Ruchama Feuerman

Jan 07, 2013 6:46 AM EST

Harry is home from school. He tosses his little leather satchel on the floor and comes into the kitchen.
“Smells good, Mama,” he says.
Betty Heine smiles. She loves to cook her eldest’s favorite food: traditional German sausages. Harry ruffles the hair of the youngest, little Max, who is playing at his mother’s feet. Betty aims a kiss at Harry’s head, which he ducks.
“History test today,” he says. He plunks himself on a carved wooden chair and chooses an apple from a chipped china bowl on the table. “We had to list all the popes of the last five hundred years.”
Betty sighs. The Catholic school teaches him well – as Samson always says, one needs a good education to succeed in this world – but it troubles her that he has to learn about their religion.
“How did you do?” she asks.
He shakes his head. “I’m sure I failed that part. I was reading poetry while the priest was teaching it.”
“Oh, Harry…” she sighs again. But part of her is glad. She and Samson might not be so devout, but they’re proud of their Jewish heritage. Betty hopes Harry and his siblings will carry on that pride.

- EG Edelson

Jan 08, 2013 12:40 PM EST

December 7, 1941 was my sixteenth birthday, but we didn’t have birthday parties the way you girls do. That it was my birthday didn’t matter at all – except I knew that if the war wasn’t over in two years, I’d have to enlist.

I wasn’t afraid to enlist; I wanted to. Every Jew in America wanted Hitler defeated, so I was going to do my part. But there was something in it for me personally, too. You see, when I came home from school, I didn’t have TV to watch or games to play. I didn’t even do my homework. Well, maybe I didn’t care about that so much, but my life might have been better if I had. When I got home from school, I went straight to work – as a runner in my father’s hat factory.

He was a jerk. He had strikes like you wouldn’t believe. He had people say, “I wouldn’t work in this factory if it was the last job on earth.” But I didn’t have that choice. From the time I was nine till I joined the army at eighteen, I worked in that factory.

- Kressel Housman

Jan 09, 2013 5:13 AM EST

Dad!

- Nora

Jan 09, 2013 11:18 AM EST

I am a good carpenter. One would say the best in the town of Vaslui. Why wouldn't I be? I had it beat into me as an eight year old apprentice. There was no room for mistakes when withholding food and the strap is a punishment.
I walked out of that town without a second thought when I had the chance. There were no opportunities for Jews. Baron Rothschild, that wonderfully rich man, was offering a ticket to Nova Scotia to whoever wanted to work in his lumber factory. My father, my stepmother, my two half brothers, all walked together with me to the port. It took weeks, maybe months until we arrived at the port, until we got on the ship that would take us away from Romania.


But the sawdust in this country is choking me. I'm a skilled carpenter, not a tree cutter. I need to leave Nova Scotia, find a new life somewhere else. My father and step brothers don’t want to leave. I'll leave alone. I leave tomorrow. To America.

- N.M.

Apr 01, 2014 1:16 PM EDT

I read "Courtyard" weeks ago,and your characters are still living in my head.Please tell me why you chose to have Mustafa die? I cared so deeply for him. Are you saying that
Arab Isreal peace is hopeless? I'd love it if you would answer.

- Rosalyn Rothman

Apr 01, 2014 1:42 PM EDT

Happy to hear from you, Rosalyn, and thank you for your kind words. I do think peace is possible, but perhaps not so probable, at least for awhile. Why did Mustafa have to die?It just felt right for his character and life situation. I miss him.

- Ruchama Feuerman