Malka and Wolfe should be murdered, and millions of others, too? It is horrible.”
“Were they believers?” Leonie said. “Your friends?”
“They believed in Palestine and the dream for a homeland.”
“May it be so,” said Leonie, using the ancient Hebrew formula.
“I thought you didn’t know anything about the prayer book.”
“I don’t, but my grandfather used to say that. They took me to see him only a few
times when I was a girl, but when I left and I said, ‘See you again,
au revoir,
’ he would answer, ‘May it be so.’ I used to think he was joking, but maybe he was
a little serious, too. He died in his sleep, my grandfather, in his own bed, long
before the Germans marched into Paris. He was not even sixty, but now I think he was
a lucky man.”
“On Yom Kippur, everyone weeps for the dead,” said Shayndel, who had not cried when
her friends had died, nor since.
“Weeping is terrible for the complexion,” said Leonie, holding Shayndel close, “but
it is very good for the heart.”
Yom Kippur, September 17
Yom Kippur dawned overcast and muggy; it was going to be a hot day. Some of the men
got up for early prayers, but without a regular breakfast hour or roll call, nearly
everyone slept late. Tedi crept out of the barrack and walked through the quiet camp
without seeing a soul.
There were a dozen people in the mess hall, and all of them looked up as she entered.
Some raised their water glasses defiantly, showing off their disdain for the day-long
fast, but others quickly dropped their gaze. There was no tea that morning or fresh
salad, nor would there be any regular meals, but because children and the sick are
exempt from the rules of self-denial, platters of fruit and cheese and baskets of
bread had been set out, covered with dish towels to keep off the flies.
Tedi was surprised to find Zorah there. She was sitting alone, staring at an apple
on the table in front of her.
“Can I join you?” she asked, waiting for permission to sit down. They had barely spoken
since Rosh Hashanah, when Zorah had shown her such kindness.
“Suit yourself,” Zorah said. “Where is your breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry, not yet anyway. I never really fasted on Yom Kippur. In my family,
we—”
A boy stuck his head through the door and announced, “The Poles are starting Musaf.”
“What is that?” Tedi asked.
“It’s an extra service after morning prayers,” Zorah said.
“Aren’t you going?”
Zorah felt the call to prayer in her body. Her feet twitched and her heart raced,
but she had no intention of giving in to the urge. “Why should I go?” she said, as
if she’d been insulted.
“You seem to know so much about such things, the prayers, the Bible, the commentaries,
even. Some of the girls call you ‘the little rabbi.’” Tedi thought the name suited
her, given that Zorah had begun to smell like a book—an oddly comforting combination
of paste and ink and dust.
“That’s no compliment if you consider the maniacs and lost souls who care about such
things around here. Later, I’m going to have a big lunch with the Communists. Just
watch me.”
“I meant no harm,” Tedi said softly.
“Ach,” Zorah relented. “Don’t listen to me. I need a smoke, that’s all.”
Tedi and Zorah sat at the table for an hour, watching as people wandered in and out.
Only mothers with children walkedthrough the doors without embarrassment or apology, urging their little ones to eat
and taking sips of water when they thought no one was looking.
Zorah said, “I’m going to get some air.” She left the apple untouched and wandered
the perimeter of the camp, trying to avoid the chanting and muttering and bursts of
song. But as the day wore on, boredom and curiosity got the better of her, so as the
afternoon services began, Zorah went for a tour of the four separate observances.
The largest was held by the Poles in the promenade
“Were they believers?” Leonie said. “Your friends?”
“They believed in Palestine and the dream for a homeland.”
“May it be so,” said Leonie, using the ancient Hebrew formula.
“I thought you didn’t know anything about the prayer book.”
“I don’t, but my grandfather used to say that. They took me to see him only a few
times when I was a girl, but when I left and I said, ‘See you again,
au revoir,
’ he would answer, ‘May it be so.’ I used to think he was joking, but maybe he was
a little serious, too. He died in his sleep, my grandfather, in his own bed, long
before the Germans marched into Paris. He was not even sixty, but now I think he was
a lucky man.”
“On Yom Kippur, everyone weeps for the dead,” said Shayndel, who had not cried when
her friends had died, nor since.
“Weeping is terrible for the complexion,” said Leonie, holding Shayndel close, “but
it is very good for the heart.”
Yom Kippur, September 17
Yom Kippur dawned overcast and muggy; it was going to be a hot day. Some of the men
got up for early prayers, but without a regular breakfast hour or roll call, nearly
everyone slept late. Tedi crept out of the barrack and walked through the quiet camp
without seeing a soul.
There were a dozen people in the mess hall, and all of them looked up as she entered.
Some raised their water glasses defiantly, showing off their disdain for the day-long
fast, but others quickly dropped their gaze. There was no tea that morning or fresh
salad, nor would there be any regular meals, but because children and the sick are
exempt from the rules of self-denial, platters of fruit and cheese and baskets of
bread had been set out, covered with dish towels to keep off the flies.
Tedi was surprised to find Zorah there. She was sitting alone, staring at an apple
on the table in front of her.
“Can I join you?” she asked, waiting for permission to sit down. They had barely spoken
since Rosh Hashanah, when Zorah had shown her such kindness.
“Suit yourself,” Zorah said. “Where is your breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry, not yet anyway. I never really fasted on Yom Kippur. In my family,
we—”
A boy stuck his head through the door and announced, “The Poles are starting Musaf.”
“What is that?” Tedi asked.
“It’s an extra service after morning prayers,” Zorah said.
“Aren’t you going?”
Zorah felt the call to prayer in her body. Her feet twitched and her heart raced,
but she had no intention of giving in to the urge. “Why should I go?” she said, as
if she’d been insulted.
“You seem to know so much about such things, the prayers, the Bible, the commentaries,
even. Some of the girls call you ‘the little rabbi.’” Tedi thought the name suited
her, given that Zorah had begun to smell like a book—an oddly comforting combination
of paste and ink and dust.
“That’s no compliment if you consider the maniacs and lost souls who care about such
things around here. Later, I’m going to have a big lunch with the Communists. Just
watch me.”
“I meant no harm,” Tedi said softly.
“Ach,” Zorah relented. “Don’t listen to me. I need a smoke, that’s all.”
Tedi and Zorah sat at the table for an hour, watching as people wandered in and out.
Only mothers with children walkedthrough the doors without embarrassment or apology, urging their little ones to eat
and taking sips of water when they thought no one was looking.
Zorah said, “I’m going to get some air.” She left the apple untouched and wandered
the perimeter of the camp, trying to avoid the chanting and muttering and bursts of
song. But as the day wore on, boredom and curiosity got the better of her, so as the
afternoon services began, Zorah went for a tour of the four separate observances.
The largest was held by the Poles in the promenade
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