SPN AU: Havdalah
It was the Saturday evening service when the men in the black suits showed up, too nicely dressed for Havdalah services at the tiny Reform synagogue in the Northwest suburbs of Chicago. Which was perhaps the best time--only a few congregants attended, and it was after Shabbos, so the rabbi could do work. Like, apparently, translate the leather-bound book they brought with them.
Davida was there when they approached Rabbi Rosenberg after the service. Her mother was cleaning up after the oneg--the little post-service dessert that was laid out to get blood sugar back up after the 'Jewish aerobics', and her only use was to help her father with the wine glass and braided Havdalah candle.
She recognized the look on her father's face when he said he'd translate for those black-suited goyim; he'd given her the same look many times when she'd lied to him about schoolwork. But they couldn't read him, past the bushy grey beard and black-rimmed glasses. They didn't know he was onto him. They gave him the book and said they'd be back in a week.
True to their word, Havdalah brought them again, this time before the service ended. She could almost feel the air thicken and grow metallic when they walked in the door. But her father soldiered on, passing around the antique spice box, dousing the candle flame in the wine. Marking the beginning of a new week. Davida sat toward the back, watching and waiting for the men to approach her father. She knew he didn't plan to return the book, and in the week since their last visit, she had learned why: the book was a copy of the Mafteah Shelomo, the Key of Solomon. A medieval grimoire used in the binding of spirits.
Of course, their reaction to being told 'no' was stronger than the rabbi had anticipated. One of them literally stuck a hand through his chest, ribs cracking audibly, and pulled his heart out. He dropped, dead before he hit the ground.
And that's when Davida took off running. Her father had told her to protect the book at all costs, and that's what she was determined to do, though she had little-to-no clue how to do it. All she had, as she climbed into her car and sped out of the synagogue parking lot, was what was in her deep blue '99 Ford Escort: her laptop, two changes of clothes, and the remains of her bat mitzvah money, which her father had told her to pull from the bank.
By the time she was across town, she heard sirens heading toward the synagogue. And it wasn't until Sunday afternoon, across the state border, that she felt comfortable stopping.
Davida was there when they approached Rabbi Rosenberg after the service. Her mother was cleaning up after the oneg--the little post-service dessert that was laid out to get blood sugar back up after the 'Jewish aerobics', and her only use was to help her father with the wine glass and braided Havdalah candle.
She recognized the look on her father's face when he said he'd translate for those black-suited goyim; he'd given her the same look many times when she'd lied to him about schoolwork. But they couldn't read him, past the bushy grey beard and black-rimmed glasses. They didn't know he was onto him. They gave him the book and said they'd be back in a week.
True to their word, Havdalah brought them again, this time before the service ended. She could almost feel the air thicken and grow metallic when they walked in the door. But her father soldiered on, passing around the antique spice box, dousing the candle flame in the wine. Marking the beginning of a new week. Davida sat toward the back, watching and waiting for the men to approach her father. She knew he didn't plan to return the book, and in the week since their last visit, she had learned why: the book was a copy of the Mafteah Shelomo, the Key of Solomon. A medieval grimoire used in the binding of spirits.
Of course, their reaction to being told 'no' was stronger than the rabbi had anticipated. One of them literally stuck a hand through his chest, ribs cracking audibly, and pulled his heart out. He dropped, dead before he hit the ground.
And that's when Davida took off running. Her father had told her to protect the book at all costs, and that's what she was determined to do, though she had little-to-no clue how to do it. All she had, as she climbed into her car and sped out of the synagogue parking lot, was what was in her deep blue '99 Ford Escort: her laptop, two changes of clothes, and the remains of her bat mitzvah money, which her father had told her to pull from the bank.
By the time she was across town, she heard sirens heading toward the synagogue. And it wasn't until Sunday afternoon, across the state border, that she felt comfortable stopping.