The Messiah

At around two in the morning, my mother shook me awake. The Messiah was coming. There was no doubt about it, he’d been spotted ten miles outside of Wlodawa. At this rate, he would be here by morning. Get up, get up. We had to pack.

She left me to dress. It was a cold November night, gale force winds rattling the roof tiles and chimney pots. Reluctant to surrender the warmth of my bed, I shut my eyes tight and snuggled down into the covers to consider this information.

It wasn’t as if there hadn’t been signs. Strange lights in the sky, unusual weather. A dybbuk had taken possession of the tailor’s wife. An actual Golem had saved the lives of two-hundred and fifty people being led off to slaughter. A whole battalion of Deutschen, wiped out by mysterious forest creatures. The news was on everyone’s lips. We were in the throes of an epic showdown between good and evil. Messianic times, for sure.

Downstairs, I heard the sound of my mother’s voice, hurried, anxious. There would be time for exhilaration later. Now, she had to make certain that everyone would have enough food and clothing for the long journey to Eretz Yisroel, the Promised Land.

It was then that I heard it, a tread as light as a cat’s footfall. The rustling of cloth, the faintest of sighs. The end of my bed depressed, just a bit.

“Get off of my bed, Temma,” I said loudly. My sister liked to sneak in when she could. When I was little, I allowed her under the blankets with me,...