NEW RELEASE: Song of the Sea

May 28, 2019

…It was a captivating story, but that is not why I’m writing to you. The reason that I am writing is because of the “Naomi” in my class. I am in the twelfth grade, and “Naomi” joined my class last year, putting her at a great disadvantage friend-wise. I never understood why this girl acted so strangely, spending recess in the library instead of in the lunchroom, wearing a hairstyle that is not the popular style, etc. Naomi from Song of the Sea gave me a glimpse into this girl’s mindset and showed me how although people may look different on the outside, we are really all very similar on the inside.

I’m not saying that I’m friends with my “Naomi” today, but I’m definitely much more understanding of her and much more friendly to her because of Song of the Sea. I know that many of my classmates also read the story, and although no one said it outright, I saw how the general attitude towards our “Naomi” has changed. So thank you so much for an entertaining read, but more importantly, thank you for giving a lonely girl a place in her class.

This was the letter penned by a reader of Song of the Sea. For all those who doubt the potency of fiction writing, there you have it, black on white: the far-reaching effects of a novel read by thinking readers.

Mind you, not every novel has such power, of course. It takes the right author and writing style, the right plot, and the right message to strike those sensitive chords within a reader. And Song of the Sea definitely has all of that, plus a lot more too.

 

Song of the Sea is the poignant story of an introverted teen and the challenges and misjudgments that she faces. It is a beautifully written and thought-provoking novel (though it’s got its funny moments, too!) that will move you to find the song in the great sea of different people out there. And to find the song within yourself…

See for yourself what others are fascinated about in this novel! It makes for great Shavuos/summertime reading, and its take-away messages will continue resonating with you long after you’ve finished the book!

 

Click here to order online.

 


The Cuckoo Clock – Chapter 7

May 27, 2019

Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 7 of a new online serial novel, The Cuckoo Clock, by Esther Rapaport. Check back for a new chapter every week.  Click here for previous chapters.

Copyright © Israel Bookshop Publications. 

 

The phone rang. And rang. Finally, someone picked up.

“Rosenblit and Etzioni, Attorneys at Law, good afternoon.”

Lawyers? Elisheva kept a steady gaze on the cat that had sneaked up behind the large dumpster. For its part, the cat was maintaining eye contact with the strange woman who had invaded its territory.

“Hello?”

“Yes…” Elisheva tried to focus on the conversation. “I received a call from Mr. Rosenblit, and he asked me to call him back.”

“Who is this, please?” The woman was probably a secretary.

“Mrs. Potolsky.”

“Potolsky? …Oh, yes. Attorney Mayer Rosenblit would like to set up a meeting with you and your husband.”

“A meeting with us?”

“Are you Tziporah Genendel’s parents?”

“That’s right.” She felt constricted. And it wasn’t because of the cat, which was approaching her step by step. Goodness; that cat was getting daring!

“So, Mr. Rosenblit wants to meet you.”

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The Cuckoo Clock – Chapter 6

May 20, 2019

Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 6 of a new online serial novel, The Cuckoo Clock, by Esther Rapaport. Check back for a new chapter every week.  Click here for previous chapters.

Copyright © Israel Bookshop Publications. 

 

Bratislava – 5704/1944

 

The representatives of the occupying government who arrived at the orphanage turned out not to be soldiers. There were two members of the city council, one Russian policeman, and another person in uniform who introduced himself as “Anatoly Stachov, a member of the Communist Party,” but didn’t provide much detail about his exact position or rank. In any case, it didn’t interest the director much; he just kept scurrying around his guests like a starving mouse, trying to curry their favor, to the point where the older children exchanged small smiles at the sight. They had never seen the director grovel like this to anyone.

Gustav did not smile. He wasn’t old enough to understand the comical scene, and besides, the only thing he could think about was which of the guests he could ask questions to without being embarrassed.

He finally decided that the fat man from the city council, the guy who hardly spoke, would have time for him. The man was standing near the wall with a lit cigarette, and Gustav sidled up to him.

The man took the cigarette out of his mouth. “Go play, kid,” he said in a gruff voice.

“Did you see my mother?”

“Who?”

“My mother. Theodore said that maybe you saw her on your way here.”

The man narrowed his eyes, his eyebrows almost covering them completely. “Me?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Do you not know where she is?”

keep reading…


The Cuckoo Clock – Chapter 5

May 13, 2019

Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 5 of a new online serial novel, The Cuckoo Clock, by Esther Rapaport. Check back for a new chapter every week.  Click here for previous chapters.

Copyright © Israel Bookshop Publications. 

 

Tzippy walked up the stairs as Sari Goodman from the third floor came down in the opposite direction, jangling the keys to her salon.

“Oh, Tzippy!” She smiled broadly. “How are you?”

Baruch Hashem, great.”

“Mazel tov on your new nephew and on the bris. How’s the shul’s new hall? Is it nice?”

“Yes, it’s really very pretty.”

“And what’s the baby’s name?”

“Shmuel, after my father’s father.”

“Very nice. Are they still by you?”

“No. My sister’s mother-in-law gave her a gift of three days at the kimpeturin home in Telzstone, so she’s there now.”

“Nice! So, you’re going from one simchah to the next, aren’t you… When’s the wedding? Do you have a date already?”

“In Shevat, b’ezras Hashem.”

“Wonderful!” Mrs. Goodman leaned her head forward as if she wanted to share a secret with a five-year-old, and said, “Tell your mother that it’s not smart to wait with the sheitels until the middle of the winter. After Chanukah, prices are going up. I’m having a small sale now on all my precut wigs, and if you come now you’ll get really great prices.”

Tzippy nodded solemnly. “I’ll tell my mother,” she said.

“And I have a few styles that are just right for you—very modest and refined. Do you want to come over this evening?”

“I’ll speak to my mother and we’ll see what our plans are for this week. Thanks.”

“Our plans for this week include starting to get you outfitted and ready for the wedding, b’ezras Hashem,” a voice said from the first floor. Tzippy’s mother came up the stairs, carrying her small pocketbook. “Oh, Sari, how are you? Do you think you have anything good for Tzippy in your salon?”

“Yes, I was just telling her that I’m clearing my shelves and if you come in this evening, I think Tzippy will find some styles that she likes.”

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The Cuckoo Clock – Chapter 4

April 29, 2019

Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 4 of a new online serial novel, The Cuckoo Clock, by Esther Rapaport. Check back for a new chapter every week.  Click here for previous chapters.

Copyright © Israel Bookshop Publications. 

 

“One second. Quiet,” Elisheva said.

The family was sitting around the kitchen table in the midst of quite a rowdy supper that included the new parents, Miri and Yaakov; Binyamin, who had popped in from yeshivah to get his quilt; the older girls; and fourteen-year-old Shuki.

Everyone slowly quieted down and then…cuckoo! Cuckoo!

“It’s the clock again!” Elisheva dashed into the hallway and then into the dining room. “Can someone tell me what is going on here? But quietly, please, so the little kids don’t wake up.”

“The clock!” Binyamin exclaimed. “Did you decide to invest the money to fix it, Ima?”

She laughed. “Not at all! The clockmaker who checked it out told us that it would cost a few hundred shekels to repair, so we decided to skip it.”

“And you haven’t been here the past few weeks,” Shuki told his older brother. “This is the third time that clock has come to life, out of the blue.”

“Fourth,” Miri, the kimpeturin, corrected him. “Yesterday morning, when just the baby and I were alone in the house, the cuckoo bird popped out and began to chirp.”

“You mean, to call,” Riki corrected her. By this time, the cuckoo bird had stopped chirping or calling, so the grammatical nuances were pretty superfluous. The bird receded back into its place, and the little door slammed shut.

“Strange,” Elisheva murmured, as she walked back to the kitchen. “The food is getting cold, everyone. And it’s already 11:30. Shuki, you need to go to sleep.”

Her fourteen-year-old wrinkled his nose. “I need to bentch with a mezuman, Ima,” he said, trying to stifle a yawn.

“I’ll bentch,” Yaakov announced, and stood up to get his hat and jacket. “Because I think I’m also going to sleep, Shuki. So don’t think you’re going to be missing much here. I have to make up a few hours from last night. I didn’t know that babies are so exhausting.”

“You can tell you’re one of the youngests in your family,” Binyamin teased. ‘When my oldest child is born, b’ezras Hashem, I’ll have plenty of experience.”

In time, the meal wound down as each member of the family drifted off to do his or her own thing. Only Binyamin, Tzippy, and Elisheva remained in the kitchen.

“I’ll take down your blanket in just a minute,” Elisheva said. “Too bad you didn’t tell me in the morning that you were coming. I would have taken it out earlier and let it air out from the mothball smell. I know you don’t like that smell.”

“Eh, I’m not as spoiled as I used to be,” her son replied. “I was so cold last night that I had a hard time sleeping.”

“You’ve always suffered from the cold,” Tzippy remarked as she scraped the plates. “I don’t even use a thick quilt. I think the only time I used one was when we were kids and we went to Zeidy and Bubby Potolsky in Yerushalayim. It’s really cold there, but I love it like that.”

“So it sounds like you’d prefer living in Yerushalayim than in Bnei Brak,” Binyamin said with a chuckle.

Tzippy grinned. “When it comes to the weather, yes. In other ways, I’m not sure.”

Elisheva went to get the blanket from the top shelf in the bedroom closet. Binyamin knew there was no point in trying to offer to climb the ladder and get it down himself. The perfectly organized closets were exclusively their mother’s domain. “In such a small place, I need to keep track of what’s going on all the time,” she would say. And the kids never stopped marveling about how much their mother was able to store in just one closet.

“Now seriously, where are you going to live?” Binyamin asked his sister quietly.

Tzippy turned on the water. “I don’t know,” she said, after a minute. “Not in Bnei Brak or Yerushalayim. I can start with renting in Pardes Katz, like Miri did, but I can also try from the start to settle someplace where I have a better chance of staying long-term. Maybe Yerucham or Rechasim…I dunno…one of the cheap places. Not that I know much about these things.”

“Cheap places,” her brother murmured. “Nowhere is cheap. What’s cheap? An apartment that costs only NIS 400,000 and not NIS 800,000 or a million?”

Tzippy was quiet.

“And where will Abba and Ima get four hundred thousand from?”

“You’re right,” Tzippy said. “I heard them talking last night. Ima said she has no idea if Miri and Yaakov are expecting them to help pay for the bris, because if they are, she has no idea where the money will come from. And Abba told Ima that he is anyway going to the gemach today, so he’ll ask for that also. And Ima said that—”

“What Ima said and what Abba said is none of your business.” Elisheva stood in the doorway holding the quilt and looking from one to the other. “Really, Binyamin, I’m surprised at you. Why do you need to talk to Tzippy about this? Just to make her feel pressured? What do you want from her? That she should come and tell us that we shouldn’t give what we have to give and are happy to give?”

Chastened, Binyamin rubbed his chin. “But really, where is the money going to come from?” he asked.

“It’s not for kids to worry about,” Elisheva replied firmly. “And don’t look at me with those big eyes, my mature, eighteen-year-old-to-the-chuppah boy, because right now, you are still a kid. And when your turn does come, b’ezras Hashem, we’ll happily give what we can to you, too. Relax, okay?”

She dropped the blanket onto the table and went over to Tzippy. “And you also,” she said. “It’s nice that you and Binyamin are thinking about me and Abba, and it’s good to be realistic, but b’ezras Hashem, everything will be fine.” She lowered her voice. “And everything will work out with the bris, too. A thousand shekel more or less…we’ll manage.”

Tzippy and Binyamin exchanged glances but remained silent.

Elisheva spoke up again. “And I’m asking the two of you, please, not a word about any of this to Yaakov or Miri.”

“Of course,” Binyamin replied automatically. “Isn’t that understood?”

His mother threw him a gaze that said, I should hope so! and then quickly changed the subject.

***

 

Bratislava – 5704/1944

More than two years passed, and Slovakia—essentially a satellite of Nazi Germany—seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. After a period of deportations of Jews in 1942, Rav Michoel Ber Weissmandl was able to reach temporary agreements with the Nazis to suspend them.
But the calm did not last. On Erev Sukkos 5704, the Hlinka Brigades went from one Jewish house to the next. The Jews were taken with no advance warning, as they prepared for the holiday. The meat was still in their pots; here and there, half-started sukkahs could be seen abandoned in yards.

It was only the opening salvo of the renewed deportations.

On Motza’ei Yom Tov of the first days of Sukkos, little Yosef Ludmir’s mother came with her two-year-old son to the orphanage. Theodore finally accepted him, much to the displeasure of Farash, the director. But Theodore gave him half of the contents of the fabric sachet that the Jewish mother had given him, and the director promised to be quiet.

This time, he did not interfere in the selection of the name, and Theodore chose to call the child Edo. The director did not ask who he was named for. He just gritted his teeth and waited impatiently for the war to end.
And end it did.

And more than two years passed.

No come came to look for the children, not for Edo and not for Gustav.

“No one even knows about Gustav,” Theodore said confidently. “And Edo’s parents were for sure sent to the concentration camps; they won’t ever come back. The children are ours now, Farash.”

“I’m thrilled,” the director grumbled. “At least it doesn’t endanger me and my status in the party that was but is no longer. Too bad; we did some good things, but the Soviets couldn’t care less.”

A child’s head popped into the room. “Sir,” he said.

“Yes, Janko?”

“Gustav is not here. The teacher said to come and tell you.”

The director and Theodore both stood up at once.

“What does that mean, he’s not here?” Theodore asked.

“He’s not in class, and he’s not in his bedroom or in any other room, nor in the dining room or in the yard.”

The director muttered something under his breath while Theodore ran to the door of the office. He looked right, then left, and then strode down the corridor. Janko ran after him.

They came to the gate; it was ajar.

“Who is the last one who saw him before the lesson?” Theodore asked the boy.

“No one.”

“No one! And who saw him at breakfast?”

“No one.”

“And who saw him when you got up this morning?”

“All the children.”

“Aha,” Theodore said, and shaded his eyes with his hand to look out toward the fields, those same fields that, until a short time ago, Gustav would stand and stare at, night after night. After Edo arrived, for some reason, his nocturnal outings had dwindled, until they stopped completely. “So he slipped out after he got dressed this morning. Tell me, Janko, over the last few weeks, when you played in the yard, did you notice Gustav talking with any stranger?”

The child frowned, clearly puzzled. “No.”

“No one passed by the gate? You didn’t see Gustav hanging around near the wall a lot? Or near the main entrance?”

“No.”

Theodore turned toward the main entrance, around the other side of the building. Again, Janko ran after him, but they were not the only ones to get there. The teacher and seven other students were also standing there.

“What’s going on?” Theodore asked.

“That’s the issue; nothing’s going on.” The teacher looked at him. “The boy didn’t turn up for class. When I sent someone to look for him, and began to delve a bit deeper into the matter—”

“You discovered that he’s been missing since the morning.”

“Since this morning?” the teacher gasped.

“Yes. But before we give up, let’s just do one last search of the whole property. Not that I believe he’s here, but…”

Theodore Heinke was right. Gustav wasn’t anywhere on the grounds of the orphanage.

“He went back to his people, the Jews,” the director said when he heard the results of the search. “Very good. You wouldn’t have been able to raise him here as a faithful Catholic anyway, not when our Slovakia is becoming just another little crumb in the Soviet Union.”

“I am capable of a whole lot, just so you know,” Theodore said churlishly. “And this whole thing is getting me annoyed. Very, very annoyed.”

He looked out the window. The sun was beginning to dip on the horizon of the fields, when he saw a small figure running up the winding path that cut through the fields.

 

“So you’re back, Gustav.” Theodore opened his arms in greeting, but the boy slipped out of his grasp and walked away, his head lowered.

“Did you meet anyone interesting?”

“No one,” the boy murmured. Then he suddenly shouted at Theodore. “She didn’t come back, Edo’s mother! And neither did my mother! He and I are both left with no one in the world!”

“That’s not true,” Theodore said. “You have me.”

The boy didn’t respond; he didn’t even look at him. “There were lots of people in the street, and I walked for a long time, but not a single woman approached to tell me she was my mother or Edo’s mother. Finally, one man asked me why I was walking around a whole day and where I lived, and when I told him that I was looking for my mother who disappeared during the war, he started asking me lots of questions, until I got fed up and ran back here.” He collapsed onto the grass, his heels digging into the loose earth, and began to kick his feet.

A shadow suddenly fell over him. The director was standing behind him.

“Listen, boy,” he hissed, ignoring Theodore’s looks. “And listen well. You are a little ingrate, that’s what you are. You wail day and night, and disappear without permission—and that is something I will not tolerate in our orphanage, do you hear? The next time you try it, you’ll find yourself outside, with all your Jewish brothers—for good. And even before that, you’ll be getting some well-deserved wallops from me.”

“Never.” Theodore’s lips formed the word soundlessly. Farash sounded so decisive now that he could not overtly contradict him.

It was a good thing that Farash was the one who was good at talking, while he was the action-oriented one.


The Cuckoo Clock – Chapter 3

April 22, 2019

Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 3 of a new online serial novel, The Cuckoo Clock, by Esther Rapaport. Check back for a new chapter every week.  Click here for previous chapters.

Copyright © Israel Bookshop Publications. 

 

“You’re asking why, Abba?” He ate while she spoke and folded his napkin over and over. “We’re asking the same thing… I know that there are people for whom it is accepted that the parents of the couple pay for the first bris, but we’d never even thought about that. Then, a month before Miri had the baby, I went to a bris that the mechutanim made. Yaakov’s younger sister had a baby and they invited us.” Elisheva’s eyes stared almost blankly at the fish on her father’s plate.

“The mechuteiniste made me feel very good. She’s a very warm woman; I’m happy for Miri that she is her mother-in-law. As we were talking, she casually mentioned that they had ordered the hall and chosen the menu and made all the arrangements with the head waiter. And then she said, ‘Of course, if my Sarah would have wanted to decide about these things, I would have left it to her. But she said that if we’re paying, then we get the right to choose.’” Elisheva smiled. “The mechuteiniste quickly added that the other side had paid half, but because they live far away, she was left to arrange it all. And I’ve been worrying about it ever since.”

She filled Abba’s cup with seltzer. “Almost all of Miri’s salary goes to paying their mortgage on that tiny apartment. I really don’t think they can pay for a bris right now. But we can’t either! Part of my salary goes to the mortgage also, and to pay up debts from her wedding, not to mention what I have to give for Tzippy now… And even though people say that you can make a bris on a much smaller scale, something at home, it will still cost something. Where am I getting that money from? Another loan? What’s this expense going to come in place of? Devoiry’s root canal that we’ve waited nearly half a year to take care of? And anyway, where exactly am I supposed to make a bris in my house?”

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NEW RELEASE: As a Father Cares for His Son

April 16, 2019

Do you remember where you were when you heard that Rav Shach was niftar?

I know I do. (Believe it or not, I was actually at a wedding…) When a monumental event occurs, it’s hard to ever forget the surrounding details of where you were and what you were doing at the time. And the petirah of a gadol hador like Rav Shach was nothing less than a monumental event—an exceedingly bitter one at that—for all of Klal Yisrael.

As a Father Cares for His Son is a magnificent collection of 25 beautiful stories about Rav Shach, the latest book in our gedolim series for kids. As the title suggests, Rav Shach truly cared for every Jew the way a father cares for his son. He was the rosh yeshivah of the roshei yeshivah, whose hasmadah and love for Torah were legendary, yet he thought nothing of accompanying a distressed talmid to an appointment late at night…and waiting outside for the boy the whole time, too. When he heard a beautiful explanation of a Tosafos from a chavrusa, he told the chavrusa, “I love this pshat so much; it is worth everything I own!” and promptly handed him every last dollar that he had on him—which happened to be $500 at the time.

These are the she’ifos you want your children to develop. This is the kind of book you want to read to them.

Which is why I plan on presenting this book to my own kids as a gift this Pesach. Just saying.

Click here to purchase online.