Mila 18 - Leon Uris [89]
The pain of being away from him.
The first kiss. She did not know what a kiss was. She did not believe feelings from a kiss were part of the human experience.
“Deborah, I love you.”
Each new adventure was like nothing that had ever happened to her before.
“I am not quite certain I know what love is, Chris. I do know that seeing you is wrong and we will get into trouble if we keep it up. But I know I want to see you, regardless. Because ... being away from you is becoming more and more unbearable. Is this what love is, Chris?”
Chapter Twelve
Journal Entry
TODAY, MY SON WAS born. Susan Geller was in attendance with Dr. Glazer from our orphanage. Sylvia came through beautifully for a woman of forty.
Outwardly, I must exhibit unabashed joy. Inwardly, I am worried. This is a bad time for a Jewish child to be born.
Moses is a common name, but I think the historian in me weighed my decision. The first Moses was also born in an era of duress, and when Pharaoh ordered all Jewish male infants slain he was hidden in the bulrushes. With this sentimentality and much luck, Moses Brandel will come through the difficult days ahead.
ALEXANDER BRANDEL
Despite the austerity and the outlawing of religious ceremonies, nothing could diminish the collective happiness of the Bathyrans. Moses Brandel was born to be spoiled by them all. He was their baby, and they were damned well going to have a blowout at the bris.
Tolek Alterman closed down the farm and brought in all the workers, thirty boys and ten girls, to Warsaw with an extravagance of food.
Momma Rosenblum took charge of cooking the traditional dishes. Rabbi Solomon would personally conduct the prayers at the ceremony.
The event took place at the Writer’s Club on Tlomatskie Street, near Alex’s flat, which the Orphans and Self-Help Society had “leased” as an agency.
On the eighth day after his birth Moses Brandel was passed around on an ornate velvet pillow from relative to relative, from Bathyran to Bathyran, and finally ended up in the arms of his godfather, Andrei Androfski.
Down the street, the Great Tlomatskie Synagogue was boarded up at the doors and windows and guards posted around it, but in the Writer’s Club a covenant with God was made by this child in a ceremony over four thousand years old from the command in Genesis, “He that is eight days old among you shall be circumcised, every male throughout your generations.”
As in ancient times when Abraham circumcised Isaac, symbolic of a covenant with God, so did Finkelstein, the professional mohel, circumcise Moses Brandel. It is probable that Finkelstein did a better job, as he had had far more practice. He had been mohel at some two thousand brisim.
Little Moses lost his composure and shrieked.
“Blessed are you, Lord our God, Master of the Universe, who have made us holy with your commands, and have commanded us to bring Moses, the son of Alexander and Sylvia, into the covenant of Abraham our father,” chanted Rabbi Solomon.
When Moses’ ordeal was over, the infant was returned to his mother in their flat down the street and the celebration began.
“Mozeltoff!” everyone congratulated the proud father.
“Mozeltoff!”
And the toasts began.
And singing.
And dancing.
And soon the Writer’s Club reeled under the impact of a dancing hora ring. The “proud father” was pulled into the center, and one by one the young Bathyran girls whirled with him around the circle in unison with the clapping and stamping. He danced and danced until he could dance no more. It didn’t take much wine to get him high; he had been heady since the birth of the baby.
At last he staggered from the dance floor, sweating and gasping for breath.
Ervin Rosenblum and Andrei hooked their hands under Alex’s arms and dragged him off to a side room, where he flopped down, wiped his face, and fanned himself.
“Why do Jews have to make such