I heard the car before I saw it. It was driving slowly down the street and as I turned around to look at it, I could see the British soldiers, arms hanging out of open windows trying to catch any breeze that there was. A burning anger welled up inside me. What were they doing here, these British soldiers, barreling down the streets as if they owned them?

As the car slowly passed me, I saw the men lounging in their seats. Their faces seemed to blend with those of the British police in Chevron who had sat by and watched as Papa was murdered. I bent down and lifted a rock from the ground next to me. Before I knew it, it was sailing through the air and came down hard on the door of the car. There was a loud crack and one of the soldiers swore loudly as they pulled the car to a stop. I stood there, watching, almost as if it hadn’t been me who had thrown that rock. They were already out of the car and coming toward me when I finally came to my senses and ran.

I ran as fast and hard as I could, twisting through alleyways only a Yerushalmi would know, hoping to lose the men I imagined were following closely behind me. Because of course they would be chasing me. I couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of my feet against the pavement and the pounding of my heart against my ribcage, but I was sure that the policemen were close behind me. Despite the fear, though, only one thought kept running through my mind. A chant to the sound of my pounding footsteps. I – did – it. I – did – it. I had done something. I wasn’t just standing at a street corner talking about getting back at the British, I was actually doing something. A feeling of success rose inside me — the kind of feeling I usually got when Papa complimented me on my learning. The kind of feeling I hadn’t felt in a year.

I turned a corner sharply and ducked into the entrance of a building, listening for the footsteps of the British soldiers rushing past, but none came. They must have given up chasing me a while ago — if they had even chased me at all. Maybe one rock and a dented car didn’t really mean all that much to them. Well, this time I might not have hurt them, but I would find a way. Next time those British would get the message — we don’t want them here.

I walked back toward home, and the streets felt so calm and quiet as I did. The house, too, was quiet when I walked through the door. Miriam must have taken Yisroel and Leiba to visit Faiga. As I stepped into the dining room, I noticed my safrus things still spread out on the dining room table.  Could I do safrus and fight the British? I snorted, almost unable to understand the self that had sat at this table practicing writing letters a few hours ago. I had much more important things to do. I quickly collected the things on the table and brought them to the bochurim’s room.  Silently, I dumped them on the shelf where Zalman kept them and turned to go. But as I turned around, the door opened.

“Dovid?”

It was Zalman. I just stared at him. Was he supposed to come back today?

“What’s the matter, Dovid?” Zalman asked, “Why are you so angry?”

Elka

Shabbos came. In Bubbe’s apartment, quiet descended as Bubbe lit the Shabbos candles. Zeide left to shul, and the house felt so peaceful. It didn’t last long, though, because soon after, Uncle Menachem’s wife, Tante Perel, and their two sons came to visit.

“They’re so sweet,” I commented, as Bubbe pulled the older boy onto her lap and handed him a candy. “Do you live nearby?” I asked Tante Perel, noticing how comfortable her boys felt at Bubbe’s house.

“Very,” she smiled, “but we’re so happy you came now. We’re the only ones who live this close and it’s so nice to have cousins here.”

I smiled and went to daven Kabbalas Shabbos, but something inside me stirred. I felt confused. From Bubbe’s letters, it seemed like there was always family around. Like all my cousins lived near each other and we were the only ones missing. But… that just couldn’t be.

Giving my siddur a kiss, I sat down next to Tante Perel for a few moments before they would have to go.

“So, are you enjoying yourself here, Elka?”

I nodded enthusiastically. “It’s so different here,” I gushed, “Bubbe and I went to the park and there was a photographer. We even got a picture.”

Tante Perel laughed, her voice tinkling merrily. “Sounds exciting,” she trilled, “and what are the plans for this week?”

“I want to take her to meet Chava Mendelwitz tomorrow,” Bubbe replied.

“The one who—” Tante Perel paused and it seemed like she was not sure if she should continue. “The one who lives with her aunt and uncle? From Kiev?” she finally said.

“Yes,” Bubbe nodded, and the two fell silent.

Who was Chava Mendelwitz? Why did Bubbe want to take me to see her?

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 935)