Bergenheim
Establishing Nation
Got nemt mit ain hant un git mit der andereh.
-Yiddish Phrase, "God takes with one hand, and gives with the other."
It was the wedding of the youngest of the Ben-Aharon daughters, the beautiful frizzy-haired Portia Ben-Aharon. Over a hundred of Bergenheim's most respected and wealthy jews had come, as the chairs were raised and they danced and laughed and drank wine beneath menorah-like chandeliers.
Ephraim Ben-Aharon was the Patriarch of Bergenheim's oldest Jewish family. The Ben-Aharons had come to the Republic five hundred years ago, fleeing some pogrom in a collapsing kingdom in the east, with nothing but the clothes on their back.
Now Ephraim was the latest in a long line of great mensch, who had taken this small family and grown it into an empire. Law, Medicine, Chemistry, Banking...and other businesses, too, all were in some way owned or ran by the Ben-Aharons.
Old Ephraim laughed and watched, his worn face liver-spotted, his hair grey and old. He had held on to his empire for seventy years now, and he meant to live at least another thirty more years, and beat his own Grandfather's record of life and power.
"Zeyde! Why don't you come dance with me!" Portia called, laughing. Ephraim scowled playfully. He didn't dance. Not since his beloved Rachel had passed. God had given her the crab, and now he feared the crab would get him someday soon.
"Ephraim doesn't dance. He just scowls and counts his money."
The Patriarch turned in his chair in surprise, to see the smiling, tanned face of his oldest friend and Trivodnian Cousin, Jacob Bialik.
"Ay-Yay-Yay! Jacob, you old Shvitz, have you come to steal all the Manishevitz? Or just cause a tummel as always?"
The two old men embraced, and drank each other's health. "I had thought you were still in that awful Shtetl of a country. I take it you got yourself out last? Saving the silver first as always eh?"
"You haven't changed one bit Ephraim. You think I could miss a gathering of the Mispocha?"
Ephraim scowled. "We don't use that word around here. Someone might misunderstand."
Jacob smirked. "I don't think anyone here is going to care, cousin. But business can wait, it has been years since we have seen each other. What happened to pretty Rachel? Did she divorce your sorry old heiny finally?"
Ephraim's face sank. "No. She...died." he shifted uncomfortably. "But life goes on. My last daughter is married. Soon even my oldest grandchildren will be having weddings."
"Oy Vey. My commiserations for your loss. Still...A Bi Gezunt, eh?"
Ephaim waved his cousin away. "Health fades in time. What matters is legacy. I am proud of my legacy, Bialik. I know why you are here, and my answer is no."
Jacob protested. "Cousin, I am simply here-"
"Save it. You think I am a fool? You mention the Mispocha, and you have the look of a sly Momzer on the prowl for another man's shekels. You want money for a war. Abroad, or here, I dont' care. A shlekhter sholem iz beser vi a guter krig."
Jacob stiffened, and his eyes glowered for a moment. But he had no desire to cause a scene. He simply said, softly. "So be it old man. I will give my gift to the bride, and dance a while with the girls, and leave when convenient."
"See that you do." he waved his old friend and cousin away. He had no time for schemes. He had everything he wanted. There was no reason to borrow trouble. Bialik could find another way to chase his foolish schemes, whatever they were.
He looked up once more, and decided he would dance with Portia, and damn his aching hips.
"Meshuggah! I don't believe it, Zeyde is dancing!"
They all laughed and clapped, and he saw the merriment reflected in his daughter's eyes. This. This was what life was all about, he thought. These moments, before HaShem took them away. Everything ended in the end, but untill then...you might as well dance.
Bialik watched from the sidelines, nursing his wine, and contemplated. The old man was too complacent. Things were going to have to change, sooner rather than later.
-Yiddish Phrase, "God takes with one hand, and gives with the other."
It was the wedding of the youngest of the Ben-Aharon daughters, the beautiful frizzy-haired Portia Ben-Aharon. Over a hundred of Bergenheim's most respected and wealthy jews had come, as the chairs were raised and they danced and laughed and drank wine beneath menorah-like chandeliers.
Ephraim Ben-Aharon was the Patriarch of Bergenheim's oldest Jewish family. The Ben-Aharons had come to the Republic five hundred years ago, fleeing some pogrom in a collapsing kingdom in the east, with nothing but the clothes on their back.
Now Ephraim was the latest in a long line of great mensch, who had taken this small family and grown it into an empire. Law, Medicine, Chemistry, Banking...and other businesses, too, all were in some way owned or ran by the Ben-Aharons.
Old Ephraim laughed and watched, his worn face liver-spotted, his hair grey and old. He had held on to his empire for seventy years now, and he meant to live at least another thirty more years, and beat his own Grandfather's record of life and power.
"Zeyde! Why don't you come dance with me!" Portia called, laughing. Ephraim scowled playfully. He didn't dance. Not since his beloved Rachel had passed. God had given her the crab, and now he feared the crab would get him someday soon.
"Ephraim doesn't dance. He just scowls and counts his money."
The Patriarch turned in his chair in surprise, to see the smiling, tanned face of his oldest friend and Trivodnian Cousin, Jacob Bialik.
"Ay-Yay-Yay! Jacob, you old Shvitz, have you come to steal all the Manishevitz? Or just cause a tummel as always?"
The two old men embraced, and drank each other's health. "I had thought you were still in that awful Shtetl of a country. I take it you got yourself out last? Saving the silver first as always eh?"
"You haven't changed one bit Ephraim. You think I could miss a gathering of the Mispocha?"
Ephraim scowled. "We don't use that word around here. Someone might misunderstand."
Jacob smirked. "I don't think anyone here is going to care, cousin. But business can wait, it has been years since we have seen each other. What happened to pretty Rachel? Did she divorce your sorry old heiny finally?"
Ephraim's face sank. "No. She...died." he shifted uncomfortably. "But life goes on. My last daughter is married. Soon even my oldest grandchildren will be having weddings."
"Oy Vey. My commiserations for your loss. Still...A Bi Gezunt, eh?"
Ephaim waved his cousin away. "Health fades in time. What matters is legacy. I am proud of my legacy, Bialik. I know why you are here, and my answer is no."
Jacob protested. "Cousin, I am simply here-"
"Save it. You think I am a fool? You mention the Mispocha, and you have the look of a sly Momzer on the prowl for another man's shekels. You want money for a war. Abroad, or here, I dont' care. A shlekhter sholem iz beser vi a guter krig."
Jacob stiffened, and his eyes glowered for a moment. But he had no desire to cause a scene. He simply said, softly. "So be it old man. I will give my gift to the bride, and dance a while with the girls, and leave when convenient."
"See that you do." he waved his old friend and cousin away. He had no time for schemes. He had everything he wanted. There was no reason to borrow trouble. Bialik could find another way to chase his foolish schemes, whatever they were.
He looked up once more, and decided he would dance with Portia, and damn his aching hips.
"Meshuggah! I don't believe it, Zeyde is dancing!"
They all laughed and clapped, and he saw the merriment reflected in his daughter's eyes. This. This was what life was all about, he thought. These moments, before HaShem took them away. Everything ended in the end, but untill then...you might as well dance.
Bialik watched from the sidelines, nursing his wine, and contemplated. The old man was too complacent. Things were going to have to change, sooner rather than later.