There were a dozen people in the mess hall, and all of them looked up as she entered. Some raised their water glasses defiantly, showing off their disdain for the day-long fast, but others quickly dropped their gaze. There was no tea that morning or fresh salad, nor would there be any regular meals, but because children and the sick are exempt from the rules of self-denial, platters of fruit and cheese and baskets of bread had been set out, covered with dish towels to keep off the flies.
Tedi was surprised to find Zorah there. She was sitting alone, staring at an apple on the table in front of her.
“Can I join you?” she asked, waiting for permission to sit down. They had barely spoken since Rosh Hashanah, when Zorah had shown her such kindness.
“Suit yourself,” Zorah said. “Where is your breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry, not yet anyway. I never really fasted on Yom Kippur. In my family, we—”
A boy stuck his head through the door and announced, “The Poles are starting Musaf.”
“What is that?” Tedi asked.
“It’s an extra servic
e after morning prayers,” Zorah said.
“Aren’t you going?”
Zorah felt the call to prayer in her body. Her feet twitched and her heart raced, but she had no intention of giving in to the urge. “Why should I go?” she said, as if she’d been insulted.
“You seem to know so much about such things, the prayers, the Bible, the commentaries, even. Some of the girls call you ‘the little rabbi.’” Tedi thought the name suited her, given that Zorah had begun to smell like a book—an oddly comforting combination of paste and ink and dust.
“That’s no compliment if you consider the maniacs and lost souls who care about such things around here. Later, I’m going to have a big lunch with the Communists. Just watch me.”
“I meant no harm,” Tedi said softly.
“Ach,” Zorah relented. “Don’t listen to me. I need a smoke, that’s all.”
Tedi and Zorah sat at the table for an hour, watching as people wandered in and out. Only mothers with children walked through the doors without embarrassment or apology, urging their little ones to eat and taking sips of water when they thought no one was looking.
Zorah said, “I’m going to get some air.” She left the apple untouched and wandered the perimeter of the camp, trying to avoid the chanting and muttering and bursts of song. But as the day wore on, boredom and curiosity got the better of her, so as the afternoon services began, Zorah went for a tour of the four separate observances.
The largest was held by the Poles in the promenade between the men’s and women’s barracks. Anschel, the religious zealot, was gone, and a rabbi had been imported for the service—a robust old man with a short gray beard; he wore a long white robe, the ceremonial garb of grooms, corpses, and Yom Kippur supplicants.
The Hungarians met behind one of the men’s barracks, and the handful of Romanians who chose to pray fit beneath the overhang in front of Delousing.
The Communists and Socialist Zionists got together in the shade behind the mess hall, where they argued about whether to say any prayers at all. They agreed that formal worship was a waste of time and a distraction; still, a few of their number wanted to do “something.” Finally, a short Russian with the loudest voice declared, “Enough. We can recite some words strictly out of solidarity, to honor the dead and the traditions of the dead. We say the words, we remember, and then we get drunk and have a good cry.”
His friends brought that phrase into the dining room, repeating it to each other as they filled their plates and debated about how long it would take before religion withered entirely in the new Jewish state.
Zorah walked through and sat down beside Tedi, who had not moved all day.
Lillian was there, too, nibbling at apple slices. “My people were never religious fanatics,” she said, in a voice meant for everyone in the hall. “My grandmother used to bake special butter cookies that she served only at tea on Yom Kippur. Her friends from the neighborhood would come to the house. ‘Enough already,’ she used to say to them. ‘We are civilized people, after all.’ ”
“I wish she would shut up,” Tedi whispered to Zorah.
“That will not happen until they wrap her in a shroud,” Zorah said. She pointed at a boy sitting across the room. “What’s going on with him, the one they brought in yesterday?”
The skinny ten-year-old had a full mouth, a piece of bread in one hand and a half-eaten pear in the other. He was sweating and swaying in his seat.
“He’s been eating like that all day,” said Tedi.
“Someone should stop him,” Zorah said, but it was too late. He fell to his knees and started vomiting on the floor.
Zorah shook her head. “I saw someone die from eating like that. It was the day the British liberated the camp.”
The smell hit Tedi hard. But as much as she wanted to run outside, she felt obliged to stay and listen to Zorah.