Rabbi Solomon snatched the money and the papers from Max Kleperman’s desk, stuffed them into a big pocket in his long black frock, and asked the good Lord to please forgive his dubious methods.
Alexander Brandel shook his head in disbelief.
“How in the name of God did you manage to shake Max Kleperman down for this property?”
“You’re right. It was the name of God.”
Alex grunted at the irony. He tied the muffler around his neck as though he had a chill, even though it was the middle of summer and the room was like a furnace. No one, including Alex, seemed to know why he wore the muffler.
“It is a miracle,” Alex said. “A hundred children. We will find room there for two hundred—it is a miracle.”
“God works miracles, Alex. Believe a little more in him and a little less in Zionism.”
Alex put the papers and money in the desk. He had not seen Rabbi Solomon since the bris of Moses. The old man seemed in fine fettle. He commented upon it.
“I am kept alive by the Almighty so that I may carry my share of today’s burdens,” the rabbi answered.
But Alex did not look so good. Rabbi Solomon said nothing. Alex had always been a bit untidy. He was seedy now. He did appear as good as a man could be expected to on three or four or a luxurious six hours’ sleep a night. He sat behind that desk day and night bargaining, pleading, juggling lives, juggling Kennkarten and rations, juggling medicine. Fencing with the crushing pressures from all sides. Debating for hours on end with Paul Bronski to wheedle an extra gram on the rations.
“Why have you done this, Rabbi? I came to you once and asked you to help us unify and you refused.”
“I do not question the word of God. I merely follow his instructions.”
“Are you saying you have done this out of divine revelation?”
“I say that I find nothing in the Torah or the Holy Laws which commands me not to help starving children. It is hard for me to walk in the streets and see them these days. I studied the situation for many hours and I searched my soul as well as the word of the Law. I conclude that self-help has always been a God-meant key to Jewish survival. For some strange reason God has picked a goy like you and a goniff like Max Kleperman as his instruments of self-help. Mind you, I still do not subscribe to these radical theories or Zionism and physical resistance.”
As usual, Alex thought, Rabbi Solomon has all the answers. Perhaps he has an answer that has been nagging at me for weeks now. For a long time Alexander longed to show someone his journal. He desired a concurrent opinion that his notes and hours of work at it really had some significance. He knew that Simon Eden and David Zemba had been more or less indulgent of a former historian. Time and again he was tempted to take someone into his confidence. But whom? Rabbi Solomon? Beneath that crustiness lay a shrewd and brilliant mind. One thing was certain—the man could be trusted. Alex started to clear his throat for the proclamation.
“Alex. Already, what is on your mind? You are like a little boy with a secret. Nu?”
Alex smiled and walked to the door and bolted it. He went to the big floor safe behind his desk, dialed the combination, and pulled the heavy iron doors open and took out three volumes of thick notebooks wrapped in a large canvas cloth and placed them before the old man.
“Nu?” said Solomon, putting on his thick glasses. “What is the great mystery?” He bent his face down so that his nose nearly touched the page to give vision to his semi-blind eyes. “Alex, you are a goy. You even write in Polish.”
“You will find some in Yiddish, some in Hebrew.”
“Hummm—let me see. Let me see what is so important. ‘August 1939. This is the first entry in my journal. I cannot help but feel that war will begin in a few weeks. If the lessons of the past three years are any barometer, something awesome is apt to happen if Germany makes a successful invasion. ...’ ” He looked up quickly to Alex and back to the book, and only his mouth moved, forming the words as he read more rapidly.
Rabbi Solomon seemed spellbound as he turned page after page. It was all there. From the first declaration of Alexander Brandel’s intuition of a unique event to the daily record from the moment of occupation. There were limericks by Crazy Nathan, gossip, German directives, his personal diary, events of the world outside, ghetto poems, songs, poetry. The names and number of Yiddish theatrical productions. The recording of the sudden departure of friends. The constant groping for an answer.
At the end of the first hour, when he had closed the initial volume of the journal, Rabbi Solomon knew he had read a remarkable history of his people going through another siege of Rome and Greece and Babylon.
His eyes stung and were watery, but he quickly opened the second volume and thumbed through page after page with pulsating wonder.
Then he stopped.
“Who knows about this?” he asked in a hush.
“Eden. Zemba. Emanuel Goldman, before his murder.”
The rabbi was on his feet “When have you had time?”
“At night, in my room.”
“Amazing! Your intuition of a holocaust. Your wisdom in putting it all down on paper before the events occurred.”
Alex shrugged. “Time and again Jews have written secret histories from intuition.”
“Intuition? I wonder. The Lord works in His own ways. Moses was a goy, like you. Alex, you must not leave this about. Not even in the safe. Hide it.”
“Rabbi, I have never seen you so excited. Are you certain of its importance?”
“Certain! This will sear the souls of men for centuries to come. This journal is a brand that is to be stamped on the German conscience so that a hundred of their unborn generations will have to live with these words with guilt and shame!”
Alex sighed and nodded with contentment. He knew now that all those hours through the night when he had been drugged from lack of sleep and forced his hand to write out another line had not been in vain.
“May God forgive me for saying this, Alex, but that journal is like a new chapter of the ‘Valley of Tears Chronicle.’ ”
Journal Entry
Rabbi Solomon has an infectious enthusiasm for the journal and he has paid me the most magnificent of compliments. He calls it a new chapter in the “Valley of Tears Chronicle!” (The “Valley of Tears” lists fifteen centuries of Jewish martyrdom, particularly detailing the massacres and suffering of the Jews under the Crusaders during the Middle Ages. The lifework of Rabbi Yosef Hacohen was discovered by Rabbi Eibeschutz in 1850 and translated and has become a part of our lore, prayer, and tradition.)
Rabbi Solomon insists I expand the journals and that it should be hidden more carefully and even duplicated in case of the destruction or German discovery of the original. Such precautions! He and I have gone to the basement of Mila 19 and made a hiding place by moving bricks. I think it is nonsense, but so long as it pleases him ...
We have formed a secret society of contributors. We call ourselves the Good Fellowship Club. Simon Eden and David Zemba are left over from the original contributors.
All of the executive council of the Bathyran (except Andrei Androfski) are members of the Good Fellowship Club; i.e., Susan Geller, Ervin Rosenblum, Tolek Alterman, and Ana Grinspan. Other members:
Silberberg, the former playwright, who is on the Jewish Civil Authority and our closest ally there.
Rodel, Communist leader in the ghetto. He has been in semi-hiding since the occupation but has been valuable in both children’s aid and contacts on the Aryan side.