Free What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank: Stories by Nathan Englander

white of the beard around his mouth stained brown, said, “Do not turn this day into one of blasphemy. Do not dare compare our modern trivialities to what was done in biblical times.”
    “I ask only does the verbal contract with which God granted us this nation stand, or does it not? With respect, with honor, I ask.”
    “We do not need a paper when the contracts are with God. And the ones you list that are between man and man—those, too, are recorded in the Torah, which is also, every word and every letter, whispered by God into Moses’ ear. The answer is, they are valid, and unquestionable, and, also, do not compare.”
    It was Kiggel who then spoke. “I ask you, Gveret Barak.I know you do not intend blasphemy, I know this matter is charged. But let us use perspective. Let us keep things in their right size.”
    It was Yehudit who screamed at this, “My daughter, my daughter’s life—do not treat it as small.”
    “ My daughter,” Rena said, correcting her. “My daughter, as much as this is my city, as much as this court convenes at my home. If you want to reject our ancient covenants as irrelevant, then let us talk about modern times. From the very first day Yehudit and her husband bought their hill, and my husband and I purchased the one on which you sit, the Arabs in the village right there below have claimed it a false contract, a purchase made from a relative who had no right to sell.”
    “This is the Arab way,” Rabbi Kiggel said.
    “Well, is our city built on a lie? It is not three thousand years old, but thirty. If they claim their contract false—a contract entered into the same year as the one now in dispute—do we give up our homes? Do we give up our city? For they, too—like the bill that flutters on your table—are willing to pay back the amount they received.”
    “A Jewish court,” the young rabbi said. “It is not the same what happens between the Jew and the Gentile. And it is not the same what happens between peoples at war.”
    Rena looked to Yehudit and Aheret and then to the rabbis before her.
    “I see,” she said. “This is a false court. You try to trick an old woman in mourning, a lonely woman. Judgment has already been passed, hasn’t it? There is no way I can win.”
    “No,” Kiggel said, “you will be awarded motherhood, if you are right.”
    “Promise it,” Rena said. And pointing to Yehudit and Aheret, she said, “Make them both promise that they will follow what this beit din decides. I will not have this settled byemotion. If it is a valid court, and an honest court, I will have it settled by what is right.”
    “You will,” Kiggel said.
    “We will follow the court’s ruling,” Yehudit said.
    “From her,” Rena said, pointing at the girl. “From her I want to hear it.”
    “I am a founder of this city,” Aheret said, “the same as you two, only more. I was born to these hills and to these hills I will return. I know no other place. And no other world. If this is what the rabbis decide, if this is the law of the land, then so be it. My life, it’s in God’s hands. I will follow the ruling of this court.”
    “Tomorrow is Rosh Hashanah,” Rena said. And Yehudit blanched at the news. When, in her life, had a holiday been forgotten? Her children would all be home; she’d need to start her cooking. And then she wondered if, at her table, she’d have eight or nine. “From tomorrow, we move into the Ten Days of Repentance, when God decides who will live and who will die. Let each of you pledge to judge honestly, or be written out of the Book of Life. Then I, too—I promise—will accept whatever it is you say.”
    The rabbis conferred among themselves. They were going to judge honestly. They were honest men. But to take an unnecessary pledge set a dangerous precedent. It was not to be done lightly—and not an easy thing on which to agree.
    “We’d prefer to avoid that kind of extremism,” Kiggel said to Rena.
    “Then you do not have my