Mila 18 - Leon Uris [112]
Goddamned little orphan bastards! Goddamned old rabbi bastard! God shook you down worse than the Germans did, Max thought.
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.