Ellis Shuman's Blog, page 10

Review of 'The Rebel's Niece' by Shimon Avish

Imagine it's the year 70 and you're trapped in Jerusalem'sTemple compound as the Romans besiege the city. Is it better to surrender andlive your lives as slaves, or fight to the death because you believe that iswhat God commanded you to do?

This is the dilemma facing the protagonists of The Rebel'sNiece by Shimon Avish (MarbleStone Press, August 2023), the second ofthe author's novels about significant events in ancient Jewish history.

This fictional account of the traumatic years of the Roman conquestputs you straight into the action from the very first page. Sarah, a mother oftwo and niece of the messianic rebel leader Yochanan, flees her Galileanvillage along with her husband, Jacob, ahead of the Roman invasion. She beginsto question Yochanan's leadership when he sends many of the villagers tocertain death and forges ahead to Jerusalem, supposedly following God's instructions.

Thefamily sets up their tent in the Temple, knowing that the Romans are gettingcloser every day. But along with preparations for the ultimate battle, Yochananclashes with the other resistance leaders. Why were the Jews fighting each other instead of saving themselves to fight theRomans? Sarah wonders. The novel offers no clear-cut answer.

The Rebel's Niece devotes much attentionto the daily lives of its protagonists. Sarah and the other women are more concernedwith sleeping arrangements, babysitting, and mealtimes than with the looming destruction.

Still,the battles described in the book are bloody and assumedly historically accurate,based on the author's exhaustive research. The construction of the siege engines,the pounding of the battering rams, and the breachingof the city's walls are very clearly and colorfully depicted.

What is most surprising to learn is that the Romans were notinvincible. The Jews were equal in battle, if not in numbers. Perhaps ifthere hadn't been so much infighting and baseless hatred, Jerusalem would nothave been conquered and the Second Temple would not have been destroyed. When thecity fell, the Jews lost their holiest site but many would survive to fightanother day. The author's previous novel was aptly titled Masada: Thou Shalt Not Kill.

Overall, The Rebel's Niece is a compelling, thrillingaccount of one of the most significant events in ancient Jewish history. Theauthor promises three more novels in the series and readers can look forward torealistic accounts of those events as well.

Shimon Avish, aformer soldier in the Israeli Defense Forces and a founder of a kibbutz insouthern Israel, writes about significant events in ancient Jewish history. Hiswork draws on his adventures in soldiering, farming, product design, cabinetmaking, political science, international business consulting, and living in theU.S., Canada, and Israel. He completed his doctoral degree in political scienceat Columbia University and was a Fulbright-Hays Fellow.

Originally posted on The Times of Israel.

Related story:

Review of ‘Masada: Thou Shalt Not Kill’ by Shimon Avish

"The Tiger" - short story

“There’sa tiger in the playground!”

“That’snice, Shmuel.”

“Noreally, Imma. It was coming toward me, but I didn’t run. I wasn’t scared atall!”

“Thatsounds very exciting! You’re so brave! Now, go wash up and call your brothers.It’s almost time for Havdalah.”

Thetiger was like an enormous cat wearing a mask. A colorful Purim mask. Ambereyes stared at him as the large animal swayed back and forth with feline grace,its tail whisking in its wake. Its ears stood at attention; its paws were huge.Shmuel couldn’t see, but he could imagine, the beast’s razor-sharp teeth, andthe thin white whiskers under its triangular pink nose. Such a pretty face!

Thetiger crept past the swings and skirted the slide, slowly approaching. Shmuelstood half hidden by the jungle gym. No one else was around to witness thismagnificent creature’s passage across the silent playground. He was by himself,but he was not afraid. He was curious, nothing more than that!

“Shmuelhas such an imagination,” Shmuel’s mother said to Shmuel’s father when hereturned from shul.

“Heshould put his imagination aside and concentrate on his studies.”

“He’sjust a boy.”

“Boysshould be studying. Instead, he ran off to the park to play with his friends. Whereare the children? We want to start.”

Thetiger had vertical stripes, just like the stripes on his pajamas. Just like thestripes on Yermi’s pajamas, and on Moshe’s pajamas. They all had matchingstriped pajamas, but their stripes were blue and white. The tiger’s stripeswere flaming orange and coal black. The stripes on its belly were white andblack, but those were harder to see in the twilight.

Whatwould it be like to stand next to the tiger, to touch its fur? Would it besoft? Rough? Would the animal run away from him like the wild cats outside hisbuilding that fled at his approach? What would the tiger do?

Shmuel’sfather set the spice box on the Havdalah tray. He picked it up and lit thebraided candle, and handed it to Shmuel's older sister. He filled the winegoblet to the brim, lifted it, and cupped it in his right hand. And then hebegan to sing.

Shmuelclosed his eyes when he was offered the aromatic spices. He sniffed, maybelouder than he should, then opened his eyes as he passed the spice box toYermi. A thought crossed his mind. What did the tiger smell like? Did it havean unpleasant odor or did it smell like a dog? Maybe a wet dog. Or a cow? Shmuelhad once petted a calf and a small lamb, and baby rabbits, too. Did the tigersmell like them, or did wild animals have their own scent?

“Shmuel,pay attention,” his mother whispered.

Hervoice was not angry, and he couldn’t help but smile at her. What would shethink if she saw the tiger? He was sure Yermi and Moshe would run away,frightened, but maybe his sister wouldn’t fear the large animal, just like him.Would he see the tiger tomorrow? Maybe it would be in the playground again whenhe went to school!

Ashis father poured the wine onto the tray and extinguished the flame, Shmuelremembered the tiger glancing at him one last time before slinking into thedarkness. And then it was gone, leaving no trace of its having crossed theplayground.

“Shavuatov!” his father said, before launching into a medley of Psalms to mark theend of the holy Shabbat and the start of the new week.

Later,after eating a light Melaveh Malkah meal, it was time for bed. Shmuel got intohis pajamas, the very same striped pajamas he had thought about when he saw thetiger in the playground. He brushed his teeth, climbed into bed, and laughed atsomething Yermi said. Moshe lay down in his crib, and his mother tucked them allin. And then his father came into the room and hugged each of them in turn. Thethree boys recited the Shema together, and the light was switched off.

“Pleasantdreams,” Shmuel’s mother whispered. And to Shmuel, she added, “Don’t worry, notigers will come.”

“I’mnot worried, Imma!”

“That’sright. You’re so brave!”

Whenshe came into the dining room, her husband had already returned to his Saturdaynight studies. She regarded him silently, loving him more every time he strokedhis beard, every time he nodded, every time he adjusted his kippa. She moved achair into its place, but he didn’t look up.

“I’mturning on the radio to see if anything happened over Shabbat.”

“Whatcould possibly happen? There’s only politics and security issues in thiscountry.”

“Shh!”she said. The news broadcast had already begun.

“JerusalemDistrict Police commander Moshe Barzani said this is the first time anythinglike this has happened at the Biblical Zoo,” the announcer said. And thenBarzani’s voice could be heard. “Security forces and police are on the streetsin nearby neighborhoods, conducting an intensive search for the tiger thatescaped from the zoo earlier this evening.” The announcer broke in to statethat Barzani assured the public that they would soon catch the tiger. “And now,on to other news,” he continued in his calm, reassuring voice.

Shmuel’smother looked up at her husband, but he hadn’t been paying attention to theradio. Instead, he was rocking back and forth, concentrating on the holy texts.She didn’t want to interrupt him. She would tell him later.

Shewent to her sons’ room and looked in. Like his younger brothers, Shmuel wasfast asleep, lost in his dreams. She pulled up his blanket and kissed him onhis forehead. He didn’t wake up.

Originally published on JewTh!nk

Photo by A G on Unsplash

Review of Iddo Gefen’s ‘Mrs. Lilienblum’s Cloud Factory’

Justthree months ago, Israeli author Iddo Gefen won the $100,000 2023 Sami RohrPrize for Jewish Literature for his debut short story collection JerusalemBeach (Astra House, August 2021). Daniella Zamir was recognized for hertranslation, for which she received a quarter of the prize money.

Thistalented author has outdone himself with his debut novel, Mrs.Lilienblum's Cloud Factory (Kinneret Zmora-Bitan Dvir, July 2023). Thebook is due to be published by Astra House in 2024, but I couldn't wait for theEnglish edition and just finished reading it in its original Hebrew.

Thebook opens with Sarai Lilienblum sitting in the middle of the Big Crater inIsrael's south, wearing a Bordeaux bathrobe and drinking a martini. She hadbeen missing for days and no one in her family knew where she was, or how shegot to the crater. And Sarai isn't explaining anything.

Wesoon learn about Sarai's latest invention, a machine that can manufactureclouds and intense rainfall and possibly solve the climate crisis. Thatpossibility depends not only on the interactions between Sarai and her family,but on the very nature of Israel's startup culture.

Thenovel is very witty, with fully developed characters and an amazing plot.

"Whenyou read Gefen’s stories," I wrote in my review of Jerusalem Beach,"with their diverse characters, and cross-genre themes of memories anddreams, you never know what you’re going to get. But one thing you do know.Each story is going to be very enjoyable to read."

Thesame is true for Mrs. Lilienblum's Cloud Factory, a tour de forceby a very talented author whose mark on the Israeli literary scene is just gettingstarted. The book is a pleasure to read and highly recommended.

Iddo Gefen is anauthor and neurocognitive researcher at the Virtual and Augmented Reality Labat the Sagol Brain Institute. He leads an innovative study to diagnose aspectsof Parkinson’s disease using storytelling and augmented reality. JerusalemBeach, his first book, received the Israeli Minister of Culture’s Award in2017, and the 2023 Sami Rohr Prize for Jewish Literature.

Originally posted on The Times of Israel.

Related articles:

‘Jerusalem Beach’ by Iddo Gefen Is Sami Rohr Prize for Jewish Literature Finalist  

Review of ‘Jerusalem Beach’ by Iddo Gefen

"The Volcano" - short story

“You need to come home. Now.”

“I hear you,” I reply, holding the phone at a distance. Maya’s voicecomes across the line at a higher decibel level than usual. “Are you sureyou’re feeling contractions?”

“Daniel!” It is nearly a shout. “I know what this is and I knowthat you have to be on the next flight.”

“Alright,” I say, wondering if this isn’t another case of falselabor, like the symptoms that sent us to the hospital prematurely just two weeksago. “I will order my ticket for tonight.”

“I don’t know if I can last that long!”

It is early afternoon so there’s plenty of time to make areservation. There is no doubt in my mind that there will be an empty seat onthe plane. Not many people fly from Sofia to Tel Aviv in the middle of theweek.

After ending the conversation with an ‘I love you’ on her side andan “I love you, too’ from me, I turn back to my laptop and regard an Inboxfilled with urgent emails awaiting my attention. Contracts to review, shipmentsthat are late, and complaints about delayed payments. It is not easy managingan international firm with offices in both Israel and Bulgaria. Maya complainsabout my frequent flights to Sofia, and how that leaves her alone in our TelAviv apartment dealing with the pregnancy on her own. Luckily there have beenno complications in the past nine months but as this will be our first child—aboy—it is natural for her to be concerned. Especially during the lasttrimester.

Maya understands why I work part of the time overseas, I tellmyself. Why I fly back and forth every other week. She realizes how importantit is to have my company succeed. It is a startup, admittedly, but one withhuge potential. Succeeding in this business will ensure our financial future. Iam not suggesting that we leave Israel, or that we relocate to Sofia, eventemporarily, as many other Israelis have done, but that I split my managementduties working out of two offices.

While I know that Maya supports me in this venture, and that shebacks me every step of the way, what has really bothered her is the fact that Iset up our second office in Bulgaria. Why Bulgaria? she asked me, repeatedly,when I told her of the plan. Of all the countries to choose from, why had Ichosen an East European country with a communist past and a far from stellarrecord as a member of the European Union. ‘Silicon Valley, I can understand,’she had said to me. ‘England would even be acceptable.’

Bulgaria is only a two-hour flight from Israel, I told her. Thecountry offers excellent conditions for our second office, I explained. Ahighly educated, multiple language-speaking workforce. A modern internetinfrastructure. Low labor costs and reasonable corporate tax requirements. Inshort, we could get everything we needed in Sofia at a much cheaper price thanwhat we would have to pay in the United States or elsewhere.

While Maya had eventually acquiesced to my decision, things wereapparently different now that we are on the verge of starting our family—somethingwe have planned since the day we got married. Maya is more emotional than usual,more judgmental. More prone to criticize my business decisions when theyinterfere in our personal lives.

When I informed Maya that I would have to make one additionalflight to Bulgaria before the birth, she was both upset and somewhatdisappointed in me. I calmed her down with reassurances that I would be homewell before her due date. There was absolutely no way I could miss a plannedmeeting with prospective investors in Sofia. I really had to go, I told her.That was four days ago.

The phone rings and this time it is a call from my partner, back inthe Tel Aviv office. We discuss our business plan, the plan we have beenworking on together for months. The plan that details our years of service inthe Israeli army’s Intelligence Corps and our experience working in Israelihigh-tech companies. Our entrepreneurial ingenuity and our willingness to worklong hours with little compensation. The executive summary that lays out ourvision for the future. We will be profitable within three years, we wrote inthe plan. We just needed the seed money to fund those three years. Ahead of themeeting, we are both optimistic.

“Make sure to mention how little competition there is and how thatgives us a first-mover advantage,” my partner says.

“Of course.” But then, I remember something. I won’t be able toattend the next day’s meeting after all. “Maya is giving birth,” I explain. “Well,not right at this moment, but soon.”

“So, what are you doing in Sofia?”

“I’m coming home tonight,” I tell him, although I have yet to bookmy ticket.

“No, you’re not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you heard the news?”

“What news?”

“Go online. You’ll see.”

I hang up and open my browser. I quickly surf to CNN and there it is,a bold headline splashed across the top of the page.

‘Iceland's Eyjafjallajökull volcano shuts down flights acrossEurope.’

What is that all about? I start reading the article and learn howthe most active volcano in Iceland has erupted. There is a picture of plumes ofdark gray smoke rising from a mountaintop, a crater spewing ash into theatmosphere.

The ash cloud from the eruption is spreading across Europe, I read.Commercial jet traffic is canceled; airports are closed; and travelers acrossthe continent are stranded. The article concludes with the statement that thenatural event is expected to be the largest disruption to air traffic since theSecond World War. And there is no indication that the situation will improveany time soon.

I can understand how a volcano eruption in Iceland could disruptair travel in Britain and Scandinavia but how could that possibly affect me?

“Sofia Airport is closed,” I am informed when I call the agencythat handles all of my travel arrangements. “All flights for the foreseeablefuture have been cancelled.”

Cancelled? That sounds like a strange word to use. Surely, she means‘delayed’.

“I want to fly to Tel Aviv, not to Iceland,” I tell the woman. “Canyou get me a seat on tonight’s El Al flight? Or Bulgarian Air if you have to.”

“Sorry sir, but there are no flights tonight.”

No flights? She must be mistaken. There are flights every day ofthe week, except for Fridays and Jewish holidays.

“My wife is giving birth. I must fly tonight,” I insist. “Evenfirst class if you have to. There must be priority boarding for special caseslike mine.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”

“What about a flight to Istanbul?” I ask. “I can make a connectionto Tel Aviv from there.”

“The airport is closed. There are no flights.”

I can’t believe that. The woman must be mistaken. If she can’t helpme, I will handle this myself. Normally I don’t have patience to book my own flights.I can’t stand the minutiae of travel arrangements. That is why we work with theagency, especially when last minute reservations are necessary.

I click through to the El Al website. I fill in my personal detailsand make my way from one screen to the next. There is a flight scheduled for TelAviv, as usual. And, there is a seat available, as I had assumed. Why didn’tthe woman at the agency know about this? I enter the numbers of my credit card,confirm the reservation, and sit back in my chair. Mission accomplished.

The phone rings. An emotionally-charged medical update.

“Are you coming?” Maya cries in my ear.

“I’m coming home,” I reassure her.

“Don’t you dare to come home if you don’t come home!” she threatens.

“You’re not making sense. You’re emotional.”

“Daniel, I’m about to give birth!”

There is no argument with that. I tell her I have a seat on the nightflight and I will be back before she knows it. I understand what Maya’s goingthrough, I really do. I take a long breath, relieved by the fact that I have aticket home, a confirmed reservation.

A few minutes later, Dessislava walks into my office. Dessislava, aplump older woman with a toothy smile, is our office manager. Whenever I findmyself burdened down with Bulgarian bureaucracy, Dessislava finds theshortcuts, the solutions, and the answers to my questions. She knows the ropes.I am indebted to her. I could never manage in Sofia on my own.

“I am flying to Tel Aviv tonight,” I tell her.

“What about your meeting tomorrow?”

“Can you reschedule for next week?”

“Yes, I will do that,” She turns to leave but spins around. “Howare you flying tonight?”

“El Al. I booked it myself.”

“The airport is closed. Because of that volcano.”

“I heard about the volcano. But El Al is flying. Otherwise myreservation wouldn’t have registered.”

“Should I check that for you?”

What was the need? I wonder. I had seen the confirmationnotification on the screen. There is nothing to worry about. I appreciateDessislava’s concern and her constant readiness to assist me, but in this case,I’ve managed just fine. But when I see a look of disappointment on her face, Ichange my mind.

“Yes, please,” I say. She smiles and I turn back to my screen.

Eyjafjallajökull is a volcano located beneath an ice cap insouthern Iceland, I learn, some 125 kilometers south of Reykjavik. Eyjafjallajökull.How do you even pronounce that name? I am unable to pull my eyes away from myscreen. I need to know more. I need to know everything.

Huge quantities of ash are pushing into the atmosphere.

The cloud of ash is blocking out the sun, turning day into night.

It is spreading eastwards, across the English Channel, acrossFrance and Germany. It is in the skies of Poland and Hungary, or it soon willbe. Apparently, nothing will stop the cloud before it reaches Bulgarian airspace.

How much damage could a cloud of ash do? Surely modern aircraftemploy the technology necessary for maneuvering in such a situation. What Iread on the internet suggests something totally different.

Volcanic ash consists of fragments of pulverized rocks, minerals,and glass particles. If this debris is sucked into jet engine turbines, it couldresult in engine failure. Even in low concentrations, I read, the ash couldpose significant threats to aircraft, disrupt communications, and damage sensitiveequipment. In short, flying through a cloud of volcanic ash could cause a planeto crash.

But I have a ticket!

“The airport is still closed,” Dessislava reports a bit later.

“Did you check the list of departures?” I ask.

“I did, and that’s the strange thing. All flights are canceled,except for one. The night flight to Tel Aviv is listed as usual. No change indeparture time.”

Relieved, I thank her and return to my laptop. There is work to bedone, despite the cancellation of the meeting. I must inform the investors.Surely, they will understand my personal circumstances. We’re not pulling outfrom the deal. Far from it. And no, my partner can’t fly in from Tel Aviv. Itis imperative that he remains in Israel to manage the home office and also, heis less familiar with the business plan. I will explain the situation to theinvestors. Dessislava will reschedule and everything will be okay.

I find that I can’t concentrate on anything but the volcano.

Eyjafjallajökull is pronounced EYE-a-fyat-la-jo-kutl, I learn. Thecloud of ash is reported to be drifting at 18,000 to 33,000 feet above theearth, directly in the path of commercial airliners. Unlike the Chernobyldisaster in 1986, and its release of a radioactive cloud that spread acrossEurope, Iceland’s volcano poses no health threat to people on the ground. Atleast that.

The phone rings. Maya is clearly hysterical. “I’m going intolabor!”

“Can’t you wait...” I start to ask before realizing I must soundlike the dumbest husband ever. Luckily, she doesn’t respond to my idioticremark. I hear her heavy breathing. “I’m coming!” I promise. “My flight isbooked.”

I hang up the phone and shut down my laptop. I walk out of myoffice and past Dessislava at the reception desk.

“I’m going to the airport.”

“The airport is closed,” she reminds me.

“The flight to Israel is still listed for departure. You saw that.I will wait at the airport.”

The taxi drops me off outside the Departures Hall. The airport isnearly deserted. There are no taxis waiting for passengers, no family memberswaiting to greet arrivals. I see a few men standing near the security gate andhurry toward them.

El Al is noted for its scrupulous security measures, making itnearly impossible for terrorists to bypass the airline’s different stages ofinspection. For Israelis the check-in procedure is more lenient. Especially atSofia Airport. Because of my frequent flights on the Tel Aviv-Sofia route, thesecurity agent at the desk recognizes me and passes me through quickly.

I look up at the Departures board. Flights to Budapest, Bucharest,and Paris are listed as cancelled. As are the flights scheduled for London,Paris, and Amsterdam. The sole departure scheduled as usual is the flight toTel Aviv.

A bored-looking woman at the check-in counter hands me my boardingpass and I take the escalator upstairs to passport control. A few minutes laterI am in the waiting area, the sole passenger waiting for a flight. I walk overto a coffee shop, order a cappuccino, and take a seat. I call my wife.

When Maya picks up, she is panting. “Where are you?” I ask.

“Where do you expect me to be? I’m at the hospital!”

“You’re giving birth?”

“Not yet, but soon. I’m on a bed, right next to the delivery room.The nurses are here; the doctor will be here soon. Where are you?”

“I’m at the airport. I’m on my way.”

And then I hear Maya’s drawn-out breaths, just like we had learnedin Lamaze class. Take an organizing breath, focus your attention, slowly inhalethrough your nose and exhale through your mouth. Sigh. Relax. Repeat.

“Hang in there,” I urge Maya before hanging up.

As the minutes pass, other passengers straggle into the waitingroom. Israelis, like me, unwilling to accept a possibility that they won’t beable to get home, that El Al will stop flying even when the rest of Europe hasshut down. Israelis who have seen, and conquered, hardships in the past and whoare unwilling to accept defeat, no matter what the circumstances. And some ofmy compatriots, I assume, who see a flight in the wake of a volcano’s eruptionas an impromptu adventure, one that will serve as a fitting way to mark the endof their visit to Bulgaria.

My fellow passengers and I cast anxious glances at the electronicboard at the far end of the hall. No changes are listed but I wonder whetherthe flight will be on time. Whether it will take off at all.

I pace back and forth, thinking about Maya. Is she okay? Is shegiving birth? Maybe she has already given birth? Will she be able to call me ifshe did? I should call her again but if she’s in labor, I don’t want to disturbher. I just spoke to her, but that was twenty minutes ago. I should wait untilshe calls me. I look at my phone repeatedly, willing it to ring. I can’t get onthe flight without knowing.

“Flight 552 is now boarding,” the announcement comes, first inEnglish and then in Bulgarian. The other passengers approach the counter andhand over their tickets and passports. The attendants look at the documents andthen wave the passengers down the jetway to the plane.

Still I wait, at the back of the lounge. A family with two sleepinginfants in baby strollers pushes past me, and then an elderly couple. Three youngmen burdened down by heavy backpacks. Two women with large bags, as if they’vejust returned from a major shopping spree. A group of five middle-aged men,laughing at each other’s jokes.

And then my phone rings. “Hello!” I cry, before even tapping it toanswer. “Maya, is that you?”

“Daniel!” And then, total silence. I nearly scream in myimpatience.

“Sir, we’re almost finished boarding,” the flight attendant alertsme from behind the gate.

I nod to her and look back at my phone. Have I lost the connection?What is going on?

“Daniel, we have a baby!” Maya cries, her excitement unmistakabledespite her obvious exhaustion. “It’s a boy and he’s perfect!” Maya reassuresme that our son has ten fingers and ten toes. “He’s beautiful, Daniel,” she says.“Please come home!”

“I’m a father!” I shout, causing the crew at the gate to look up withsurprise.

“Sir, we are closing the gate now,” the clerk says impatiently. Iam the only remaining passenger in the lounge.

“I’m a father,” I repeat. I hand her my boarding pass and passport.

As I walk past her, the clerk adds with a smile, “Congratulationson your baby.”

“Thank you,” I reply as I hurry toward the plane. No explanationhas been given why the Israeli airline is flying when all the others have beengrounded, but no explanation is needed. Nothing can stop me now, not even a lava-spurting,rock-throwing, earth-quaking volcano with an unpronounceable name. I am goinghome to see my wife and to meet my son!

 

# # #

Originally published on The Bookends Review, July 27, 2020.

What Readers Are Saying About "Tales of the Tel Aviv Ticket Inspector"

Readers of my short story "Tales of the Tel Aviv Ticket Inspector" have posted their feedback on social media and in messages to me, and I'd like to share their words. I hope you have a chance to read the story!

Tales of the Tel Aviv Ticket Inspector

Published in June 2023, DoubleSpeak

"Thisis brilliant. It says so much about the love of a job, the love of a city andthe tapestry of its people, and most of all, the love of a spouse--beyondhealth and measure. I felt Avshalom's internal wrestling, the loss he faced ingiving up that simple (yet deeply rich) job as a driver... to face the beautyand banality of a life of lentil soup and "everything the same asalways." Yes, even after a brush with death. Thank you for this mostworthwhile and enriching piece."

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"Incrediblytouching"

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"Amazing!"

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"Outstanding"

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"Wellwritten of course! Love seeing the world through the eyes of yourcharacters!"

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"Ireally enjoyed this, Ellis. Seamlessly written. The bittersweet ending hit thehigh notes"

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I hope you have a chance to read "Tales of the Tel Aviv Ticket Inspector".

Review of 'The Shortest Road' by David L. Robbins

Thebattles of Israel's War of Independence are raging in the opening pages of TheShortest Road by David L. Robbins (Wicked Son, May 2023). The novel isthe sequel to Isaac’s Beacon and continues the story of the complex,flawed protagonists of that previous book.

Readerscaptivated by the struggles of American journalist Vince; Austrian refugeeRivkah and her machine gun-toting sister, Gabbi; and Malik, the mysterious,camel-riding Bedouin who befriends them; will have no problem jumping into thenarrative, but others will be confused by who they are and what they'refighting for.

Theauthor holds back no punches in his descriptions of Israel's bloodiest war andthe politics of the young country's leaders. Menachem Begin is portrayed as abrave Irgun fighter and idealist standing aboard the weapons-bearing Altalena cargoship before it is sunk by IDF shelling.‎ Eye-patched Moshe Dayan is shown leading reckless commandoraids into Palestinian towns while Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion sits tightin his Tel Aviv office orchestrating the war efforts.

Especiallyhard for Israeli readers will be the extensive depictions of the eviction ofPalestinians as Israel extends its territories eastward from Tel Aviv. Highlightedare the rounding up of the residents of Lydda, their forced march to Ramallah,the looting of their homes, and the murder of some of the innocent refugees. Itis clear that the author has based his fiction on extensive historical researchso readers would be hard-pressed to doubt its authenticity.

Itis difficult to read The Shortest Road as a standalone novel, or to feelan emotional connection to its protagonists. The narrative falls short ofproviding their backgrounds and sentiments, so strongly delivered in the firstbook. Still, the author's language is rich and the descriptions are vivid andevocative, making it hard to stop reading.

NewYork Times best-selling author David L. Robbins is the authorof 16 novels and four professionally produced plays. Many of his books arehistorical, depicting the battles and conflicts of World War Two. In 2018,Robbins was named one of two most influential literary artists in theCommonwealth of Virginia.

Originally posted on The Times of Israel.

 

Relatedarticle:

Reviewof ‘Isaac’s Beacon’ by David L. Robbins

What Readers Are Saying About "Forgiveness"

Readersof two of my recent stories, especially my story "Forgiveness," have postedtheir feedback on social media and in messages to me, and I'd like to sharetheir words. In addition, I feel it appropriate to include a response to thehistoric accuracy of the story.

"Forgiveness"

Published in June 2023, The WritingDisorder                          

"Itis a poignant, so moving short piece of fiction and realism mixed in oneentity. I know the tales about our Jews and the courageous acts of therepresentatives of the Christian Orthodox Church and the society in itsentirety. There have been movies dedicated to this part of the Bulgarianhistory and at school we learnt about exactly what is described in theletters."

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"Veryinteresting and thought provoking."

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"Wow!"

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"Thestory brought tears to my eyes."

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"It'squite moving and makes me think of where my wife's family (from Dupnitsa andKyustendil) or those of Jewish Bulgarian friends (one Jewish family fromDupnitsa particularly comes to mind) may have been in these moments."

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"Thisis great, Ellis, very well written. Thanks for sharing, I learned a bunchtoo!"

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"Greatstory! I really enjoyed how effortlessly it takes you back in time."

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"Powerfulstory!!  I knew nothing of Bulgaria andits past history. A lot of research went into this one for sure!!!  Well done."

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"Thankyou for sharing the complicated history of Bulgaria during the Holocaust."

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"Goodstory. Is it fictional? I couldn’t tell. It’s not precise that all 48,000 Jews survived. Boris didn’t care about the Bulgarian Jews, who were abroad from September 1, 1939 on. They were all given to the Nazis and the BG government only asked for their names, so they could take over the property left."

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TheHistory Accuracy of "Forgiveness"

"Forgiveness"is a work of fiction based on real historic events. As an author, I tookcreative liberty to make elements of my narrative come together - but I hopeeven knowledgeable readers will agree that I didn't stray too far from theevents that occurred. Still, I feel it appropriate to include feedback from adear friend who is very familiar with the history of Bulgaria's Jews during theWorld War 2 period.

* * *

Myfirst impression after reading it is that although the book is based on realevents and documents/sources, there are still some inaccuracies that will notgo unnoticed by the Bulgarian reader.

Asyou are probably aware, a serious dispute on the history of the Holocaust inBulgaria is ongoing, including some issues related to the interpretation andpresentation of the historical facts of the rescue of Bulgarian Jewry (wereBulgarian Jews  saved or they rathersurvived), as well as to the painful history of the deportation of the Jewsfrom Vardar Macedonia, Aegean Thrace, and Pirot (are Bulgarians the only onesto blame for the deportations and what exactly was the role of the thenBulgarian authorities in this immense human tragedy).

Anotherpart of the dispute relates to the history of the labor camps on the territoryof the Kingdom of Bulgaria - were they only a place of torture/ discriminationor they could be considered sui generis - a place that played a role inJews' salvation.

Thereare no explicit answers to all these aspects of the history of the Holocaustand the events from 1943. Different groups of experts, academia, historians andeven politicians clash opinions in an effort to impose their own « truth ».

Inthis context, I really believe that your story will add fuel to the flame - bypleasing some while utterly infuriating others.

Regardingthe inaccuracies I have mentioned earlier that might have slip in for thepurposes of the narration:

Thetrains that left from Skopje traveled directly to Treblinka through Serbia andnever passed through Bulgarian territory. The trains, crossing Bulgarian territory, were the ones carrying theGreek Jews from Thrace that consequently reached Lom and the Danube from wherethe Jews were transported to Poland by barges.

Thecamp in Kaylaka, where a fire indeed erupted, was a place where mainly Jewishcommunists, proven to have been involved in activities against the state, wereimprisoned. Kaylaka was a male camp and there were no women in it. After thefire, the camp was closed.

WhatI truly miss in “Forgiveness” is the Bulgarian uniqueness - despite the adoptedanti-Jewish laws, even though Bulgaria was an ally of Nazi Germany, andregardless of the furious willingness of the ruling elite to send all Jews inthe country to the camps, this didn’t happen. And it didn’t happen not only forone, ten or a thousand but for fifty thousand Jews.

This was anextraordinary act of bravery of ordinary people, that succeeded thanks to thesteadfast support of the Bulgarian Orthodox Church, and indeed the friendshipbetween Bulgarians and Jews depicted in your book that transcended generations.

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Ihope you have a chance to read "Forgiveness", a fictional account ofreal historic events.

Review of 'Inside Information' by Eshkol Nevo

In"Death Road", the opening story of Inside Informationby Eshkol Nevo, translated by Sondra Silverston (Other Press, June 2023),39-year-old Omri is on a post-divorce trek in Bolivia when he meetshoneymooners Ronen and Mor. That night, Mor knocks on his door and Omri sensesthat something is wrong in her marriage. Shortly afterwards, Ronen is killed ina freak bicycle accident. After returning to Israel, Omri makes a shiva call,even though he barely knew the deceased.

Atthe shiva, Mor shows no signs of wanting to talk to Omri, but then she slips hima note, asking him to meet her in a nearby park. Having escaped Ronen's suspiciousbrothers, Mor tells Omri what caused her husband to fall into the abyss onDeath Road. As she relates the story, Omri feels he is beginning to slip intothe abyss with her. Is that what really happened and will he also pay the pricefor Ronen's death?

In "FamilyHistory", senior attending physician Dr. Asher Caro, supervising theresidents in the hospital's Internal Medicine department, notices thedistinctiveness of Liat Ben Abu. Caro, 'soft-boned and ham-fisted, still bowedby [his wife's]'s death,' develops a desire for Liat, not sexual in nature butrather a strong urge to care for her as he did for his wife when she was ill.When Liat falls for the charm of a fellow doctor, responsible for a string ofbrokenhearted women, Caro can't help but reach out, anonymously, in an attempt toprotect Liat from the same fate.

Withtears in her eyes from the inevitable break-up, Liat shows up at Caro'sapartment, saying 'What would I do without you?' He offers her tea but she asksfor alcohol. Dizzy, she  lies down for afew minutes. When he leans forward to cover her, just like he tucked in hischildren when they were small, his hand inadvertently falls into the opening ofher shirt. And then his troubles begin.

Inthe concluding story, "A Man Walks into an Orchard", we meetChelli, who takes an exercise walk every Saturday morning with her husband Oferin the orchards near their home. On one such walk, Ofer informs his wife thathe is dying to pee. He hands Chelli his phone and disappears among the trees. Aminute goes by. Another minute. Another minute.

Asthe police investigate, family secrets are revealed. Chelli's affair, which wasknown only to her son. The blog of 100-word, somewhat disturbing stories thatOfer faithfully updated. There is no trace as to Ofer's whereabouts, but evenwhen all leads dry up, Chelli refuses to give up hope. She misses 'somethingthat's hard to put into words, maybe...connection?' She also misses certainty.She wants to know 'something for certain.' What happened to her husband?

Thethree separate stories of Inside Information are independent ofeach other, novella-like in their length, with only a word or two connectingtheir narratives. Still, there is much to tie them together. In all three we meetunreliable, flawed narrators revealing their tales of love, intimacy, longing,and desire. Weaving them together is Nevo's masterful ability to capture our attentionwith compelling narratives, unexpected twists, and unconventional love stories.The book, an absolute pleasure to read, leaves us wondering what will happennext in the lives of the relatable characters with whom we've become intimate onits pages.

EshkolNevo is one of Israel’s most critically and commercially acclaimed writers.His novels have all been bestsellers in Israel and published widely intranslation. Homesick was awarded the Reimond Vallier Prize inFrance (2008) and shortlisted for the Sapir Prize in Israel (2005). WorldCup Wishes (2007) won the Golden Book Prize in Israel and was awarded theAdei-wizo Prize in Italy. Three Floors Up (Other Press, 2017) wasadapted for film by the acclaimed Italian director Nanni Moretti; and TheLast Interview (Other Press, 2020) was a finalist for the National JewishBook Award. Nevo is the grandson of Israeli Prime Minister Levi Eshkol, forwhom he was named.

SondraSilverston has translated the work of Israeli fiction writers including EtgarKeret, Ayelet Gondar-Goshen, and Zeruya Shalev. Her translation of Amos Oz's BetweenFriends won the National Jewish Book Award for fiction in 2013. A nativeNew Yorker, she has lived in Israel since 1970.

Originally published on The Times of Israel.

Related article:

Review of ‘The Last Interview’ by Eshkol Nevo

"Tales of the Tel Aviv Ticket Inspector" - short story

"Tickets! Tickets for inspection!"

The grey-haired woman in the third row squirms in herseat, fumbles with her purse, and finally extracts her green Rav Kav bus card. Avshalomsenses she's hiding something. His suspicions are confirmed when he presses hercard to his handheld reader.

"You didn't pay," he tells her.

"What?" she asks in Russian.

"Rav Kav—empty," he replies in accented,imperfect Russian. This surprises her, he can see. She isn't expecting areligious, Sephardic, slightly overweight, somewhat disheveled ticket inspectorto answer her in her native tongue. "Get off bus," he says.

"But I paid!" Her face reddens inembarrassment as she pushes past the commuters standing near the door. "Ipaid!" She steps down to the sidewalk. The door whooshes closed behind herand the bus pulls away from the stop.

Read the rest of the story on DoubleSpeak.

Photo by Bahnfrend and used under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license

"Forgiveness" - short story

The village was nestledin green foothills not far from the Greek border. Quaint wooden farmhouses andramshackle barns. Cultivated fields of summer crops; fenced-off pasturesspotted with dairy cows and goats. Grassy meadows bordered by colorfulwildflowers. In the distance, snow-capped peaks below a cloudless blue sky. TheRhodope Mountains, scenic and bucolic, home to some of Bulgaria’s oldestcitizens. One of them was waiting to see me.

“My grandfather isninety-five-years old,” Anna reminded me as we drove south on the narrowhighway. “He’s half blind, walks with a cane, and doesn’t hear very well, buthe still has his wits about him. He rises at the crack of dawn to milk his cowand tends his vegetable garden in the afternoons. And he eats a lot ofyoghurt,” she added with a laugh.

“I can’t believe I’mhere, that I’ve flown all the way from Tel Aviv just to meet him.”

“He’s very eager to seeyou.” Anna continued to talk excitedly as she drove, but I remained mostly silent,keeping my eyes focused on the beautiful countryside.

I was looking forward tomeeting him as well, but I had a growing feeling of trepidation ahead of myvisit to his home. Why had I come to Bulgaria? Had I made a mistake? Was I on awild goose chase that would make me a laughingstock when I returned to myoffice in a few days’ time? I shook my head, shocked at my impulsive decisionto come.

Anna slowed down when wepassed the sign announcing our arrival in Gela, the village that was ourdestination. A minute later, she parked the car. I got out, took a deep breathof the fresh mountain air, and followed her up a gravel path towards a woodenfarmhouse that had seen better days. We took off our shoes outside the door andwent inside.

It took several minutesfor my eyes to fully acclimate to the dark interior. Outside it was a warm Juneday, but inside the farmhouse I shivered. The unlit fireplace at the side of anopen kitchen made me wonder how warm the room was in winter. The Rhodopes wereski territory, I had learned. Visions of snow-covered slopes brought backmemories of the ski trip I took with friends after finishing my compulsoryservice in the Israeli army.

“Sit here,” Anna said,pointing at a low bench near the dining room table. “My mother is probablyshopping in Smolyan. I'll go see if my grandfather is awake.”

I sat down and lookedaround the rustic, homey room. Watercolor paintings of green landscapes hung onone wall; a window opened to real-life vistas of the same. All the furniturewas wooden, apparently homemade. I rested my hands on a colorful embroideredtablecloth, kicked my backpack under the table, and fidgeted as I waited forAnna’s grandfather. All I knew was that he had something to give me, and Ididn’t have a clue what it could be.

Read the rest of the story on The Writing Disorder.