leo said loudly, turning to face Binyamin. The latter turned his eyes to the ceiling. Did Leo really believe that everything was hallucinations, or was this his wily way of silencing him?

Babbe said something—Binyamin couldn’t hear what it was—but after a moment, everyone dispersed, aside for Leo’s son-in-law, Irwin, who approached Binyamin’s bed. He pulled over one of the metal chairs with a grating scrape, and sat down near the facing wall.

“Shhh….” the doctor chided. “He needs to rest. Please, keep it quiet.”

In contrast to the last time Binyamin had been hospitalized here, there was no quiet. Three other patients lay in beds closer to the door, speaking amongst themselves, and Mottel Kush, who came in with his father and the Rav, was not making a particular effort to keep quiet. He sat down near his baby’s cradle, together with the other two men, and began to discuss something with them. Babbe also got involved, and Binyamin wondered to himself with a wry smile what would have happened had he really been suffering from hallucinations, chas v’shalom. Would this bustling clinic have worsened his condition?

Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 73 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 brown packing paper, the words etched with a sharp instrument of some kind:

Hebrew Writing Lesson: Months of the Year

My Name: Zuska

Tishrei V

Cheshvin X

Kislev V

Teves V

Shevat V

“You can’t do it now, during your personal break!” Naomi raised her eyes and the pencil from her student’s quiz paper, trying to conceal her horror at her brother’s plans. “And if you want to know what I think, then I think you shouldn’t do it at all! It’s terribly dangerous, Binyamin!”

“It’s not,” he whispered.

“But if they discover that someone got in during these minutes exactly, you’ll be the primary suspect!”

“They won’t discover it, b’ezras Hashem,” Binyamin said, trying not to sound impatient. “I met Mamme on the way here, and she told me that one of the Gefreiters is in the sewing room right now, and her sister went to the city yesterday and is only going to be back this evening.”

“And Hauptmann Katarina?”

“She’s in the bakery. I heard this morning from Zuretzky, who is in charge, that she wasn’t pleased about something relating to the cleanliness yesterday, and she promised to be there today to supervise a thorough cleaning. And she was seen going in there not long ago.”

Naomi glanced behind her; the children were eating quietly. “But you can’t know when she will decide to relieve the workers of her presence!”

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On brown packing paper, the words etched with a sharp instrument of some kind:

Reb Yosef, at 3. In the preschool.

Yosef Posen washed his hands with soap as his eyes studied the empty paper bag. His six children were sleeping—or in various stages of falling asleep—beyond the wood partition, so he lowered his voice. “Since when is this here?”

“It came with a bit of sugar inside, about half a cup,” his wife replied, a crease in her forehead. “It was tied with a string and hanging on the doorknob.”

“Who owes us sugar?”

“No one. It seems to be someone who didn’t want anyone to notice that there are letters etched into the bag, in the event anyone comes to take a closer look at it.”

“It’s not the first time that someone is returning to you something that they borrowed, right?”

“It’s not. But we don’t usually like to lend expensive things like sugar, which is why it’s suspicious to me. I checked the package when the children were not looking, and when I saw the writing, I hid it right away.”

“I see.”

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From the only copy of Sefer Chovos Halevavos in the camp, Shaar Habitachon, end of the second perek:

When this matter becomes clear, and understanding of the true kindness of the Creator is strengthened, the person will trust Him and give himself over to Hashem’s will. He will leave the running of his life up to Hashem, and he will not suspect that Hashem is judging him improperly; nor will he be angry regarding that which the Creator chose for him, as Dovid Hamelech alav hashalom said (Tehillim 116:13), Kos yeshuos…”

“We intentionally chose this subject,” Binyamin said quietly, raising his eyes from the small, yellowing sefer. The handful of people in the courtyard of the shul were all older than him—some by a bit, some by a lot—and yet they were listening attentively to his every word. “It’s by the instruction of the Rav, shlit”a,so that in everything that we speak, think, and do together, we should remember these things.” He closed the sefer.

Elkovitz, to his right, added in a whisper, “And everything we spoke about here tonight must remain secret, Rabbosai! Don’t forget that.”

Not another word was said. Anything relevant had already been conveyed. Now they all dispersed quickly and quietly, each one to his home.

Only the moon illuminated the path that stretched out in a straight line ahead, and Binyamin was alarmed for a moment when Mottel’s shadow appeared in his way.

Mottel stopped Binyamin. “Nu, did you finish learning?” Apparently he was coming from the clinic.

“For today, yes,” he answered. “A gut voch, Mottel. How is your little son?”

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This note is personal—please don’t tell anyone else that you got it! The offer is for a small group of people for whom it is noge’a.

If you want to join a group to learn sefer Chovos Halevavos, under the guidance of the Rav, please tell Binyamin Schvirtz. The group will probably gather on Motza’ei Shabbos to learn. Binyamin has more details.

Binyamin swallowed a yawn and read his draft for the eighth time. He deliberated whether or not to erase the secrecy warning at the beginning. Maybe it was better not to make it too mysterious; on the other hand, when their meetings would become known—and they would—it wouldn’t be good for them to be something that was open to everyone.

Some would see it as haughty on his part; others would be offended that he had not chosen them for the learning group. But he hoped they’d forgive him soon. Especially when the day would come—halevai it should be soon!—and they would also understand what was really behind this handpicked group.

He copied the note over five times in his best handwriting and glanced toward the window. Gauging by the darkness, he should get ready to go to Shacharis. Then he would climb up again to his secret place from yesterday and call Hanter. Rabbi Schwartzbrod had also advised him, just to be safe, to try to raise some matters of Yiddishkeit in the phone call, just to make absolutely sure that they were indeed Yidden and this was not some type of trap.

Elimelech Yehuda Kush had entered the shul before him; he was one of the people on the list. The list also included Yidel, Aunt Chani’s husband. Daniel Landau. Baruch Hertzlich. Yosef Posen. If all of them would want to join, of course. It was safe to assume that they would at least come over to him to find out more details, so they could decide if they wanted to join, and then they’d hear that it wasn’t only about learning.

He didn’t count himself, David, and Zeide, who would be giving the shiur.

Or Aryeh.

“Excuse me, Reb Meilech Yehuda,” he said, patting the other man on the shoulder, and without another word, stuck the small note into his hand. Appearing as if he’d long been used to getting secret notes like this, Reb Meilech Yehuda slid it naturally into his pocket and continued walking further inside.

Slowly, the people gathered for davening, including the other four men on his list. One by one, Binyamin slipped them the notes. He purposely did not keep an eye on them after that, and hoped that something about the secrecy in which he’d cloaked his words would make it obvious to them that there was something here beyond a learning group.

After davening, he spotted Uncle Yidel trying to make his way over to him through the other people, but Binyamin did not wait for him. His time was short right now; he had to speak to the man from the spice factory!

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A note on the small cradle in the infirmary:

To Reb Mottel,

It does not appear that your son’s bris will be able to be on time. The baby is too small and weak. If he gets stronger in the next two days, we will reconsider.

Shimshon Schwartzbrod

“When was Rabbi Schwartzbrod here?” Mottel asked as he studied his tiny son worriedly.

“Late last night,” Elky replied. “And I want to go home.”

“How can you? If the baby is too small and weak…”

“He has to stay for observation,” interjected Dr. Annie Katzburg from the other side of the large room. “And you do too, Elky.”

She didn’t answer.

Mottel looked at his baby’s eyes, which were open a crack. “He’s looking at me,” he whispered. “I want…I want to speak to the rav. I didn’t think he was in danger!”

“He will be fine,” the doctor said in a loud voice. “But he has to be given the best conditions possible, so that he can grow and become stronger.”