Refiner's Fire by Mark Helprin Page A

and swing the door on its hinges just a little bit, always taking care to move it back again. When the rabbi spoke and when the cantor sang, the magic of the language made her sleepy and comfortable like the summer outside, like the child she had been not so long before in the little pines fragrant around her room under the roof. The candles were burning bright. Some dripped wax onto the floor, and no one cared. Everyone was happy and content; much love was to be found there.
    Suddenly a man arose and ran down the aisle. He whipped around and faced the people, and he began to speak tightly and quietly. His eyes were twitching. He could have been a madman. “Can’t you see?” he finally shouted, “can’t you see that the air ... I can feel the air; the air is starting to burn. The air is burning, burning, burning black.” He moaned with a painful and dreadfully familiar sound, a cry from a long, long history, and they joined him, lamenting in the disordered remnants of their contentment, moaning in a frightening way which froze the children in fear and which became for them an initiation into their religion as they had never dreamed it would be.
    Clutching a wooden rail, the rabbi had tears in his eyes and could not speak. The women began to weep, but a young man jumped up and walked to the door, kicking it open with such force that it sounded like a gun. He was more angry than they were frightened, the type to draw fire. “Let us go home,” he said strongly, “and eat our dinners.” It became quiet, and they filed out. Katrina Perlé sat motionless and afraid. The door was still open and through it she could see an evening star, a planet really, shining silver in soft fading blue. She felt love rising within her, and she kissed her hands and grasped the dark wood as so many of her people had done so many times before.
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    S HE CONTINUED to hope that summer would return and that the sea would again be like glass, even in a cold fiery autumn, a time for starting school or work or love, a season she had treasured. One afternoon on a bright day when she wore a white dress and shirt which glowed in the sun, and she looked as beautiful as she had ever looked—sunburnt, golden, and silver—she came upon a sign posted on a building.
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To all Jews. In order to populate the sparsely settled regions of the Ukraine, all Jews living in Riga on streets where this notice appears, and those with no established residence must appear at the Riga main station on October 5, 1941, at five in the morning, Berlin time. Each Jew can bring baggage not to exceed forty pounds in weight, including food for two days. Food will be provided in stations en route by the German authorities.
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    It was hard to believe that it would take place the very next day. Everyone was to be assembled and ready at five, meaning that they had to pack that evening, go to sleep early, and arise at four. Hurrying through the streets, she saw the white signs posted everywhere, and when at last she reached the synagogue, it was full. To see so many people in one place might have been encouraging had even one of them known how to avoid the deportation. No one, however, could think of anything. Fearing a pogrom by the Latvian auxiliary police if the order were not followed, they decided to cooperate. A student in tennis shoes pointed out that from a military-strategic point of view it seemed logical for the Germans to populate areas over which they had made lightning gains, and that undoubtedly the Jews would be used to farm and to run factories which the Russians had been unable to torch.
    When everyone had departed and the Torah had been moved to the rabbis house in preparation for the journey, the rabbi came to the empty synagogue. It occurred to him how very very beautiful it was, how wonderful it had been, how many clear nights and days he had spent there. He loved that hall greatly. With a pounding heart, he put out the