soothed. “We don’t know for certain how the fire started.”
“But we do know that we are hated here in America, too. Everyone says what a pity it is that Hitler persecutes the Jews, but will anybody help us? No. Nobody wants the Jews to move to their country.”
The rebbe shook his head. “I’m sure they’ll discover that the fire was an accident. You’ll see.”
They arrived on Jacob’s street a few minutes later, and he saw the damage for himself. And even though he hadn’t attended shul in more than a year, the sight of the ravaged building still saddened him. So many milestones in his life had taken place there. He had presented his tiny son for pidyon ha’ben, redeeming his firstborn. Six years later, he had held his son’s hand as they’d walked across the street for Avraham’s first day of Hebrew school in the beit midrash. And he had watched in pride as Avraham put on tefillin to pray with the men for the first time when he turned twelve. Now Jacob turned his back on the destruction and a lifetime of memories and walked up the steps to his porch, his friends following him, balancing boxes and baskets of food.
The daily newspaper lay on the porch outside his door. Later, he would go through it and read the latest news about the war, cutting out the photographs and articles he wanted to save. But how could he cut anything if he couldn’t use his hands?
“You will have to help me unlock both doors,” he said when he reached the first one. He hated his helplessness. “The key is in my pocket, if you don’t mind.” When he stepped inside he realized he had left a window open and a haze of gauzy smoke lingered inside the apartment.
“Can we talk, Yaacov?” the rebbe asked when he and Meir had finished carrying in the food.
“No one is stopping you.”
“I wish to ask you for a favor. We will need a place to meet now that the shul is damaged, and I wondered if we might say prayers here? Your apartment is spacious and very close to the shul.”
“What makes you think I want to start praying again?”
Rebbe Grunfeld smiled gently. “You risked your life for the scrolls, Yaacov. Surely that must mean something.”
Jacob had no idea what it meant. He had lain awake in the hospital most of the night, his eyes burning, his lungs aching, wondering the same thing.
“We need each other now more than ever before,” Meir said. “These are terrible times we are living in, and we must stick together. Our people haven’t seen this much persecution since Queen Esther’s time, when the wicked Haman ordered our destruction.”
“We don’t know how long it will be until the shul can be rebuilt,” the rebbe added.
“Ask me another day,” Jacob said. “I need time to think. . . . But even if I do allow you to meet here, I cannot promise that I will join you.”
“Thank you. And one more thing, Yaacov. I know how concerned you’ve been for your loved ones in Hungary. Many of us have been awaiting news, and now a group of congregations with families in Europe is trying to get an appointment with the State Department. I thought you might like to join us.”
“Yes, of course I would.” Jacob would spend every dollar he had to find Avraham and his family. He would empty his bank account, sell this apartment building, sell everything he owned. He would look for work in one of the new armament factories to earn even more money if they would hire him at his age. “Tell me where and when.”
“Yes, I will let you know the details. Also, a group of some four hundred rabbis are planning a march in Washington in October.”
“If only it would do some good,” Meir grumbled. “The government knows what is happening. They’ve known since last November that Hitler is persecuting Jews. Remember the National Day of Mourning we held? What good did it do? They still won’t do anything.”
“It’s because no one wants to believe it is true,” the rebbe said.
“How can they deny it?” Meir
“But we do know that we are hated here in America, too. Everyone says what a pity it is that Hitler persecutes the Jews, but will anybody help us? No. Nobody wants the Jews to move to their country.”
The rebbe shook his head. “I’m sure they’ll discover that the fire was an accident. You’ll see.”
They arrived on Jacob’s street a few minutes later, and he saw the damage for himself. And even though he hadn’t attended shul in more than a year, the sight of the ravaged building still saddened him. So many milestones in his life had taken place there. He had presented his tiny son for pidyon ha’ben, redeeming his firstborn. Six years later, he had held his son’s hand as they’d walked across the street for Avraham’s first day of Hebrew school in the beit midrash. And he had watched in pride as Avraham put on tefillin to pray with the men for the first time when he turned twelve. Now Jacob turned his back on the destruction and a lifetime of memories and walked up the steps to his porch, his friends following him, balancing boxes and baskets of food.
The daily newspaper lay on the porch outside his door. Later, he would go through it and read the latest news about the war, cutting out the photographs and articles he wanted to save. But how could he cut anything if he couldn’t use his hands?
“You will have to help me unlock both doors,” he said when he reached the first one. He hated his helplessness. “The key is in my pocket, if you don’t mind.” When he stepped inside he realized he had left a window open and a haze of gauzy smoke lingered inside the apartment.
“Can we talk, Yaacov?” the rebbe asked when he and Meir had finished carrying in the food.
“No one is stopping you.”
“I wish to ask you for a favor. We will need a place to meet now that the shul is damaged, and I wondered if we might say prayers here? Your apartment is spacious and very close to the shul.”
“What makes you think I want to start praying again?”
Rebbe Grunfeld smiled gently. “You risked your life for the scrolls, Yaacov. Surely that must mean something.”
Jacob had no idea what it meant. He had lain awake in the hospital most of the night, his eyes burning, his lungs aching, wondering the same thing.
“We need each other now more than ever before,” Meir said. “These are terrible times we are living in, and we must stick together. Our people haven’t seen this much persecution since Queen Esther’s time, when the wicked Haman ordered our destruction.”
“We don’t know how long it will be until the shul can be rebuilt,” the rebbe added.
“Ask me another day,” Jacob said. “I need time to think. . . . But even if I do allow you to meet here, I cannot promise that I will join you.”
“Thank you. And one more thing, Yaacov. I know how concerned you’ve been for your loved ones in Hungary. Many of us have been awaiting news, and now a group of congregations with families in Europe is trying to get an appointment with the State Department. I thought you might like to join us.”
“Yes, of course I would.” Jacob would spend every dollar he had to find Avraham and his family. He would empty his bank account, sell this apartment building, sell everything he owned. He would look for work in one of the new armament factories to earn even more money if they would hire him at his age. “Tell me where and when.”
“Yes, I will let you know the details. Also, a group of some four hundred rabbis are planning a march in Washington in October.”
“If only it would do some good,” Meir grumbled. “The government knows what is happening. They’ve known since last November that Hitler is persecuting Jews. Remember the National Day of Mourning we held? What good did it do? They still won’t do anything.”
“It’s because no one wants to believe it is true,” the rebbe said.
“How can they deny it?” Meir
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