Flash Fiction: Beware the Wolf

Originally written for A Very Bookish Celebration, a flash fiction anthology that is no longer available. Each story had to tie in with a holiday and a classic tale. A unique challenge for sure! This is a story about the Jewish holiday Purim and pulls in the biblical book of Esther.

Beware the Wolf

Poland, 1942

Shivers crawled over Riva Beniamin’s skin as Mama placed the covered basket in her hands.

“If anyone stops you, remember, these are just pastries for a friend.” Mama bent her knees so she could gaze into Riva’s eyes. “If they know about Purim, they’ll know you’re just delivering shalach manos. It’s normal. At least not unheard of, even in these times.” Mama’s lips rose in a little smile, and her fingers brushed Riva’s cheek. “You’re a brave girl, resourceful, smart. You’ll have no trouble. It’s just like bringing shalach manos to our friends before the war.”

Riva nodded. “Yes, Mama.” Being eleven, she usually felt very grown-up. So why, when she had such an important task, did she suddenly feel so young, so incapable, as if the only thing she could do was bury her face in Mama’s skirt?

“Remember, tell Pani Danzon only that the hamantaschen are filled with poppy seed,” Mama whispered. “She’ll know what that means.”

Riva nodded again, a firm nod that tried to shore up her courage. “Poppy seed” meant that hidden in one of these hamantaschen, beneath the dark fruit filling and the dough wrapped around it, was a coded message that would save the Danzon family’s lives.

Mama smiled one more time and straightened before enfolding Riva in a hug. “And, Riva, remember it’s Purim today. Remember Queen Esther.”

Mama meant it was impossible for Riva to fail, on such a day of heroism, with such a heroine to inspire her. Queen Esther risked her life to save her people, the Jews, when their lives teetered on the edge of a knife. How could any Jew do less, even for just one fellow Jew?

Yet as Riva stepped outside the door with her threadbare gray coat buttoned against the early March cold, she understood why some Jews gave in to cowardice—mistreating or betraying their people, siding with the enemy who sought to destroy them. Life was so very dear. Risking it as Esther did and as Riva was doing now meant putting other lives above your own, when all you wanted to do was keep yours safe.

But as Esther—and Riva—realized, some things were worth more than life.

Riva gripped the basket handle with all her fingers as she walked down the side of the cobbled street. Ragged three-story houses loomed over her, and all she saw of the sky was patchy gray clouds streaming over a watery blue. A biting wind slithered through the street, funneled by the buildings. The basket was comfortably heavy, filled with plump, triangular hamantaschen tucked beneath a cheerful red handkerchief.

Surely no one would guess that the basket contained an act of rebellion that could get Riva killed if seen by the wrong eyes.

She didn’t know exactly what the note said—it was best that way—just that it warned the Danzons they were to be arrested and should go to a set place at a set time to be spirited out of the city. Riva’s role was small but crucial. It gave her a sliver of relief to realize that if she were caught before she reached the Danzons, just she would be in trouble. The Danzons’ names weren’t written down, and they had a few more days to be rescued through other means.

Riva was the only one in her family who could deliver the message to the Danzons. David was too young at six years old, and Mama and Papa were too old, since shalach manos were traditionally delivered by a child. Even if they didn’t worry about the tradition, a child would be safer—draw less attention, seem less suspicious.

What are the chances that a soldier or informer would stop me, let alone search my basket, let alone find the note inside a pastry? Impossible! Riva assured herself as she hurried along.

She wanted to return to her family, the task completed, the thrill of success thrumming in her veins instead of this cold fear. She wanted to dress up in her homemade princess costume for their little Purim party that evening, enjoying their own baked treats. She wanted to celebrate and remember the victory God gave His people over two thousand years ago. She wanted to live through the day and come home safe. Please, God, let me accomplish my task.

As Riva rounded corners and followed crooked blocks along the familiar path to the Danzons’, her favorite lines from the megillah, the scroll of Esther they would read that night, whispered in her mind. She heard Mordecai’s words to his cousin, Do not think that you will escape in the king’s house more than all the Jews. For if you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance will arise for the Jews from another place, but you and your father’s house will perish. Who knows whether you have come to the kingdom for such a time as this? She heard Esther’s reply, I will go in to the king, even though it is against the law. And if I perish, I perish.

For such a time as this. If I perish, I perish. Riva drank the words and felt her soul’s thirst satisfied. This was an honor, risking her life for fellow Jews. She was doing God’s work.

Still alert for danger, Riva arrived at the Danzons’ apartment building a few minutes later. She entered through the creaky door, climbed dark, rickety stairs, and followed the hallway to the Danzons’ door. She knocked softly, so tense that she couldn’t manage more than that.

“Who is it?” came a muffled voice.

“It’s Riva with shalach manos.”

The door cracked open, and Pani Danzon’s face peeked through. “Shalom, Riva. Chag Purim sameach.” Her voice was still questioning.

Riva held out her basket. “The hamantaschen are filled with poppy seed.”

The woman blinked. “Oh. Oh!” She opened the door all the way and grasped the basket. “Thank you! God bless you, Riva.”

“May He bless you, too.” Riva nodded as she backed away. “Chag Purim sameach.”

The door closed as Riva ran down the hallway. She slowed at the staircase. It wouldn’t do to stumble, even though her heart floated so lightly that falling seemed impossible. She had done it. She had imitated Queen Esther, in her own small way. Baruch Hashem!

Glossary

Shalach manos – Sending of portions (Yiddish/Hebrew). The proper Hebrew term is mishloach manot.

Pani – Mrs. (Polish)

Hamantaschen – Haman’s pockets (Yiddish). These pastries are triangular to mimic Haman’s hat or his pockets. Eating these at Purim symbolizes the defeat of the Jews’ enemies.

Megillah – Scroll (Hebrew)

Chag Purim sameach – Happy Purim (Hebrew)

Baruch Hashem – Blessed be the Lord (Hebrew)

Flash Fiction: It Starts with Soda Bread

Originally written for A Very Bookish Celebration, a flash fiction anthology that is no longer available. Each story had to tie in with a holiday and a classic tale. A unique challenge for sure! This is a story about St. Patrick's Day and pulls in Robert Louis Stevenson's novel Kidnapped.

It Starts with Soda Bread

“Aidan! No green? How could you? This is a St. Patrick’s Day party!” Deirdre stood at her open apartment door, hands on hips.

Before his cousin could reach out and pinch him, which she was known to do, Aidan held up his left hand, brandishing his green wristband with white shamrocks. “No, wait!”

“Pushing your luck with me, aren’t you.” Deirdre laughed. In contrast, she wore a short green dress with black tights, an outfit from when she’d done Riverdance in high school. It was the perfect foil for her copper-colored hair. “Well, come on in.”

Aidan entered the small living room, serenaded by lilting Celtic music and the aroma of freshly baked Irish soda bread—their grandmother’s recipe, Deirdre had promised when she’d invited him. It was the soda bread that had brought Aidan more than anything else.

“Thanks for coming,” Deirdre said. “My parents are on their way, and so are yours, but they’re all running late. We have a half hour to kill.”

“Do I get the first slice of soda bread?” Aidan asked.

“Yes, you earned it. But we’ll wait on the sugar cookies. I used Grandma’s shamrock cookie cutter and iced them with green icing. Come look at the table.”

“It’s really cool you took over Grandma’s St. Patrick’s Day traditions,” Aidan said as he followed Deirdre into the dining nook. The table was clothed in green, and a giant platter of cookies and a huge mounded loaf of sliced soda bread with raisins took center stage.

“I can’t believe this is the first time we’re celebrating without her.” Deirdre’s voice was subdued as she placed a slice of bread on a shamrock-printed paper plate. “Let me get the butter.”

Soon, the cousins were perched on the couch savoring the soda bread. “She was the most Irish Irish person I knew,” Deirdre remarked with a smile. “Remember how much she loved green?”

“Even her car was green.” The slightest note of bitterness tinged Aidan’s words.

Deirdre glanced at him, brown eyes filled with concern. “Oh, Aidan, you haven’t gotten over that?”

Aidan swallowed his mouthful. “Remember my favorite book, Kidnapped? I feel kind of like David Balfour when his uncle betrayed him and had him kidnapped by the sea captain so he wouldn’t get his inheritance. Uncle Brad as much as promised me Grandma’s car, knowing how much I needed one and how awesome it’d be for me to have hers. He was going to give me a deal on it. He should have just given it to me. But by the time I’d saved enough to buy it, he sold it to someone else.”

Deirdre looked down and nodded. “I remember how hurt you were.”

“Just because he’s the oldest sibling doesn’t mean he could take whatever was of value.” Aidan smacked his plate down onto the coffee table, the bread almost flying off. “Our moms got virtually nothing, just what Grandma specifically willed to them.”

“He hurt all of us,” Deirdre said quietly. “But we need to forgive him.”

“He doesn’t deserve our forgiveness,” Aidan growled, staring at the table.

Deirdre slid her plate with its half-eaten slice of bread onto the table next to Aidan’s. She inhaled deeply. “That’s what forgiveness is—people don’t deserve it. That’s the whole point.” She waved at the painting of Saint Patrick that she’d hung on the wall for the party. “Do you know the story of Saint Patrick? Grandma loved it. He wasn’t even Irish, and hardly anything about this day relates to the actual Saint Patrick.” She touched her Celtic cross necklace.

“He was kidnapped, too, wasn’t he, like David Balfour?” Aidan asked, his brow still furrowed in anger.

“Yes, by Irish pirates when he was sixteen and sold as a slave in Ireland, way back in the fifth century. He eventually escaped and returned to Britain, but then he found God and felt called to go back to Ireland as a missionary. He confronted Druids and lit a miraculous fire to defy a king and did lots of other amazing things while spreading Christianity. God used him in a mighty way. But none of it would have happened if Patrick hadn’t forgiven his oppressors and shown them love by returning and preaching the gospel to them.”

Aidan brushed away the strands of brown hair that had fallen into his eyes, but he didn’t meet Deirdre’s gaze.

“To me, that’s what Saint Patrick’s Day is about,” Deirdre continued softly. “He was a Christlike man teaching lessons for us even today, far beyond the shamrocks and the color green and ‘Danny Boy.’”

“Did you invite Uncle Brad to this party?” Aidan asked after a moment.

“Yes, but I don’t think he’s coming.” Deirdre sighed. “Which is for the best. I don’t know if our moms are ready to forgive him, either, for how he’s acted after Grandma passed away. But I hope we all do, one day soon. Uncle Brad needs us more than he realizes.”

“I guess that is what God wants us to do,” Aidan said after yet another long pause.

“Saint Patrick obeyed that commandment of forgiving his enemies, and look what happened.” Deirdre fingered the flowing hem of her dress. “I think Uncle Brad needs God, too, and if we’d all start talking to him again and showing him love, he might have a better chance of finding God.”

Aidan had no time to reply before both sets of parents arrived. The party was a great success; though slightly sobered by Grandma’s absence, they all enjoyed themselves. Aidan, the last to leave, helped Deirdre clean up.

He quietly exhaled as he put plastic wrap over the soda bread slices. “Uncle Brad would have liked this party. Maybe we should take the leftovers to him. You know it kills me to say that because I usually took Grandma’s leftover soda bread and cookies home.”

Deirdre laughed and patted his shoulder. “Aidan, that is definitely a start. Who knows where it could lead.”