Channie Greenberg, Upon the Lion and the Serpent
excerpt
Upon the Lion and the Serpent Publisher: Eden Stories Press Retailer: Amazon.com Date: 27 Dec. 2022 Length: 319 pages ISBN: 1735174335; 978-1735174334 |
Like the rest of us, Upon the Lion and the Serpent’s main characters, the extended Grunstein Family, are, in turn, funny, tragic, and resilient. Also, akin to us, this book’s fictional collective gets hardened into resilience by the pressures asserted upon them by life. Most often, the Grunsteins neither seek nor welcome such forces. Nonetheless, they discover, in North America, in Europe, and in the Middle East, that uninvited agencies usually leave them stronger.
* * *
Old Jewish Quarter, Jerusalem, Israel
Tikva watched the large, fawn-colored head fall. The light-filled eyes in that face were as blue as was the sky over the Kotel, as seen from her window. As the pate dropped over the parapet, those eyes reflected to Tikva. They were opened wide in wonder. Below those features, a berry-colored mouth remained frozen in an “o.” The innocent plummeted, gaining speed as it dropped. Tikva reached her hand out upon realizing that she could change the outcome. Her reach proved too short.
The eyes stayed wide, and the mouth stayed locked in its expression as the noggin dropped closer and closer to the pavement. On contact, it splattered all its exquisite viscera. Bits covered the sidewalk; its lovely orbs having separated from its equally superb chin. Parts of the face lay in a large area on the ground below.
Tikva’s cheeks streamed with large, crystal-like tears. Her lower lip quivered. Sounds, like puffs of smoke, escaped from her mouth.
Those sobs were quickly answered by the footsteps of the little girl’s sister. Nechama took one look at her shaking sibling and another at the destruction beneath their window before yanking Tikva into the apartment. She then latched shutters.
“Shhhh.”
“Dolly.”
“Shhhh. Arabs.”
“Dolly.”
Nechama smacked a hand over her younger sister’s mouth and whispered the admonition their parents had sung like a lullaby; their family was to draw no attention to themselves. Dropping a dolly out of a bedroom window, in their part of the Old City, was like hanging out a sign announcing that Jews lived there and were eager to be killed.
* * *
Squirrel Hill, Pennsylvania, USA
Rachel Bernstein sorted the white and yellow envelopes into piles.
“No.
“Not good.
“A bit of a problem.
“Not this one, too.
“Oy, Hashem!”
It was easy to write checks for tzedakah; there were specific rules about how much, how often, and to whom the money should go. Every month, she and Gavriel portioned out their contributions with love. At least ten per cent of all their earnings was divided among as many charities as was possible, beginning with their community’s schools, and shuls, exclusive of funds set aside for their children’s textbooks, their family’s holiday seats, and Rachel’s monthly immersions.
As for the circulars, Rachel didn’t mind them too much, either, though she wished that fewer trees were destroyed for their creation. Sometimes she’d clip a coupon from the Bernstein Family’s favorite store. Usually, though, Rachel stacked those mailings with the Bernsteins’ catalogs, large-sized, unsolicited mail, and other recycling. Coupon collecting cost Rachel more in time than it saved in money; it undermined her daily routine and distracted her when she was shopping. Coupons made her buy little “extras.”
Albeit, Gavriel had laughed at the purple ketchup. He had smirked at the dreidel-shaped noodles. No matter the degree of financial waste related to such purchases, Gavi could never suck in all his smiles when seeing those goods. After unloading a bag of white pumpkins or of hamburger patties shaped like flowers, Gavi would return to whichever blatt he was learning with the corners of his lips reaching toward his ears.
Notes from school were not usually a problem, either. Most often, such jots were written congratulations from the children’s teachers. Such bits praised a daughter in math or a son in Navi. Occasionally, those missives reprimanded a Bernstein for missed homework or, more rarely, for talking in class. “Constructive” letters were few, though, since both the Bernstein children and their teachers knew that “Rabbi and Morah’s” clan followed the rules.
Whereas charity requests, junk mail, and school communications did not bother Rachel, bills did. It was difficult for her to know how to respond to those envelopes. Theoretically, her hours at the day school, her part-time work teaching Ivrit at the Talmud Torah, her babysitting for the Reeve family, plus Gavriel’s part-time job as a sofer ought to have provided enough money to fill all of those envelopes, with some left over for treats. Though, the Bernstein Family lacked funds.
That month, as was usually the case, happenstances overpowered the family’s carefully mapped budget. First, Roni needed braces. The orthodontist had been amenable to a reduced fee and to an extended payment plan, but he had also insisted that he receive a portion of the funds once the treatment began.
Less than a week after that orthodontic payment, Tzvi had fallen off the highest tower of the school’s playground. The Bernstein Family’s insurance had covered Tzvi’s emergency room costs and most of the expenses of his pediatric orthopedist, yet some of the smaller fees, like the cost of Tzvi’s sling, had had to come from the family’s precious reserve.
Finally, Rivka had lost her swim cap and had not been allowed back into her sports class without a new one. That small purchase, too, had been taken from the month’s outlay.
Rachel said a quick prayer. She and Gavriel had been blessed with children, all of whom were alive and most of whom were intact. Hashem, in all His Wisdom, needed Tzvi’s limb broken and Roni’s teeth crooked. Rachel stretched her imagination a little; Rivka had had to lose her bathing cap, too. Other families’ children were missing limbs, had horrible oral pathologies, had lost all their possessions, or had even lost their lives to fleeing horrors that were worse than was the crowding on urban buses.
Rachel prayed again. “Losses,” remembered Morah Bernstein, were sometimes “finds;” Tzvi had gained a mitzvah when bringing ice for Roni’s swollen gums. Roni, in turn, had shone in helping his cast-ridden brother, Tzvi, put on tzitzis. Rivka had taken it upon herself, too, ever so briefly, to organize the Bernstein’s’ boots and coats. She meant for none of the Bernsteins’ other “important” wraps to go missing.
Rachel counted more blessings. Outside of the window, the rain fell, a blessing of fertility. Even removed from The Holy Land, precipitation still determined the abundance and availability of food. A new neighbor walked by, a blessing of friendship. There were no loud explosions or angry sounds screaming on their street, a blessing of safety. Rachel prayed that her little sister, Sara, too, would soon bask in peace. Maybe, today would bring Moshiach.
Rachel reshuffled the envelopes. If she baked challah instead of buying it, if she hemmed Rivka’s Shabbot robe to fit Tziporah, and if she engaged the children in a house-wide kippa-hunt, the family might be able to float until the next set of pay checks. The asters growing wild in the backyard were beautiful enough for the Shabbot table. Homemade cookies were fine for the next few Shabbot parties. Tzvi could wear Roni’s slightly-too-large shirts a little bit longer; their extra girth beautifully accommodated his cast and sling.
* * *
Lakewood, New Jersey, USAMiriam woke to a paper cup of water, which was being held out to her by a thin nurse with a South American accent.
“Drink.” That caregiver slowly extended her hand closer and closer to the little Jewish woman over whom she had been instructed to watch.
“Thank-you. Baruch Ata Hashem...”
The nurse shook her head from side to side; the lady had offered a blessing before taking even the smallest of sips. Those religious ones never stopped amazing her. The nurse had worked with them before; the local town was teeming with them.
They always said “please” and “thank-you,” even when hemorrhaging, never cussed the staff, and often made it a point to write thank-you notes to the hospital employees after being released from the hospital. She had never heard a sour word from any of them and even when they disagreed with a doctor or were given bitter news, those religious ones prayed or were otherwise silent.
Take, for example the little Jewess now before her. That woman, all large brown eyes and pale face, had been given very harsh news. Although old Doc Lazar, the biggest pussycat on the trauma team, had been the herald, the way smart Doc Weinberg told it, Doc Lazar’s message had contained nothing cuddly. Despite that, the little Jewess, the one who was now accepting a second cup of water, had neither angered nor protested, but had, instead, fainted.
That she had fainted, instead of saying bad things, had been verified by the nurse’s friend, the one who managed the treatment hall’s command desk and who usually filled the nurse in on the juiciest of doctor-patient conversations. The desk nurse had offered the little Jewess one of the sweets, which she kept on hand for diabetics. The Jewess, though, had refused the candy. Those religious ones only ate the emergency room food under very special conditions.
Maybe, reflected the nurse assigned to Miriam, she ought not to encourage the desk nurse to share with her the yummy details of patients’ lives. That type of talk, though fun, was immoral and illegal. On the other hand, it was that very gossip that the two friends rationalized was their due since few of their patients were brave little Jewesses. Others were screaming drunkards needing stitches or were gang members, who, no matter the degree of their restraints, endangered the emergency room staff with hidden weapons and retaliatory friends. Those friends charged through the emergency room without regard for critically ill or injured folk.
Oblivious to the nurse standing before her, Miriam collected herself and her empty cup, pausing only to utter a follow-up prayer. She looked at her watch; she had been in the hospital for hours, but only unconscious for a minute or two. Miriam prayed a bit more and stood up, smoothing her skirt as she rose. She was directed to the waiting area of the surgical ward.
The plastic surgeon and the orthopedist, with whom Miriam had spoken in the emergency room, were already at work on Yitzchak. They had decided, with Yitzchak’s consent, to try to save Yitzchak’s hand and fingers. According to the social worker, who oversaw the surgical waiting area, Yitzchak had been eager for the surgery despite the doctors’ warning of pain and of other possible complications.
Yitzchak had further impressed the staff with his remarks about holding them responsible not for miracles, but for technically reasonable results. He had added that he would leave the miracles up to G-d and that he believed that G-d might choose to Gift him with one.
Copyright © 2022 by Channie Greenberg
