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Jewish Short Stories
Jewish Short Stories
Jewish Short Stories
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Jewish Short Stories

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A collection of short stories dealing with daily Hebrew life, history and culture. Funny, thought-provoking, and even a little sad these stories will make you smile and open your heart.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherDov Silverman
Release dateJul 21, 2013
ISBN9781301284214
Jewish Short Stories
Author

Dov Silverman

Born in Brooklyn, New York, Dov Silverman has served as a U.S. Marine in the Korean War, worked as a Long Island railroad conductor, been an auctioneer, and even established the Autar Microfilm Service. While working so hard on the railroad, he earned his high school diploma and went on to graduate from Stony Brook University, Long Island, New York, cum laude, at the age of 39. He and his family settled in Safed, Israel in 1972. He credits a spiritual meeting with God and a Tzaddik (righteous man), Jules Rubinstein, in the Brentwood (New York) Jewish Center, with setting him on the path of study, religious involvement and settlement in Israel. His novel, FALL OF THE SHOGUN, appeared on the London Times Best-Seller List and has been published in multiple languages. He also won a 1988 Suntory Mystery Fiction Award, Japan, for REVENGE OF THE GOOD SHEPHERDS.

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    Jewish Short Stories - Dov Silverman

    Jewish Short Stories

    Dov Silverman

    Smashwords edition, copyright 2013

    License notes: All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

    Other Work by Dov Silverman

    The Poor Farm

    The Kabbalist

    The Eighth Day of Creation

    Revenge of the Good Shepherds

    Legends of Safed

    Gold to India

    Frank Crowe: The Dam Builder who Changed the Face of the Earth

    Amphitrite

    The Prophet and the Priest

    The John Mung Saga

    The Fall of the Shogun

    The Black Dragon

    The Shishi

    Tairo

    To the Gates of Hell

    Contents

    The Shawl

    Nashyim Hayalot Women Of Valor

    A Labor Dispute

    Banjo Eddie

    We've Come Home

    Shema Yisrael

    The Retarded Mother

    One Soldier’s Miracle

    My Name Is

    Treasures Of Kishinev

    The Teacher

    Deardeborah, The White Dove True Story.

    The Door

    Welcome

    Israel

    The Rabbi And The Professor

    Who Is Me

    Iwo Jimma Rabbi

    Courting A Nice Jewish Girl (Dov Silverman & Janet )

    The Power Of One And The 52 Club

    Ma'a Lot Massacre

    Safed To Heaven

    Happy Purim (Ad Lo Yada)

    The Debt

    Janet’s Eulogy

    Knegdo

    THE SHAWL

    I drove into a sleepy village in the hills of Galilee just before the Sabbath. The bed and breakfast owner gave me directions to the synagogue and left. I hadn't prayed in years and wasn't thinking of it. I pre-paid for dinner but that wouldn’t be served for a while. I stepped outside. The air was clear and the setting sun painted the distant Mediterranean Sea gold. I wandered off and found myself drawn to an ancient, domed building. The sun sprayed its last golden light on the Synagogue of the ARI. I peeked in, saw no one and decided to enter. I took a skullcap at the door. Then I saw him. An old man seated in front of the Holy Ark with its eternal light flickering above.

    Come in, he said. Others will be along shortly. Are you visiting?

    Passing through.

    We don't see many outsiders.

    He opened a faded felt bag and gently removed a time worn prayer shawl. He pulled it over his head as my father used to do, mumbled a prayer, then draped the shawl over his thin shoulders.

    I smiled and said. That shawl has seen better days.

    True. The old man nodded.

    Have you considered replacing it?

    Many times, he said. I even thought to throw it away. But, this prayer shawl is twenty-four generations in our family. He pointed. See this patch? It was torn during the Inquisition when the family was driven from Spain. This is a gunpowder mark when one of my forefathers was forced to fight in the Turkish army. He fled with the family across the Caspian Sea to Russia. The old man pointed again. Cossacks caused this bloodstain. Pogroms in Poland, these." He shifted in his seat and pulled the shawl closer about him.

    Are you cold? I asked.

    "It's the memories that chill me. My grandfather gave this shawl to my father when the Germans took him to Bergen-Belsen. My father passed it to my mother. She died in Dachau. She gave it to my brother, sister and then me before we were sent to the ovens in Auschwitz.

    The old man used the shawl to dry his tears. The wool was stained and worn through, where he touched it to his cheek. He stared up into the glow of the eternal light suspended over the Holy Ark. In 1945 they freed us from the camps. I ran trusting no one, nothing but this shawl and what it stands for. He stroked the faded wool with bony hands. "This never failed me. From Germany I started on foot to Israel, a penniless scarecrow. It took me two years to walk across Europe, over the mountains of Turkey, down into the Syrian plains. I hid amidst the cedars of Lebanon. Under cover of night we slipped past British border guards into the Holy Land. This shawl kept me warm in winter. It shaded me from the summer sun. I squeezed rainwater from it to satisfy my thirst.

    In 1948 when we declared Israel a nation, I wore this shawl while defending against seven invading Arab armies. In 1967 prayed with it at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. I stood with it at the graves of our athletes murdered at the Munich Olympics in 1972. In '73, on Yom Kippur I was praying here, when the Syrians, Egyptians and Iraqis attacked us on the holiest day of the year. In '75 I used it to cover the bodies of twenty-one children slaughtered by terrorists in the school house not far from here.

    The old man's voice rang with pride. I wore this shawl in '76 when blowing the ram's horn to celebrate our soldiers' freeing of Israeli hostages at Entebbe. In '82 I stood on the hills of Galilee watching the army of Israel drive the terrorists back to Beirut in Lebanon.

    The old man turned from the eternal light and gazed at me. The flame of that light burned in his eyes. He stroked the worn wool. This shawl has witnessed the prophecy of Ezekiel. Do you remember the Biblical portion about the Valley of the Bones?

    It was difficult for me to recall childhood lessons learned for my bar mitzvah. Now I turned to the eternal flame to focus my thoughts on the memories. Ezekiel's words came to my lips:

    The House of Israel shall be decimated by its enemies. The bodies of the men, women and children of Israel shall be thrown into the Valley of Death where maggots shall eat their carcasses; the flesh peel from their bones and the enemies of Israel shall dance upon the bones. But it shall come to pass when the Lord thy God calls upon Israel again to lead the nations in righteousness. He shall connect the foot bone to the leg bone and the leg bone to the thighbone. Bone on bone shall He cause to be connected and the bones shall rise up from the Valley of Death. The Lord shall cause flesh to grow on these bones, and eyes shall return to their sockets to see the evil that has come into the world. And tongues shall grow in the mouths to speak the word of God unto man so that he shall know what is right in the eyes of the Lord.…

    Good Sabbath to you sir.

    I turned from the glare of the eternal light and blinked at the young man standing near me.

    Good Sabbath, he said again. Will you lead us in the evening prayers?

    Others were in the synagogue waiting for me to lead them.

    Sabbath services are about to begin, the young man said.

    I turned to look for the old man. He was gone. In his place, was the shawl. I reached down and touched the faded wool. It was damp where he had dried his tears. I took it up and draped it around my shoulders.

    That shawl has seen better days, the young man said.

    True, I answered.

    Here's a newer one you can use.

    But, you see, I am the twenty-fifth generation in our family to wear this shawl. It wouldn't be right to give it up now. I stepped before the Holy Ark in the glow of the eternal light, covered my head with the shawl and sang,. "Ashrei Yoshvei Vaeitekor Ode Yhallehucha Sela! Happy Are They Who Dwell In Thy House!"

    NASHYIM HAYALOT

    WOMEN OF VALOR

    Paris,1944 - D-Day landing in Normandy plus 38 days:

    Sergeant Geiger and three N.C.O.'s climbed down from the U.S. Army ammo truck on the rue de la Victoria in Paris. They straightened their uniforms and caps, rubbing their spit shined shoes on the back of their pant's legs. The four approached the La Grande Rothschild Synagogue. The great stone façade with thirty double windows each depicting the Tablets of the Ten Commandments. Twelve windows centered above represented the Twelve Tribes of Israel. Nine double windows standing for the Hebrew word Chai meaning life. Then three great arched openings for the entrance representing the patriarchs, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Bullet scars gouged the smooth facing stone of the 19th century structure. The steps were crowded. Mostly women in black, mourning the loss of loved ones during the German occupation. Uniformed men from America, England, Belgium, France, Scotland mingled with underground fighters who helped liberate Paris, the City of Light. It was Rosh Hashanah Eve and the first time the synagogue was being used since the German occupation. As Sgt. Geiger led the three up the steps people stepped back and a whisper like wave preceded them into the synagogue. They entered the foyer where the Gestapo planted bombs to liquidate the Parisian Jews on Yom Kippur several years earlier. The damage was evident. The Germans stripped the building of all valuables. The walls were bare. Doorknobs, hinges and lamp stands ripped from their places. The four soldiers started up to the balcony with other women. They were stopped by a group of men in civilian clothes wearing Jewish Resistance armbands. Behind them a path cleared for a thin, worn, old man with wispy white beard and rheumy eyes. Ladies he said in French, you will sit near the Torah with me.

    In Yiddish, Sergeant Edyth Geiger asked, Isn't there a Mekitzah? (separation between women and men)

    My name is Rabbi Weill. I have just returned from the concentration camp to my pulpit here in the Le Grand Synagogue. For Nashyim Hayalot Women of Valor like you, there is no Mekhitzah this Rosh Hashanah. The Jews of Paris wish to honor you ladies who volunteered to fight for our freedom. May we all be written well in The Book of Life for the New Year.

    Sergeant Edyth Geiger has been living in Safed, Israel for more than fifty years and recalls that blessing every Rosh Hashanah.

    She will not be at services this Rosh Hashanah. Edyth passed on June 7th 2013. Two weeks ago. I was honored to be her friend. Dov Silverman

    A LABOR DISPUTE

    19th CENTURY POLAND:

    The snow laden wind whipped down the crooked streets of the Jewish ghetto of Vishtov. Icy blasts of arctic air shredded the chimney smoke, driving it parallel to the ground and over the roofs of the hodgepodge of houses built upward to accommodate the Jewish community within its restricted area. It was the Sabbath eve. The Jewish men of Vishtov were returning home from the synagogue with the Shekina, that spirit of the Holy One blessed be He, that permeates the being of the faithful, and is transmitted to the family at the Sabbath meal. That night in the hearts of some, the Shekina shared its place with a solemn resolution to obstruct a Din. (religious law).

    Two bearded men walked side by side down the main street, their flat, black fur edged hats bent into the wind. The shorter of the two, his gray beard tucked into his long black, threadbare coat, hunched his right shoulder, walking sideways into the wind. The larger man walked forward directly into the wintry blast, resting his big frame on the cold wind from the Russian steppes. They walked in silence, their footsteps muffled by the snow, their rag covered boots raising white clouds at each step. The Sabbath candles in all the windows illuminated the snow banks forming in the street. The pair turned towards one of the narrow buildings which tilted to lean on the house to its right. Before entering, both men brushed their clothing, undid the rags from their footgear, and shook off the frozen snow from the fur of their hats. They ascended the narrow staircase, sniffing for cooking odors, hoping for that feeling of warmth on their cheeks-which never came.

    A small woman stood in the doorway. Rickety woolen-stockinged legs showed from under her faded coat, a blue kerchief accentuated her lusterless eyes and pale thin lips which sent forth puffs of white air in the cold room with greetings to her father and husband. "Shabbat Shalom." The men returned the traditional Sabbath greeting, which was then echoed by the young boy and girl seated expectantly at the table. The two men removed their coats, retaining their jackets, vests and sweaters. They washed their hands with the proper blessings, and approached the Sabbath table. A faded white satin cloth covered the two chalot (show breads) in the center of the table; a tiny cup of worn silver plate, filled with sweet wine stood at the head of the table. The father intoned the blessings over his children. The grandfather blessed the house and the husband blessed his wife then finished with the blessings over the wine and bread.

    The woman stepped away from the table and went to the hearth with its small fire, and ladled out thin potato soup from the iron pot hanging there. In between loud mouthfuls of soup the son, Yakov answered his father's questions about his studies. Boiled potatoes and cold herring were the main course, followed by honey judiciously dripped on the soft white bread. When they had eaten the father stood, and automatically the children took their places on either side of him. He placed his hands on their heads, looking first at the boy, then at the girl said, May God render thee like Ephraim and Manasseh; may God render thee like Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah. The family sang Sabbath songs, and performed the age old rituals, that have bound the wandering Jew to his people and the people to God.

    Afterwards the children prepared for sleep in that part of the room separated by a curtain. Their mother piled layers of clothing and blankets on the youngsters, until only their dark eyes and pale cheeks were visible. The two men sat at the table with worn books, leaned toward the candle light, underlining the words with callused fingers. The woman cleared the table while they read then prepared to go outside to gather snow to melt for the morning.

    Yenta, her husband said, if you're going to the outhouse, take the pig stick.

    "Not necessary Dov'elle. In this weather even the goyim wouldn't let their pigs out."

    Take it anyway. Their are two legged pigs around here.

    "The old man gave an affirmative grunt.

    Yenta left and Dov looked up from his book, Shmuael, you have not said a word about what we intend to do tomorrow.

    The aged eyes framed by pink lids looked sadly at the gaunt bearded face of the younger man, then down at the table. Shmuael wet his lips and pulled his gray beard. "You want me to say something. What's to say? I don't know. Beryl Yoskowitz gives material to the families who make the boots in their homes. He sells to the

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