Unconditional Love

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REQUIEM IN C-SHARP MINOR

Published March 19, 2020 by rochellewisoff

This month I’m taking part in Writer’s Unite! WRITE THE STORY. Click the link to see how to add your story for March’s prompt. 

At almost 2,000 words this is not a flash fiction, but a subject near and dear to my heart. As the survivors are aging and dying off, we who remain must keep the message alive! 

REQUIEM IN C-SHARP MINOR

            “Tonight, we play ‘Hungarian Dance Number 5’.” Shifra Mendleson poised her bow over her violin and winked at her great grandson. “You’re ready to join me?”

            Twelve-year-old Aaron wrinkled his nose and tucked his violin under his chin. “I don’t know it very well.”

            “Then you must practice.”

            “I don’t want to be a concert violinist like you, Savta. I’d rather play soccer.”

            Shifra shrugged. “Eh. Soccer. Shmoccer. Your violin could save your life, you know.”

            He stared at his grandmother. Had she lost her mind? She was, after all, past ninety. Her faded brown eyes twinkled.

She set her instrument on her lap and stroked its pockmarked neck. “My dear old friend. You are mature enough, Aaron I think, for me to tell you my story.”

“I already know about the camps and the Nazis, Savta. It’s Israel. We learned about the Holocaust in school.”

“Your great-grandparents lived it. So, I’m gonna tell you what the history book don’t tell you. What your parents and teachers don’t tell you.”

Glad for a reprieve from painful practice, Aaron laid his violin in his lap.

Savta’s gaze went past him, to some far-off place as it often did.

 “I ran all the way home from school. I couldn’t wait to tell Mama Karl Schmidt, the banker’s son, had invited me to his twelfth birthday party. Karl came from one of the wealthiest families in Heidelberg. They lived in a fine mansion not too far from our modest bungalow.

            “Mama met me at the door with a hug and a kiss. ‘Go change into your play clothes, Shifra.’

            “I stamped my foot. ‘Are you listening, Mama?’

“‘Yes. Yes. You’re invited to the Schmidt house. Hang up your dress. I don’t want to find it on the floor like yesterday.’

“‘All right, Mama.’ I chattered excitedly. ‘There will be pastries and chocolates.’ I hugged my books. ‘Karl says I’m the prettiest girl in class, even if I am a Jew.’

“Mama frowned. ‘How bighearted of him.’

“‘Are you angry with me, Mama?’

“She caressed my cheek. ‘No, of course not.’ 

“I breathed in the scents of fresh-baked bread and chicken soup emanating from her clothes. My mouth watered in anticipation of our evening meal. Mama made the best soup in Heidelberg. Probably in the whole world. ‘What time will Papa be home?’ I asked.

“‘Not until 6:30. He has a tutoring job.’

“Oy. My disappointed stomach growled and I whined. ‘That’s two whole hours.’

“‘Good, you can tell time. Nu? Ample time for you to practice.’

“I groaned.”

“See?” Aaron chuckled. “You didn’t like to practice either.”

 Tilting her head, Savta sighed. “It’s part of being a child, I suppose. Anyway, I drug my heels to my room. I hated it when Papa was late. He taught music at University. He’d taken on extra students to help pay my brother’s medical bills.”

“Was he sick?”  

“Born healthy and strong, my big brother Aaron was at the top of his medical class. One day, on his way home from school, a gang of vigilantes attacked him screaming, ‘Jüden! Dirty Jüden’ He spent weeks in hospital but never recovered.”

Shifra’s grandson shifted positions in his chair. “I’m named after Uncle Aaron, right Savta?”  

“A good Yiddisher kopf on your shoulders.” She poked his forehead with a gentle finger. “It used to make me angry when he teased me and call me das brag. The brat. Now I would give anything to hear him say it again.”

“Did you practice then?’”

“Of course. Make no mistake. I was a good girl. Of course, I kvetched and complained. ‘What if I’m not good enough to be a concert violinist?’ I asked.

“Mama gave me a potch en tukhus. ‘You have a gift,’ she said. ‘Mark my words. Some day people will come from miles around to hear you play.’

“Rolling my eyes, I went to my room. After I changed out of my school uniform, I took my violin from its case. This very violin you see before you today. It was in better condition then.

“‘Hello, Aaron. It’s me.’ I said and plucked the strings. ‘Das Brag. What would you like to hear?’”

            “What did he say?”

“Say?” Savta shut her eyes. “He just sat in his wheelchair and stared out the window like I wasn’t even there. His gnarled hands lay in his lap like herrings on a plate. I kissed his cheek and whispered. ‘That’s my favorite one, too.’”

“But he didn’t say anything.”

“Who’s telling this story, you or me?”

“Was it really Uncle Aaron’s favorite music?”

“Like I should lie? I always hoped if I played it well enough, it would bring him out of his fog. Alas it never did.

“Now, where was I? Oh yes. I am playing Hungarian Dance Number Five. For all my protesting, I loved to play it. Once I started, the music would transport me distant lands. So caught up on the wings of the notes I never heard my Papa—your great-great-grandfather—come in.

“He applauded and cried, ‘Brava!’  

“I jumped this high into the air.” Savta held her hand over her head. “Then I leaped into my father’s arms. ‘You’re home early.’

“He laughed and the sound of it was like a—a cleansing rain in the springtime. ‘My darling virtuoso,’ he said. ‘It’s almost 7:30.’

“Burying my face in his shoulder I clung to his neck. ‘What did you bring me?’ Such a spoiled brat I was.

“‘I brought you me.’ He set me on my feet. ‘Let’s see what Mama’s made to delight us for supper.’

“That night as he spread schmaltz on his bread, Papa looked from Mama, to me, to Aaron’s empty eyes. ‘The university fired me today.’”

“Mama clapped her hand over her heart. ‘Why?’

“‘Why do you think? I fear it won’t be long before—’ He raised his face to the ceiling.

“Never had I seen such fear in my father’s eyes. ‘Before what, Papa?’

“The telephone rang before he could answer me. I leaped up and rushed to answer it. 

“‘Hallo. Shifra?’ My heart thumped. It was Karl. He said, ‘I’m so sorry. Mother says you cannot come to my party.’

“Soon after that, I said goodbye to my classmates I’d known since we were babies. The authorities said I was no longer welcome in their school. Things got worse and worse for us Jews.

“Three years later, the unthinkable happened.

“Someone banged on our door. ‘Jüden! Open! Schnell!’

“Papa’s hands shook as he turned the knob. How frail he’d grown. He opened the door. There stood Karl, decked out in a Wehrmacht uniform.

“Putting his finger to his lips, he looked over his left and then his right shoulder. ‘Gather what belongings you can and come with me. Please there’s no time to explain. I beg you to trust me.’

“Trust him? The boy who shunned me and broke my heart? He stands before me in the devil’s raiment and has the audacity to ask us to trust him?

“Papa squeezed my arm. ‘What choice do we have? Come, Shifra. Time to meet our fate.’

“Clutching my violin in its case, I steeled myself as my parents and I marched ahead of my ex-boyfriend turned Nazi. He held us at gunpoint and barked orders. My pulse thudded against my temples in dread as we made our way through the crowded street.

Those who refused to comply were gunned down on the spot. I saw it with my own eyes. A soldier shot a baby in his mother’s arms, then shot her for crying. They plucked out the beards of old men. A man in a wheelchair plummeted to his death from a two-story window.  A part of me rejoiced that Aaron had passed away peacefully in his sleep the night before.

 “To our shock, Karl guided our path away from the trains to his father’s mansion. Herr Schmidt met us at the door. ‘Wilkommen’ He embraced Papa. ‘Oscar, forgive me. I never dreamt it would come to this.’

“He led us to a hidden apartment at the back of his house. ‘It’s cramped, but safe.’

“For a time, life was good in our three-room hideaway. Mama insisted I practice my violin for an hour every day. Papa would join me with his clarinet. Karl came to visit when he could.

“‘You shouldn’t be so chummy with that boy,’ Mama would say. ‘He’s a Nazi and you are…’ She pointed to the yellow star on my sweater.

“Two years passed. We celebrated New Year’s Eve 1942 with the Schmidts in our quarters. Papa and I played ‘Auld Lange Syne’ and ‘Havah Nagila.’ We laughed and danced. Herr Schmidt assured us, there was so much celebration in the town no one would hear us.

“After everyone had gone to bed, Karl woke me. Sitting on my bed, he bent to kiss me. He slipped a ring on my finger. ‘My dearest. I’ve gotten orders to go to the Russian front. Promise you will wait for me.’ How could I refuse?”

Aaron pointed to the oval-shaped diamond on her hand. “Is that the ring, Savta?”

“Yes.” She flourished her hand so the gem sparkled in the lamplight. “He had a good eye for jewelry, didn’t he?”

“Did you get married?”

Savta wagged her head. “A month later, Frau Schmidt barged into our living room, a telegram clutched in her fist. She waved it under my nose. ‘My son is dead! You’ll pay for this you Jüden whore.’”

“How was it your fault, Savta?”

“Grief makes people say horrible things. Do horrible things. Anyway, I had little time to mourn my beloved Karl. The next few days are a blur in my addled memory, yet so clear it’s like it happened yesterday. Herr Schmidt committed suicide. Blew his brains out in his office right before the SS stormed our safe haven.

“Papa, whose health had declined, couldn’t fight them off although he tried and was rewarded for his efforts with, not one, but three bullets. So much blood. The soldiers herded Mama and me to the trains.  

“Amid stench and tears, Mama and I were greeted at Auschwitz by more uniforms. Our clothes ripped from us, our heads shaved and our arms tattooed. You can imagine my surprise when I was allowed to keep my violin.”

“Why?”

“Because, of all things, those sadistic animals loved music.” Savta tucked her violin under her chin and played a lullaby. “Can you imagine? They gathered all the musicians in the camp and forced us to formed an orchestra.”

Aaron recognized the song for his grandmother had played it for him many times. A sweet smile spread her lips and tears oozed from under her closed eyelids. Her white hair glowed under the lamp.

“I met your great-grandfather in that vermin-infested place. He played the cello, you know.”

“I don’t remember Saba Yosef.”

“Of course not. He died before you were born. Your brother Yosi is named for him. We survived hell together. We married a few months after the liberation—with Karl’s ring.”

“Didn’t it bother Saba that another man gave it to you? How come the guards didn’t confiscate it?”

“Oy, so many questions. We had no money for jewelry. Saba said the ring was a survivor like us. A gift from God by way of Karl.” Savta stopped playing and pointed to the violin’s f-holes. “No one ever thought to search inside.” She lifted the battered instrument and played a few more notes.

“So, you see, Aaron, my humble fiddle saved my life and Mama’s prophecy came true. People came from miles around to hear my music. It was the last thing they heard on their way to the gas chambers.”

Weekend Writing Prompt – Perplex

Published March 7, 2020 by rochellewisoff

A word prompt to get your creativity flowing this weekend.  How you use the prompt is up to you.  Write a piece of flash fiction, a poem, a chapter for your novel…anything you like.  Or take the challenge below – there are no prizes – it’s not a competition but rather a fun writing exercise.  If you want to share what you come up with, please leave a link to it in Sammi’s Comment Section.

Word Prompt

Perplex

Challenge

Neither of these lovely people are the one in my story. Just a couple of friends I made on a recent trip to Israel. Glad they didn’t have a problem with short people. 😉

SPICE OF LIFE

Recently, an African American friend, an artist for whom I have great respect, and I met for coffee. Inadvertently I said something he perceived as racist. He made a crack about how (white) people say they don’t see color when in reality they do. I don’t know if he meant to hurt or perplex me, but he did send me on a soul-searching expedition.

My friend is partly correct in his assessment. The fact is, I do see color. And I appreciate the brilliant rainbow the Ultimate Artist has created.

18 October 2019

Published October 16, 2019 by rochellewisoff

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The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit. 

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

POKE THE FROG TO JOIN 

Pink Froggie

Thanks to Keith Hillman for his Froggie adaptations.

Genre: Fiction

Word Count: 100

STATE OF ISRAEL

A cool breeze ruffled Shlomit’s hair. How different from her previous life when head-coverings symbolized her devotion to Adoshem and Avi.  

            Avi Weinstein, zealous for Torah. His parents’ only son. The perfect husband.  

            After her seventh miscarriage, he beat her.  

            Even now her footsteps pounded out his accusations along the cobblestone Jerusalem street. “Murderer! Mother of death.”  

            Three years ago Avi died, leaving no heirs.

            Shlomit fled the Hasidim and their restricting laws.  

            Beside her Elan squeezed her hand. No side-curls. Colorful clothes. Her devoted Jewish husband.

            Avi’s hateful words faded. Elan patted her swollen tummy. “Beautiful mother of life.”

***

While I didn’t see the women flashing their the Haredim, I did witness the demonstration of these men and boys storming the streets of Jerusalem yelling, “Shabbos!” firsthand.

And here’s the link to another video about the state of Israel. It’s kind of long so it’s up to you to watch or not watch. 😉 Like anyone else, I have my opinions but I’ll not share them here. I do wish we could all celebrate each other’s differences.

CLICK

YOU CAN GET ANYTHING YOU WANT

Published March 30, 2019 by rochellewisoff

The purpose of this prompt is to inspire you to write 150 words about this place. You can use the Google photo above or stroll around until you see something that strikes your fancy. When you’re done, remember to link your story to the others using the InLinkz frog below. Reading and commenting is half the fun.

Enjoy yourself and do good work!

Click the Frog to join the Party!

Thanks to Josh and Karen for hosting the challenge.

When I saw the name of the place, I was hooked. I love it when the muse takes it and just runs with it.

Genre: Realistic (?) Fiction

Word Count: 150

YOU CAN GET ANYTHING YOU WANT

After forty-five years Alice still missed Johnny who had been drafted and died in Vietnam, leaving her to raise their twins Phoenix and Sunshine.

            Sunshine, a successful lawyer in Manhattan, had children of her own. They, in turn were forging their own careers in Corporate America.

            Phoenix had enlisted in the Marine Corps a few years back. After his fateful tour in Afghanistan, he’d taken up residence in Arlington.

            “Leaving for Australia,” she texted Sunshine. “Going to open a restaurant.”

            “Right. Alice’s Restaurant. Mom, are you smoking weed again?”

            “I’m serious.”

            “Big case. Call you later.”

***

            Pushing a lock of long white hair from her forehead, Alice flipped veggie burgers on the grill in her thriving café. She gazed at the mountains kissing the cerulean sky outside the window. Her town—peaceful Alice Springs—three hours or less from anywhere in Australia and thousands of miles from the Divided States.

 

Just for fun (if you have 18 minutes to spare) Click Here for the original “Alice’s Restaurant” 

ASLEEP IN THE LIGHT

Published August 26, 2017 by rochellewisoff

Flash fiction is a valuable training tool for all writers. It helps promote clarity and precision by forcing the writer to be succinct.

This week WHAT PEGMAN SAW travels to North Korea. Be very careful of what you say to whom you say it.

To enjoy stories inspired by the What Pegman Saw prompt or to submit your own 150-word story, visit the inLinkz button:

For guidelines and rules for the What Pegman Saw weekly writing prompt, visit the home page.

 Many thanks for hosting this challenge to Karen Rawson and  and J Hardy Carroll .

For this week’s challenge I revisited a Friday Fictioneers piece I posted two years ago, added 50 words and gave it a new title.

Genre: Realistic, Historical and All-Too-Current Fiction

Word Count: 150

ASLEEP IN THE LIGHT

            At thirteen Myung Hee was three years older than the rest of my students. Despite my many scoldings, they laughed at her and called her babo.

            One day I found her weeping in the schoolyard.

            “What’s wrong, gongjunim?”

            “I’m not princess.” A single tear trickled down her cheek. “I feel sorry for these children. They are not understand.  In time a heart beats this light can be snatched from them.”

            I tried to hug her but she pulled back. Her swollen eyes, old beyond their years, pierced my heart.

            “My baby brother and I escaped Kim Jong-il’s prison camp, but two days later I buried him in the desert with only the stars to see. I thought South Korea would be the center of my dreams, but they lie with my brother in darkness.”

            Myung Hee’s words resonated deep within me and, in that moment, the teacher became the student.   

 

5 August 2016

Published August 3, 2016 by rochellewisoff

Summer Showcase

Summer is the time for vacations, picnics on the beach and reruns on the telly. For me it has been a time to meet a deadline in July for my third novel in my series entitled AS ONE MUST ONE CAN. These are happy times! The deadline has been met, but there are edits to do and more business ahead. So the Summer Showcase will continue for a few more Fridays. Many thanks to those of you who responded to my plea for your favorite reruns. 

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Another Highway

The following photo is the PROMPT. This week’s retread request is from CEAYR. If you’re one of those who wrote a story for this prompt feel free to re-post it and enjoy the respite. Remember that all photos are private property and subject to copyright. Use other than Friday Fictioneers by permission only. 

Copyright-Ted Strutz

PHOTO PROMPT- ©Ted Strutz

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Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 100

Original post from May 2013

HANAI

            I met Kevin online. Our connection began with shared interests and blossomed into more.

            “You should visit in person,” said my sister.  

            “Fat chance. He’s in Hawaii, I’m in Nebraska.”

            Last week I received an airline ticket.

            “Next Saturday. Icon Grill. Seattle.

                                    Aloha,

                                    Kevin.”

***

            He slides into the booth across from me. “You bring it?”

            From my purse I take a faded photograph of twins, a boy and a girl. Korean War orphans. I’ve carried it for forty years.

            His almond-shaped eyes crinkle as he fishes an identical photo from his wallet.

            “Jah-meh, I always hoped to find you.”  

*Jah-meh – Korean for sister

24 June 2016

Published June 22, 2016 by rochellewisoff

Summer Showcase

Summer is the time for vacations, picnics on the beach and reruns on the telly. For me it’s a time to meet a deadline in July for my third novel in my series entitled AS ONE MUST ONE CAN. Many thanks to those of you who responded to my plea for your favorite reruns. 

Ellehcor Banner FF

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Our Mantra:

Another Highway

The following photo is the PROMPT. This week’s retread request is from C.E.Ayr If you’re one of those who wrote a story for this prompt feel free to re-post it and enjoy the respite. The photo is from Rich Voza. Remember that all photos are private property and subject to copyright. Use other than Friday Fictioneers by permission only.

copyright-Rich Voza

copyright-Rich Voza


 

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I’m really pleased that C.E. chose this particular prompt. It’s one of my all time favorites, not because of the photo itself but because of what it meant to me. I am posting two stories with permission from Doug MacIlroy who is currently MIA and says, “Tell the FF gang I said hello and that I wish them well and that like a relative of mine once said, ‘I shall return’.”

When Doug shared his abbreviated story with me via email in February 2013 I asked what he thought about my writing the partner story. Between iPhone texts and photos we worked to make our stories exactly 200 words between the two of them. It was a labor of love and a magical experience in writing. I hope you enjoy it as much as we did. 

Original posts HERE and HERE

Doug’s story is in the photo below.

Genre for both: Speculative Fiction

Word Count: 65

DEPARTURE CLEARANCE

Departure Clearance

Word Count: 135

FLIGHT STATUS

            “Flight delayed.” Amelia snarled and closed the US Airways website. “Damn business trips!”

            Memories of their argument right before Chase left gnawed at her. She regretted her spiteful words.

            “I hate your job!”

            “You like the money.”

            “You’re never home. Your daughters don’t even know their father.”

            “Next time, babe, you and the girls are coming with me.”

            “What if—?”

            “‘What if’ never happens.” He gathered her into his arms. “Flying’s safer than driving on the freeway.”

            Five hours ago he’d texted from Phoenix. “Just a little turbulence. Nothing to worry about.”

            “Mommy?” Four-year-old Katy tiptoed into the room. “Daddy sat on my bed.”

            “It was only a dream, Kitten.”

            “No it wasn’t. He talked to me!”

            “What’d he say?”

            “He’s sorry he can’t come home.” 

            Her phone chimed. Message from Chase.

            “Dearest Amelia…” 

.Chase's last message

Jet Crash with houses.

BASH

TFOA

3 June 2016

Published June 1, 2016 by rochellewisoff

Summer Showcase

Summer is the time for vacations, picnics on the beach and reruns on the telly. For me it’s a time to meet a deadline in July for my third novel in my series entitled AS ONE MUST ONE CAN. Many thanks to those of you who responded to my plea for your favorite reruns. 

Sunrise FF Banner

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Snorkeling in St. Thomas

The following photo is the PROMPT. This week’s retread request is from Sandra Crook. If you’re one of those who wrote a story for this prompt feel free to re-post it and enjoy the respite. The photo is from Piya Singh for whom I have no link. Remember that all photos are private property and subject to copyright. Use other than Friday Fictioneers by permission only. 

Thanks to Piya Singh for this week's photo prompt.

Thanks to Piya Singh for this week’s photo prompt.

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Here’s my story, first posted 7 September 2012 when Madison Woods was FF Queen. I’m really appalled at how lax I was in replying to comments. I apologize to those of you to whom I didn’t reply. How rude was that?

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

CEASE-FIRE

             Despite his outspoken arguments against the Confederacy, to please Father, Amelia’s twin brother James enlisted. A year later he perished at Clark’s Mill.      

            Afterward she spent afternoons in the abandoned slave quarters reading Andrew’s letters in secret. The last one came seven months ago. 

 “When the war’s over we’ll live in New York…”

            Had she lost him, too?

            From the corner of the shack a Union soldier stumbled toward her, his face chocolate brown beneath his rumpled cap. Her knees buckled. He caught her and crushed her against his broad chest.

            Breathless, she devoured his bronze lips. “Andrew. Dearest Andrew.”

 

Character Study – Rabbi Shimon and Miriam Cohen

Published January 24, 2016 by rochellewisoff

Out of the corner of her eye she [Havah] saw her mother creep through the doorway and inch toward the bed with a wooden rolling pin high over her head. She slammed it down on the back of the man’s head. With a sudden jerk and a grunt he released Havah. He rolled off her and fell to the floor unconscious.

She sat up, clutching a pillow and stared down at him. Blood pooled under his head and seeped into the cracks between the floor boards. This had to be a dream. In the morning Papa would wink at her over breakfast and assure her it had all been a horrendous nightmare.

 Her mother yanked her hand, dragged her from the bed and held her for a moment, her tears hot on Havah’s neck.

“Hurry, Havah. May the God of Israel go with you.” Taking Havah’s face between her hands her mother kissed her forehead.

“But Mama—”

Tugging Havah’s arm, her mother dragged her to the back door of the house and shoved her out. “No arguing. Go!”

Heart thumping, she ran. Thick smoke stung her eyes and burned her throat. She stopped and turned to look one last time. The blazing synagogue crumbled to the ground.

“No, Havah, don’t look back!”

                      ~~Taken from Please Say Kaddish for Me by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Miriam Cohen 2

Original Artwork © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The Heder teacher’s face turned crimson. He narrowed his eyes and glared at five-year-old Havah as if she were a piglet about to be dumped on his doorstep. Then he clenched his tobacco-stained teeth and spat a brown glob on the doorstep.

Up until this moment she had been excited to learn to read the Torah, the words that came from Adoshem’s own mouth. Huddled against Papa’s shoulder she hid her eyes in his coat folds.

“You can’t be serious, Rabbi Shimon. She’s a girl.”

“So she is.” Papa’s arm tightened around her. “My daughter’s mind is every whit as keen as her brother Mendel’s.”

“To be certain she’s a bright one, and one day she’ll be a most excellent wife and mother. Perhaps she’ll even marry a rabbi herself but, Rebbe, to come to Heder with boys? It’s not right.”

“Where does the Torah say it’s wrong for a girl to learn?”

“Rabbi Ben Hyrcanus clearly stated in the Talmud that to teach a daughter Torah is tiflut, obscenity. And did he not also say that the words of the Torah should be burned rather than be entrusted to a woman? Rabbi, you of all people should know this.”

“As far as I’m concerned it’s opinion and rubbish! Didn’t the prophet Yo’el write ‘your sons and daughters shall prophecy’? Miriam and Deborah—were they not judges in Israel?”

“You win, Rebbe.”

“I always do.”

                 ~~Taken from From Silt and Ashes by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Published by Argus Publishing

Represented by Loiacono Literary Agency

Original Artwork © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Original Artwork © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Until the pogrom that took them from her, Havah’s parents, Rabbi Shimon and Miriam Cohen were the two most important people her life.

            Not one to be bound by law and traditions, Rabbi Cohen relied more on Torah than Midrash, the rabbinic commentaries.  When questioned, he was quick to argue that the former was the irrefutable word of God while the latter was merely opinion and conjecture.  He encouraged his daughter and his wife, if they so desired, to study the Holy Word.

            Miriam was a gentle and loving wife who kept a clean, Kosher home. She considered her greatest treasures to be her husband, her two sons and her daughter.

            Havah adored her parents and her memories of them are a constant thread throughout the series. Even though she was only sixteen when they died, their words of wisdom are always there to guide her.

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The Sequel to

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Check out my author page on the Loiacono Website.  For all of the character studies thus far, click on the link Rochelle Wisoff-Fields Art and Blogs or my website RochelleWordArt.

1 January 2016

Published December 30, 2015 by rochellewisoff

happy New Year

Friday Fictioneers and Poppy

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FRIDAY FICTION CONCRIT SUBGROUP

If you want to be part of this group click the link above and follow the rules set forth by Jennifer Pendergast, the leader of this subgroup. No one is under obligation to participate nor is it necessary to dig something up to criticize for the sake of critique. Please keep it polite and friendly. 

The next photo is the PHOTO PROMPT. Once more I’m taking the liberty of doing a rerun. Some of you may remember this photo and already have a story to go with it. Feel free to replay your story as well and enjoy the New Year. 

Copyright Jean L. Hays

Copyright Jean L. Hays

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Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 98

ILLUMINATION

            With her crimson hair and freckles she could’ve been my own reflection. Although we’d never met, I knew she was my birth mother.

            “Didn’t you want me?”

            “With all my heart.”

            Sunlight streaming through the café windows glinted off her tears. “Mother said I couldn’t care for a baby…said I’d hurt you. She never even let me hold you.”

            I wrapped my arms around her waist.

            “Hold me now…Mama.”

            Her fingers caressed my forehead, then moved as lightly as moth wings down my nose and over my lips. Her sightless eyes glistened. “It’s good to finally see you.”

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