The Convent

By Shirley Shapiro

The Convent is the compelling story of Malke, a twelve-year-old Jewish girl who is smuggled into a convent to escape the Nazis as they overrun her Polish village during the Holocaust. Malke, daughter of a cantor and granddaughter of a rabbi, is left alone after the Nazis capture her family and take them to the camps. Malke's strength and fortitude help her survive in the convent, but she is torn between her Judaic upbringing and years of praying to Jesus. The Convent is must reading for Jew and Gentile, young and old. Malke is another Anne Frank, whose courage sustains her through five years of war and leads her to final liberation and the recovery of her true heritage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shirley Shapiro
• Release date: Jul 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466194700

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THE CONVENT

by

Shirley Shapiro

The Convent

Shirley Shapiro

Published by Shirley Shapiro at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Shirley Shapiro

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter One

Mama put my birthday cake in the oven a few minutes before the bombs fell. Two large braided challahs covered with Mama’s beautiful embroidered Sabbath cloth sat on the table next to a pair of sparkling candlesticks. My little brother, Peter, rubbed a soft cloth over Papa’s silver kiddush cup, holding it under the light to make certain there were no streaks. He turned it over and over, then looked at Papa, his brown eyes wide in his round face.

Nice, Papa? Does it look nice? He grinned, showing a gap where two front teeth were missing.

Papa nodded. Very nice, son, he said. I’m proud of you. He cleared his throat and began practicing for the evening service.

What can I do to help? I asked the question to be polite, knowing the answer in advance. The response was the same every year.

Mama smiled. The dimples in her cheeks got deeper. Everyone said I would grow up to look like her some day. I had the same golden hair and blue eyes, but no dimples.

You know the rules in this house, she said. "No one works on their birthday. Today you live up to your name. Today you are truly a Malke, a beautiful queen."

The words were hardly out of her mouth when the planes droned low, almost touching the rooftop, practically drowning out her voice.

Papa looked toward the window. His thick eyebrows wrinkled in a frown.

Planes at this hour of the morning? he said. The sun is just beginning to rise. It’s very unusual.

The first bomb exploded near the side of our house. A huge ball of fire shot up to the sky. The force knocked me against the wall, then more blasts came, each one louder than the other. Our front window shattered into tiny pieces. Shards of glass flew across the room, scattering in all directions.

The planes zoomed lower. The motors sounded right above us. Three blasts followed in quick succession.

We stood stunned, motionless for a few seconds. Mama clutched her throat. Papa’s face turned as white as his music sheets. Peter’s eyes grew wider than ever.

Under the table! Quick! Roll into a ball. Don’t move. Don’t lift your head!

Papa shoved us as he shouted.

Another bomb dropped. Kitchen cabinets blew apart. Dishes and glasses crashed to the floor. A splinter of glass cut into my arm as I dived under the table.

I pressed my hands against my ears to try to block out the terrible sounds falling from the sky and the screams outside our door. The frantic whinny of wild horses, heavy footsteps racing down the paths and wailing sirens grew louder and louder.

We huddled together, holding each other, praying, until the plane motors drifted off to the east. I thought my heart was going to explode in my chest.

They’re gone, Papa said. He wiped his forehead with a large white linen handkerchief. Gone. Whoever is responsible for this terrible deed has gone. We can get up now.

We stood silently in the middle of the room, looking at the destruction. Outdoors, the noises grew more frantic and I felt my body shaking with each loud sound.

What happened, Jacob? Who? Why? Mama struggled for words. She grasped the sides of the table to steady herself.

Papa ran his hands through his dark beard and shook his head.

I wish I had an answer for you, Rebecca, but I have none. Germany and Russia just signed a political agreement with us, so it couldn’t be those countries. I have no answer.

He walked to the broken window. My God, everyone is going mad. They’re running in every direction.

The cries outdoors got louder. They frightened us almost as much as the bombs had done.

Papa’s back straightened. His face paled even more. My parents. I almost forgot about them. I must go to see if they’re all right, if they survived the blasts and I have to see if everything in the synagogue is safe.

He turned to Mama. Stay close to the children, Rebecca, until I return.

Mama grabbed his sleeve. I had never seen her look so frightened. Peter must have sensed it, too, because his wails grew louder and stronger.

No, Jacob, not yet. You can’t go out now. Listen to the crowds. They’re out of control. Horses are running wild, too. There are fires everywhere. Please, Jacob, I beg of you. Wait until things quiet down a little. There is nothing you can do now. We can only pray your parents are unharmed. Please wait.

I can’t. Papa’s voice was firm. Suppose they need some assistance? Suppose they’re trapped? Stay with the children. Keep them calm. I’ll be fine, I promise.

Peter screamed and tugged at Papa’s shirt. No. don’t go away. Don’t leave us. Suppose the planes come back? I don’t want you to go away.

I was too shocked to cry, too confused. Today was September 1, 1939, my eleventh birthday. The table was set for Shabbos. The challahs were rising, the silver candlesticks were polished and my cake was baking in the oven.

Everything should have been so good, but suddenly, everything was wrong.

Mama looked at my father. Can’t you see how frightened Peter is? You can’t go, Jacob. You must wait.

Papa frowned. My parents…. He ran his hands through his beard. Dear God, tell me what to do. Guide me.

He paced, then stopped. I must go to them, Rebecca. You stay with the children. Comfort them as best you can.

Peter wailed louder. I tried to put my arms around him, but he pulled away. Don’t leave us, Papa, he cried. Take us with you.

Mama looked to my father. Maybe he’s right. Maybe we should stay close together. We’ll feel safer with you.

Papa hesitated for a moment, then nodded.’

"All right. I can’t think clearly now, but maybe you’re right. Stay close to us, children, don’t move from our sight. I still see fires burning. Hurry, I have to get to Bubbe and Zayde. Watch where you walk. Don’t breathe in any smoke. Stay close to us."

He pushed the front door open, then jumped back. Bright red and purple fires burned near our home. Fumes forced us backward, choking and gasping for air.

No. It’s not safe out there. Stay here, Rebecca. Stay with the children. Keep away from the windows. Turn on the radio. See if there’s an explanation.

Before Mama could stop him, he raced from the house with a handkerchief pressed against his face. We watched his large, bulky body move through the crowds.

Men, women and children ran screaming through the lanes, stumbling over one another. Some of the men still were phylacteries around their foreheads and arms. Many of the women had run out without their wigs. Children still dressed in night clothes stumbled over piles of debris.

Jacob, come back., Mama shouted. He turned and waved his hand.

We heard a neighbor call to my father, Cantor, take your family and run. We’re being invaded. The man pushed a wheelbarrow piled with clothes. The wheels squeaked under the heavy weight.

Papa grabbed the man’s shirt. Where? Run where? From whom? Who is invading us? Where are you going?

The man wriggled free. The Germans. They’re coming from the sea, the land, the air. Run. Get away. To the mountains. To Czechoslovakia. Don’t ask questions. Just run.

My father shouted after him. We can not run from our enemies. Then he disappeared from our sight.

Mama pulled me from the window. It’s not safe. The pieces of glass are sharp. There is nothing for us to do now but wait. Her voice trembled as she spoke.

She held her head up and tried to smile. "Papa will be fine. Come, children, help me clean up the broken dishes while we wait for Papa to come back with Bubbe and Zayde."

She hummed while we helped her clean, but her voice kept cracking. Her eyes kept looking toward the space where the window used to be. She grew paler by the minute.

Look at your birthday cake, Malke. She took the pan from the oven. The batter had sunk down below the rim.

I’m afraid it’s ruined, she said, but when Papa comes home, I’ll make you another.

Her hands trembled as she swept the batter into a pan, but she hummed a little louder, still glancing outdoors.

Peter had stopped crying for the moment. Sing the song about raisins and almonds, Mama, he begged. Sing it, Mama, please. He put his thumb in his mouth and sucked hard.

Mama’s voice trembled as she sang the melody. She kept looking toward the broken window. I knew she was waiting for my father, that she was frightened, that the terrible noises outside were unsettling, but she continued to sing.

After what seemed like hours, Papa and my grandparents staggered into the house. Mama dropped the broom and ran to them.

Thank God, thank God, she kept repeating.

Papa’s shirt was torn and streaked with blood. My grandfather still wore his tsitsis. His tefillan were wrapped around his arms. Strands of gray hair stuck out of my grandmother’s wig.

"I was davening when the bombs fell. Bubbe was making gefilte fish. What happened? The people are going mad. They’re rushing like wild animals. Did you hear any news on the radio, Rebecca?"

Mama switched on the radio. A loud, crackling noise came through the airwaves, then the voice of an announcer reporting the news.

Poland had been invaded by Germany.

Do not despair, the announcer said. Poland will not go down without a fight. We will resist the enemy and we will win.

His voice trailed off. There was more static, then the radio went dead.

War. I can’t believe it. My father walked back and forth. They signed a pact.

Peter took his thumb from his mouth. What’s a war, Papa? Does it mean the planes will come back?

Zayde patted my brother’s head. "Everything will be all right, Peter. See? There isn’t a scratch on any of us. God has watched over us. Come, we must bench Gomel and thank Hashem for sparing us."

We stood together and repeated the words, Blessed art Thou O Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, who in bestowing good upon man beyond his deserving, hast dealt graciously with us.

Mama pulled my father aside after we recited the prayer. She pointed to his arm. Are you hurt? I see blood on your shirt.

The blood is not mine, he answered. He looked in our direction and lowered his voice but I could still hear what he said.

"There were bodies on the street. The Chevra Kadisha is attending to them. Some people were killed not only from the bombs, they were trampled and crushed by the mobs and horses."

He spoke louder. "By some miracle, the shul was untouched. Not a brick is out of place. The people who didn’t flee will probably come to services tonight. Finish cooking, Rebecca. We’ll have dinner as usual and we’ll celebrate Malke’s birthday."

He looked at Zayde. "Come, Papa, have a little shnops, then together we can hang a plastic cover over the window. Peter, pick up the kiddush cup and finish polishing. Mama, help Rebecca with the meal. Malke, you rest, after all, it is your birthday."

As the sun began to set that evening, my mother and grandmother kindled the Sabbath lights and we all walked next door to the synagogue.

One by one, people drifted into the building. From my seat on the balcony, I saw the man who had pleaded with Papa to run away. His voice was loud enough for me to hear.

The roads are blocked. There is no place to run. The Germans have Warsaw completely surrounded. All the people who tried to run are slowly coming back. We’re finished.

God will protect us, my father said. "Sit down. We’ll begin the service with Psalm 95, the Lehu Neranena."

Soon, the building was packed with men. Even a few women who normally would be home preparing to serve the Sabbath dinner climbed to the balcony to join the singing.

My grandfather stepped up to the lectern.

Dear friends, he said. Today was not an ordinary day in our lives. We know now that Germany has invaded our country. We also heard the government’s assurance that we will repel the invasion. Let us pray that it will be over swiftly and Poland will survive.

He paused and took a deep breath.

"Because of these extraordinary circumstances, I, as your rabbi, will take liberties that are contrary to our tradition. I have faith that Hashem will forgive me if we open the Ark on this Friday night and have one of the sacred Torahs removed from its rest."

He motioned to me father, Cantor, please remove one of the scrolls and place it on the reader’s table.

The congregants stood as my father opened the Ark and lifted one of the Torahs. He took off the beautiful red velvet cover and unrolled the scroll.

Cantor, my grandfather said, "Please chant the Avenu Malkeinu. Let us beseech the Lord to protect us at this time."

Papa’s voice was strong as he chanted the prayer usually reserved for Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur.

Our Father, our King, destroy the power of every oppressor and adversary. Our Father, our King, hear our voices, have pity and compassion upon us. Our Father, our King, frustrate the counsel of our enemies…. He hit his fist against his chest as he chanted.

Papa completed the prayer, re-rolled the Torah and held it high before dressing it again in the velvet cover and returning it to the Ark.

My grandfather spoke again. "What can I say to give you comfort as we welcome in the Sabbath? Words fail me. We have lost many friends today. Much damage has been done. I have not the wisdom of a Solomon, but I can only remind you of the Hatikvah which tells us to always maintain our hope and keep our strength,"

He stopped speaking and looked up at the Eternal Light still burning above the Ark. He smiled and turned back to the congregation.

There, he said, "is this not a message from God, telling us He will protect us in the future? Our Ner Tamid has not been extinguished. So must our faith continue to burn. God will not fail us. He will see us through whatever is in store for us. Let us rise again and pray silently for the enemy to leave our shores. As Polish citizens, let us pray for peace to prevail in our land."

There wasn’t a sound in the synagogue for a few minutes as we all stood and bowed our heads and prayed.

Now we will continue with our traditional Friday night service, my grandfather said.

Through the darkened path as we walked back to our house, I saw remnants of the morning bombing. Fires still smoldered on the ground. I stepped over pieces of wood from broken wagons. Tattered clothes lay in the dirt. Papa tried to shield me from seeing the body of a dog lying near a tree.\

On the rooftop of our home, a large stork nest remained untouched. A half dozen of the huge birds huddled together, their red eyes staring as we moved through our door.

They’ll be leaving soon for the winter, Papa said. By the time they fly back, I’m certain the war will be over.

CHAPTER TWO

Rain, dear God, make it rain.

Papa stood near the window each morning and watched a bright red sun rise over the hill. He twisted his hands together and prayed for rain, but the sky remained clear and the heat was dry and scorching.

Come, Jacob, eat some breakfast. You’ll make yourself sick. There’s nothing you can do about the weather, Mama pleaded.

Don’t you understand, Rebecca? Warsaw is being bombarded with tanks and artillery. The Germans are bringing in more troops every day. At least the rain might muddy the fields long enough to slow their progress.

He banged his fists together. I can’t understand why this heat wave is lasting so long. It’s never been this way.

I had never seen my father so tense, my mother so concerned. Through the thin walls in our home, I heard them talking all through the night.

Two weeks after the blitzkrieg the radio announced the news that the Russian army had joined the Germans.

The Germans are demanding unconditional surrender, the announcer said. Our citizens are fighting valiantly. We will never give in to the enemies.

Mama tried to keep the radio tuned low during the news reports. Every thirty seconds, when the news was interrupted with a beautiful Chopin polonaise, she turned the volume louder.

Listen to the beautiful music, Peter. Malke, do you know the title of this wonderful piece?

Two weeks after the start of the war, we gathered in the synagogue for Rosh Hashana services. I watched my father and grandfather on the bima and wondered what Zayde could possibly say to make everyone feel better.

Peter’s head kept bobbing up and down as he wriggled on his seat. Mama tried to console him every day, but he still hadn’t gotten over the terror of the bombing. I heard his cries throughout the night as I lay awake. I pulled the feather comforter over my head and tried to block out my parents’ voices and Peter’s sobs.

I sat straight on my seat as my grandfather began his