Character Study – Arel Gitterman

Published March 20, 2015 by rochellewisoff

“Havah saw him as if in a dream remembered long ago. His hair and beard, inky shadows, framed a face as pale as dawn. Like silver-gray clouds, his prolific eyes spoke with silent words.

Arel. A strong name. Lion of God.”

Taken from PLEASE SAY KADDISH FOR ME

Represented by Loiacono Literary Agency

Published by W&B Publishers (Summer 2015)

AREL GITTERMAN – Original Artwork © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Arel Gitterman is the youngest of Yussel’s five children and his only son. Arel was five-years-old when brain fever killed his mother and took his father’s sight. A gifted child, he became Yussel’s eyes for reading.

He’s always been an obedient son, groomed to follow in his father’s footsteps as the next rabbi. At the age of thirteen he was betrothed to Gittel Levine, the cantor’s* daughter.

Arel’s never questioned his role in life—until the day of Havah’s dramatic arrival in Svechka. For both he and Havah it was love at first sight.

Much to her chagrin, he’s a man of his word and he refuses to break his covenant with Gittel, Havah’s adopted sister.

*The cantor sings or chants prayers in synagogue service.

The following video is the Kaddish prayer that Havah chanted the night of her escape from Natalya. It is the prayer that’s traditionally recited or sung in honor of the dead. Rather than a prayer for the dead as some believe it’s a prayer honoring the Almighty. Here it’s sung by a Hasidic cantor.

Translation:

May the great Name of God be exalted and sanctified, throughout the world, which he has created according to his will. May his Kingship be established in your lifetime and in your days, and in the lifetime of the entire household of Israel, swiftly and in the near future;

and all say, Amen.

May his great name be blessed, forever and ever.

Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, honored elevated and lauded be the Name of the holy one, Blessed is he- above and beyond any blessings and hymns, Praises and consolations which are uttered in the world;

and all say Amen.

May there be abundant peace from Heaven, and life, upon us and upon all Israel;

and all say, Amen.

He who makes peace in his high holy places, may he bring peace upon us, and upon all Israel;

and say Amen.

20 March 2015

Published March 18, 2015 by rochellewisoff

The following photo is the PHOTO PROMPT. What story does it tell you? Share it in one hundred words or less.

PHOTO PROMPT – © Copyright – Rachel Bjerke

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Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 99

GULF

On fragrant spring afternoons, on the mossy stone patio in Arlene’s backyard, we shared sandwiches, secrets and giggles as only little girls can. In summer we waded in the creek that ran behind her house and tried to catch tadpoles that tickled our bare toes.

When we entered junior high, Arlene withdrew and when I tried to talk to her about it, she turned away as if I no longer existed. I never knew why or whether I had done something dreadful to offend her.

The questions, answered by silence, scarred my heart. Fifty years later, the ache remains.

***

“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.” –E. E. Cummings

There’s no time like the present to get over the past and get on with the future.

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13 March 2015

Published March 11, 2015 by rochellewisoff

Note: When linking your story, backspace over the info in the middle box and leave your name. It makes it easier on everyone. Thank you. Let me know if you have any questions.

My story follows the PHOTO PROMPT below and the inlinkz frog. I appreciate honest comments.

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

RADIOACTIVE

“Au revoir, mon ami.” Marie kissed Pierre’s ice-cold cheek.

“Where Papa?” asked fourteen-month-old Eve.

“He’s going to sleep his last sleep beneath the earth,” said eight-year-old Irène.

Marie placed a bunch of periwinkles and Pierre’s favorite photograph beside him. The picture was of her on the balcony of their first apartment on rue d’Allemagne. Refusing a black drape, she and her daughters adorned his coffin with flowers.

“I’ve no future without you, Pierre.”

“Remember our dream for humanity,” she heard him say, “for science.”

Days later Madame Marie Curie returned to the laboratory, her haven of discovery, joy and solace.

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6 March 2015

Published March 4, 2015 by rochellewisoff

***When posting your URL, please make sure it’s specific to your story and not just your blog. It’s frustrating to have to scroll down past several articles to get to your Friday Fictioneers post for the week.***

Thank you.

The following picture is the PHOTO PROMPT. Does it plant a story in your mind? Share it in a hundred words or less.

My story follows the prompt and the inLinkz frog. I relish honest comments and appreciate constructive crit.

PHOTO PROMPT – © Erin Leary

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Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 100

ESCAPE

“Sabira! Where are you, you worthless bitch?” yelled her husband, Davlet.

From the barn rafters she watched him through a chink in the wall and prayed. “Don’t let him find me.”

Two weeks ago she’d been an ambitious university student until four men, including Davlet, jumped out of a car and forced her into it.

“Kyrgyz tradition,” said her mother when Sabira called her for help. “You’ll learn to be a good wife as grandmother and I did.”

“New tradition,” whispered Sabira as she tightened a noose she’d fashioned from barbed wire around her neck and jumped off the ledge.

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RIVERS OF JEWISH BLOOD

Published March 3, 2015 by rochellewisoff

At a writer’s conference four years ago a prominent New York agent took an interest in PLEASE SAY KADDISH FOR ME. She asked me to add twenty-thousand words to it and then send her a hard copy.

For months I made a point of rising three hours before going to work at 7:00 am to write. Heart pounding, I sent the fruit of my labors only to have it returned in a matter of weeks. In her rejection letter she said it was “too much like FIDDLER ON THE ROOF” and it was “a story that everybody already knew.”

Ironically, I’ve told others that my book could be subtitled “The dark side of FIDDLER ON THE ROOF.” On the other hand, does my novel tell a story that everyone knows?

Often, when I’m asked what my book is about and I answer that it’s about a woman who survives the pogrom in Kishinev, the capital city of what is now known as Moldova, the next question is, “What’s a pogrom?” It is that the question that convinced me to continue writing.

“‘Kill the Jews!’ Frenzied shouts came from the tailor shop sending icicles down Havah’s back. Sounds of machines toppling and tearing cloth ripped through her.”PSKFM

On April 19, 1903, as Christians celebrated Easter, the pogrom began at noon. Fueled by the rumor that a Christian child had been murdered in a Jewish ritual and the blood used to make unleavened bread, a frenzied mob rampaged through Jewish neighborhoods for two days.

Reportedly, local police made no attempt to interfere with rioters wielding iron bars and axes. Those who were taken into custody were soon released.

By the time the violence ended two-thousand families were left homeless, five-hundred were wounded and fifty Jewish people were dead.

“Crushing silence, heavy and cruel, closed in on Havah like a burial garment. She opened her eyes. Her soul pleaded for a sound. Children’s laughter. She longed to hear it. Craved it like sweet raisins. But only more quiet answered her plea.” PSKFM

No one needed to identify the last corpse in the row for it was draped in his father’s tallis. He took off his hat, scraped a handful of dirt from the street and sprinkled it over his bare head. With a muffled sob he fell beside Evron’s body, clutching the prayer shawl’s fringes. Then he uncovered his brother’s face for one last goodbye, kissed his cold forehead and replaced the cover.

“No one needed to identify the last corpse in the row for it was draped in Itzak’s father’s tallis. Itzak took off his hat, scraped a handful of dirt from the street and sprinkled it over his bare head. With a muffled sob he fell beside Evron’s body, clutching the prayer shawl’s fringes. Then he uncovered his brother’s face for one last goodbye, kissed his cold forehead and replaced the cover.” PSKFM

News of the bloody pogrom sent shockwaves around the world. Rallies were held in London, Paris and New York. President Theodore Roosevelt urged the Czar to denounce the massacre. The Czar refused.

The New York Times reported:

“The anti-Jewish riots in Kishinev, Bessarabia, are worse than the censor will permit to publish. There was a well laid-out plan for the general massacre of Jews on the day following the Russian Easter. The mob was led by priests, and the general cry, “Kill the Jews,” was taken up all over the city. The Jews were taken wholly unaware and were slaughtered like sheep. The dead number 120 and the injured about 500. The scenes of horror attending this massacre are beyond description. Babes were literally torn to pieces by the frenzied and bloodthirsty mob. The local police made no attempt to check the reign of terror. At sunset the streets were piled with corpses and wounded. Those who could make their escape fled in terror, and the city is now practically deserted of Jews.” (“Jewish Massacre Denounced,” New York Times, April 28, 1903, p 6)

Historians have called pogroms such as these the dress rehearsal for the Nazi Holocaust. Over a hundred years have passed since Kishinev and other such pogroms. Do we remember them? Is this really a story that everybody already knows?

27 February 2015

Published February 25, 2015 by rochellewisoff

The next picture is the PHOTO PROMPT. Where does it take you? Can you tell us in a hundred words or less? Take the road less traveled if you dare!

My story follows the prompt and the blue inLinkz frog. I enjoy comments and welcome constructive crit.

PHOTO PROMPT –© Dawn Q. Landau

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

WHODUNIT

“A moving picture is the last thing I want to see, Amy,” said Lizzie Le Prince. “‘The Great Train Robbery,’ indeed—starring Thomas Edison as the ring leader.”

Amy patted Lizzie’s hand. “Let it go, dear. It’s been thirteen years.”

“It was Edison all right. He had Louis murdered for his invention and tried to take sole credit.”

“Police didn’t find any evidence. Louis just vanished without a trace.”

Across the aisle in the darkened theater an elderly man peered at them over his program.

“Poor Lizzie, my dear little martinet,” Louis whispered. “Perhaps a simple divorce would’ve been kinder.”

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(I take no responsibility for the typo)

6 February 2015

Published February 4, 2015 by rochellewisoff

The following photo is the PROMPT. Can you get lost in it? What kind of story does it tell you? Share it in a hundred words or less.

My story follows the prompt and the blue inLinkz frog. I appreciate honest comments and constructive crit.

PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright – Melanie Greenwood

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Perhaps it seems I’m late to the party as last week, 27 January, commemorated the seventieth anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. In my opinion, every day is a good time to remember.

Shalom,

Rochelle

***

Genre: Speculative Fiction

Word Count: 100

YIZKOR

There is a museum in Jerusalem called Yad Vashem. Although I live five miles from it, I’ve never wanted to visit.

“Come with me, Hannah,” says Zvi. “The candles are pretty.”

My brother is relentless.

“No, Zvi. Let me forget.”

_________

The maze of mirrors is filled with reflections of six candle flames.

“Shoshana Stein, six years old. Romania.”

Disembodied voices intone names in an endless requiem for the dead.

“Moishe Lapinsky, sixteen years old. Poland.”

One point five million children murdered.

“Zvi Goldberg. Four years old. Ukraine.”

At my brother’s name, I sink to my knees.

I will never forget.

Original Artwork – © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The names I used in my story are fictitious. The names in the following snippet are real. Haunting in its simplicity, the candle room is an experience I’ll never forget.

30 January 2015

Published January 28, 2015 by rochellewisoff

Below is the PHOTO PROMPT. Does it spark an idea for you? Step outside the fuse box and switch on a story.

My story will follow the prompt and the blue inLinkz frog. I appreciate honest feedback for it’s how we grow as writers.

PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright Ted Strutz

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Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 100

TIP OF THE SPEAR

“Eddie, why did you do that?”

“I dunno,” he mumbled.

Eddie hung his head and stared at Mom’s shattered porcelain teapot. It never occurred to him when he threw his ball at the cat that he’d miss.

“Special Ed.” His sister Karen stuck out her tongue and crossed her eyes. “Retard.”

“Impulsive and disruptive,” his second grade teacher told Mom the day he stuck a piece of foil in the electrical outlet. “He’ll never amount to much.”

____________

“Why did Eddie do that?” Karen whispered.

“Impulsive and fearless.” The tall Marine handed her a folded American flag. “A true hero.”

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23 January 2015

Published January 21, 2015 by rochellewisoff

The photo below is from our lady in Italy. What does it say to you? I dare you step outside the boat and walk on water.

My story follows the prompt and the elusive blue frog.

PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright – Georgia Koch

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

IN ISMAY’S PLACE

Logan hunched his shoulders against the icy North Atlantic wind.

“Me wee Patrick’s one tomorrow.”

“Dinnae fash yersel,” said John, the coxswain. “The morrow’ll be the cold start of May and there’ll be eight more months of 1912 to play with the boy.”

“Two points starboard, John,” said Logan from the bow as he readied the boat hook.

Four months later the memories of the baby they pulled from the water tormented Logan. Patrick’s cries woke him from a nightmare. He gathered the child into his arms and whispered.

“Let fly, lad. ‘Tis a hard life, but a good sign.”

All Together Now

Published January 15, 2015 by rochellewisoff

Over the course of two years I’ve written well over a hundred flash fiction stories for Friday Fictioneers. Four of my favorites stories about the Beatles. I’ve been a fan since I saw them on the Ed Sullivan show fifty-one years ago. It’s been suggested that I post a blog with all four of these stories which seems like a grand idea. I hope you’ll indulge me.

The first in my unintentional series is a complete work of fiction. One of those ‘what if’ stories.

RUMSPRINGA

Word count: 100

Out for a walk in the night, lost in thought, I didn’t see him until we collided. I apologized repeatedly.

“No, it’s me. Without me glasses I’m fair blind.” He pointed at my bonnet. “Costume party?”

“Amish. I’m in New York to choose my future—my parent’s home or the modern world.”

“Do you like rock and roll?”

“What’s that?”

“You really don’t know, do you?”

“No.”

“What’ll you choose—1694 or 1964?”

“Not sure. I hate big crowds.”

“So do I.” He offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss…”

“Julia.”

“Fab name.”

“And you, sir?”

“John. John Lennon.”

Originally posted here.

____________

Later on, down the road, another prompt put me in mind of George Harrison. Up until this one I hadn’t intended on making it a series. Nor did I truly plan for it after this one.

ALL THINGS MUST PASS

Word Count: 100

“‘A sunrise doesn’t last all morning,’” I sing and strum the chords that take me back to a New York television studio thirty years ago.

There to meet a friend, I loaned my Martin to an aging musician for his last live performance.

“You don’t happen to have a capo, do you, Miss Guitar Lady?” he asked.

Something in his serene eyes and genuine smile reached to the depths of my soul.

My fingers move on the fretboard where his once did. I never changed those strings.

And as VH1’s cameras recorded history, George Harrison made my guitar gently weep.

Originally posted here.

____________

This is the story that sealed the deal.

WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS

Word Count: 100 words

The boy stared out the window beside his bed and listened to his Alyn Ainsworth record. He tapped his fingers on the night stand in time to the music.

Sentenced to the ‘greenhouse,’ a children’s sanitarium, he’d celebrated his fourteenth birthday with tea, boredom and Streptomycin. Yet, after a year of incarceration, the doctors still considered Ritchie too ill to go home.

“Join our band,” said a nurse. “Bring your new banjo.”

“I’d rather play drums.”

Ten years later Ritchie smiled over his drum set at a sea of screaming teenagers as Ed Sullivan cried, “Ladies and gentleman, the Beatles!”

Originally posted here.

_________________

It was only a matter of time until a photo prompt would inspire a story for or about Paul.