Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: ONEROUS (03/02/17)
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TITLE: The Shattering | Previous Challenge Entry
By Ann Stocking
03/09/17 -
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“Chana,” I whisper, and she opens her eyes, confused. “Wake the children. Go to the attic.”
“Elias?”
“Go now, yakirati.” There is the sound of wood splintering, more smashing of glass. Chana scrambles from the bed and runs from me. My Chana.
A shout from the hallway. “Judenschwein!” And they are there, dragging me into the street, pushing me to my knees. “Filthy Jew.”
Before I can take in the chaos around me, a knife flashes. A tug and a slash, two, three, and my beard and earlocks fly to the ground.
“Elias!” It is Juda, similarly shorn, his forehead bruised. Beyond, a dark still heap. “Salomon,” Juda mouths to me.
All around, bellows of wrath, cries of agony, as more of us are pulled from our beds and the arms of our beloveds. The synagogue is burning, flames reaching heavenward. A man runs from Braus’s tailor shop laden with trousers, another from Dressler’s bakery stuffing a pastry into his mouth, cream filling smearing his cheeks. And everywhere, everywhere, glass.
A revolver in my face. “You, Jew. Parasite. Work now.” I am jerked to my feet. “Clean up this mess you have caused.”
I look around, bewildered, and the revolver bites my skull. “I said, clean! Pick up the bricks. Stack them there!” He points with the gun to the other side of the street. “You, dog,” he snaps at Juda. “Carry the bricks back and stack them here.” The officer laughs, then roars. “Hurry, Judenschwein!”
For hours, I carry broken bricks to the west side of the street. A heap that does not grow as Juda carries the bricks back and stacks them on the east side.
Then a coal scuttle clangs as it’s hurled in front of me. “Enough! Pick up glass.” The SS man tut-tuts. “A terrible misfortune, no? Such trouble you people make for yourself.”
I fill the scuttle over and over, tipping the shards into the truck parked in the middle of the street. Droplets of blood from my fingers bloom on the cobblestones like scattered petals. The rubble in the street deepens: broken doors, store shelves, chairs, clothing, books. Juda disappears, hidden forever in the pall of smoke from the burning synagogue and other buildings. My back bent and throbbing with pain, I cannot look up, not wanting to let my eyes wander to the attic window, to know if Chana sees the destruction, our degradation, the desecration. The sun, when it comes, is hidden behind a sooty veil. And the stars, the stars, have fallen to earth, still faintly shimmering beneath a cloak of dust and ash and tears.
Mud-encrusted boots appear near my hands. “Ah, Jew. You are doing a very poor job. Let me give you something to help.” A tallit flutters to the ground, like a bevy of doves, snowy against the stones.
I pick up the prayer shawl, touch it to my lips. Baruch atah adonai... *
“Wipe the street with this rag.”
I kneel. Eloheinu melech ha olam... I dab hesitantly.
“Quickly!” The kick sends a spear of pain into my belly, knocks me over. I lurch to my knees and frantically wipe the cobblestones.
Warmth splashes on my fingers. Acrid and yellow, it bespatters the tallit. The man guffaws. “How about some holy water? Does that help?” I mop the sticky stones, soiling the tallit. Already, it is ragged.
Asher kidishanu b’mitzvotav...
His holy law cleanses me, sanctifies me; His love purifies me. Tears fall on my torn and bloodied hands, and I falter in my scrubbing. The man, a fellow citizen, a neighbour, strikes me with the handle of his axe.
“Please,” I plead.
He laughs. “Get up, Jew.”
Vitzivanu l’hitatef b’tzitzit...
With all my strength, I stagger to my feet and draw the sullied tallit around my shoulders. O Lord, my God, my secret place, my refuge, my fortress, my hiding place, cover me with Your feathers. Deliver me.
Darkness, as the man strikes again, then brilliance, as the Master of the Universe, clothed in glory and majesty, wrapped in a gleaming robe of light, spreads wide the heavens and descends.
Baruch atah adonai...
~ Kristallnacht, The Night of Broken Glass, November 9, 1938.
* The Blessing for Putting on the Tallit or Prayer Shawl.
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