Mara's Stories: Glimmers in the Darkness

Mara's Stories: Glimmers in the Darkness

by Gary D. Schmidt
Mara's Stories: Glimmers in the Darkness

Mara's Stories: Glimmers in the Darkness

by Gary D. Schmidt

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Overview

A testament to the power of stories, and how they may bring hope even in times of darkness.

"Everyone gathers around, and from her lips to their ears the stories go, and for a little while the camp disappears, and for a little while they are all free."

As night falls, the women gather their children to listen to Mara tell her stories. They are stories of light and hope and freedom, stories of despair and stories of miracles, stories of expected pain and stories of unexpected joy--all told in the darkness of the concentration camp barracks.

Through extensive research noted in the back of the book, Gary Schmidt has skillfully woven together stories from such sources as the Jewish religious scholar, Martin Buber, Holocaust survivor, Elie Wiesel; and folklorists, Steve Zeitlin and Yaffa Eliach.

Combining lore of the past with tales born in the concentration camps, Mara's stories speak to us from a time that must never be forgotten.


Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781429940818
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co. (BYR)
Publication date: 03/04/2008
Sold by: Macmillan
Format: eBook
Pages: 112
File size: 225 KB
Age Range: 10 - 14 Years

About the Author

Gary Schmidt is the author of several historical novels and retellings for young people, as well as academic books on children's literature and folklore. A college professor, he teaches courses on Chaucer, the Middle Ages, and hildren's and young adult literature. Gary, his wife, and their six children live on a farm in Alto, Michigan.


Gary D. Schmidt is a professor of English at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan. He received both a Newbery Honor and a Printz Honor for Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy and a Newbery Honor for The Wednesday Wars. He lives with his family on a 150-year-old farm in Alto, Michigan, where he splits wood, plants gardens, writes, and feeds the wild cats that drop by.

Read an Excerpt

Mara's Stories

Glimmers in the Darkness


By Gary Schmidt

Henry Holt and Company

Copyright © 2001 Gary Schmidt
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-4081-8



CHAPTER 1

Stories in the Darkness


Night.

It always seems to be night in the camps — or at least it always seems to be dark.

Somewhere the sun must come up every morning. Somewhere there is more than only dust and clouds and ashes. There must be some place, there must be some place that is warm and bright and green.

But not here. Not in this death camp. Not here.

Here is always cold. Here is always fear and pain. Here is always hunger. Here is always waiting for ... for what?

Night.

But there is one moment every day in one of the barracks when the dark and the cold seem to pull away and be forgotten. It is in Mara's barracks, which is a barracks just like any other except that this one holds Mara. At night, hungry and trying not to look at the empty places where friends slept just a night or two before, the women come back and gather their children around them. They hold them and share their food. They smile to hide their soul terror.

And then they come to Mara's bunk.

Mara is waiting for them all. No matter what new wound bleeds through her shirt, she is waiting. No matter what new bruise is swelling, she is waiting. She is waiting with the light and the warmth of stories. Everyone gathers around, and from her lips to their ears the stories go, and for a little while the camp disappears, and for a little while they are all free.

Each evening it is the same. Mara reaches out and takes a child onto her lap — a different little one each night. "When my father the Rabbi would sit us around him and tell a story," she begins, "he would ask God to listen as well. 'God,' he would say, 'make me a teller of stories, because all stories are Yours. And if You would lend me one now, I will tell it and then give it back to You.'" She lifts her hands to heaven when she speaks.

And everyone in the barracks is still, so still. And the story comes to Mara as though God Himself were giving it. Mara smiles. She nods. And then she tells it.

Many of the stories are of long ago, in the days of the great rabbis whose lives were lives of light. But in this barracks there is no long ago. There is only now. It seems as if there has always only been now. And so the tales even of long ago and far away become tales of now and here, as if they had just happened. As if they are happening even now.

Sometimes Mara's stories are sad, and the dark lines below her eyes darken, and the hollows of her cheeks fall even farther in. Sometimes the stories are too terrible to speak, and she tells them very softly, in a voice that is hardly a whisper, slivers of sound. Sometimes the stories are lonesome, and as she tells them, her eyes fill for those whom she misses, whom they all miss. And sometimes, sometimes the stories are funny, and Mara laughs out loud, and her cheeks hint at a long-lost glow.

Night after night, night after night the stories push back the darkness and the cold. Those who listen carry them through the next day, and often the thought of the next night's story is all that keeps the women from stepping across the dead-lines that rim the camp.

And the children?

The children listen. The children listen and understand.


The Violinist and the Master

In a camp in Poland, there was once a young violinist named Salek. He had been in the camp for two years, and in all that time he had never ceased practicing his music. He had no violin and he had no bow, but he practiced nonetheless. In the long hours of pain and boredom, he dangled his legs over the edge of the platform, held his chin just so and his hands out, and fingered through Schumann, and Brahms, and Mozart.

And he heard the music in the air. Even though no one else around him could hear it, he did.

Then one night, half of those in his barracks were marched away. Awakened from sleep, they were marched away and could take nothing with them.

That night, Salek played silently into the darkness, trying to fill it with music.

In the morning, a new group of souls was marched into the barracks, and rifle butts forced them four, five, six abreast onto the wooden slats that would be their bunks. And across from Salek on the upper platform, unbelievably, was the Master Violinist he had heard in Prague. It couldn't be, but it was. The Master.

With the shouting and the calling and the crying, Salek could not speak to him. Perhaps the Master would not have answered anyway. He looked as though he were at the rim of the Sheol.

Salek stared across at him. How often had he listened to this man's music! How often had his soul breathed on every tone that shimmered, or danced, or thundered, or struck from his strings! Salek knew that in his best moments, in his very best moments, he could never make the music that this Master made. But the knowledge had not brought despair to him, only wonder at the gifts of God. That God had touched this man so that he could make music — no, not make — breathe music like the living breath of God! Salek shook his head at the thought.

The next night, Salek sat on the edge of his platform and called across. "Master!" He had to whisper so that the kapos outside would not hear him. But the Master did not stir. "Master," Salek called again. "Master!"

Nothing.

Salek dared not risk any more calls.

The next night, he tried again, but the head of the Master was drooped even lower than it had been the first night. "Master!" Salek called. The Master did not answer.

The third night, Salek did not call. He dangled his legs over the edge of the platform, held his chin just so and his hands out. And he began to play. With his bow of air he drew through a long and trembling adagio from Schumann, then spurted to a quick rondo from Brahms. His eyes closed with the beauty of the music. And when he opened them again, finishing with a short, quick presto from Mozart, the Master was looking at him.

He had heard. He had heard the music.

The next night, the Master and Salek sat across from each other. They dangled their legs over the edge of the platform, held their chins just so and their hands out, and played a Corelli duet. The Master tapped the air with his foot for the rhythm, and Salek took the second line. The music from the two of them interlaced like two rosy vines until they reached a perfect bloom of a note that they held and held — a little longer than Corelli might have wished, but neither Salek nor the Master wanted the duet to end.

And those around them heard. They heard the music too.

After that night, and for many, many nights afterward, the Master and Salek played the Corelli duet, their bows waving in thin air, just thin air. But the music that came from that air! All those in the barracks held their breath with the astonishment of it. They all closed their eyes to the wonder of it. Their hearts forgot to beat with the joy of it.

And always Salek heard the Master's line louder and sweeter, the line of a musician touched by God.

One night, the guards burst into the barracks, bristling with flashlights and bayoneted rifles. The glare their lights threw down on the prisoners was like the glare of hell. One by one the guards called the numbers, and the prisoners looked at their tattooed arms to see if theirs was the one called. The barracks filled with silent weeping, as the dreadful march of numbers drummed on and on.

And when the last number was called, Salek looked across at the Master and saw that it was his. It was his.

With a sigh, the Master looked to heaven and then began to climb down from his platform. But Salek was quicker. He slid down first and stood beneath the Master, looking at the hands that had held themselves just so to make such music.

"Stay," he whispered. "Stay for the music. Stay for its joy."

The Master's eyes widened, but he shook his head.

"Hold him," said Salek, and though the Master struggled, hands grabbed him and pinned him to his bunk. Salek walked out of the barracks and into the cold night, his soul rising to heaven — if not higher.


Someday, the camp will be liberated. And the Master will survive.

He will live for many years afterward, and give many concerts. His music will breathe joy. His music will speak of hope and love and spring and summer, of children and home and peace — of all the good and joyful things in this old and tired world.

And in all his concerts, he will end by playing a single line from the Corelli duet, a single lonely line that nevertheless will thrill with the sounds of happiness. And he will always weep, my children. He will always weep.

From joy, his audiences will think. From joy.


Fear and Faith in a Bloodied Earth


It happens on some nights that Mara remembers her home, and though the days when she was a girl seem as if they must be part of another lifetime, she closes her eyes and suddenly is at the seder table. Its silver lamp, lit with seven white candlesticks, glows on the tablecloth that her mother has pressed to a linen crispness. She smells red wine, cinnamon, sweet wax, and the slightly bookish scent of the Rabbi, her father. He stands and begins the prayers — she can hear them still — and Mara feels the Divine Presence softly brush a hand across her cheek.

Afterward she sits by her father, and he tells her stories of the great Hasidim and their wonderful doings. Stories of the mysteries they understood, of the miracles they held in the palms of their hands, of the awful heavenly burdens that turned their feet to dancing and their lips to song.

On such nights, as the stories of the Hasidim fill her, Mara tells stories about the years before the camps, and of those who escaped — and those who did not.


The Dark of the Earth

Many, many years ago, it happened that Zusia and Elimelekh, two brother rabbis who had lived poor and bitter lives in exile, decided to come back to Poland to spread the mysteries of the Hasidim. For three years, no one had heard from them; some even thought that they might have died. So when Zusia and Elimelekh returned, their family and neighbors rejoiced.

But they were not what they had been.

Zusia brought with him God's glorious ecstasy, and those who saw him marveled at the terrible love he showed. Elimelekh brought with him God's fearful sadness, and those who saw him marveled at the holy grief he inspired. They walked from town to town, spreading the love and grief of God. And wherever they came, they left behind them a town that was forever changed. Forever closer to God.

One night, they arrived in a small village a day's walk from Kraków. Though it was cold, the long streaks of yellow light thrown onto the road from the windows made the town look warm. When they came to the center of the village, they looked up and down the road. Since no one knew that they were coming, no one was out to greet them, and Zusia and Elimelekh decided that they would find a poor house to stay in.

It was like so many villages where they had stayed before: A row of houses, some shabby, some straight and well lit against the night. A row of front yards hemmed with rough fences beside the main road, some leaning crazily and held up by only a worn rope. They heard the lowing of a cow, a late milker, and the last cackling of some geese just settling down. A goat complained about her lot. It was all the same.

And yet it was not all the same.

A deep darkness in the earth clung at their feet as they walked. They could feel it pulling at their boots, as though it had seeped into the ground like blood and now waited, a living sodden death. In the gathering darkness of night, they could almost smell it.

The brothers left. Quickly, silently, without saying anything to each other or to anyone else in the village, they left. They did not even pray the prayer of blessing.

At the crossroads, they passed the rough plank that announced the town's name: O wi cim. In the German: Auschwitz.


A Globe

In the days when it was becoming impossible for a Jew to live as a Jew in Germany, Rabbi Weizmann took his son, Chaim, his only son, and together they walked hand-in-hand to the Ministry of Travel in Berlin. They waited for most of a day on a line that never seemed to move. But Chaim was patient and waited quietly. He knew that his father was nervous, and he did not want to upset him with even the smallest fidgeting.

When they finally reached the window of the clerk, he stared above their heads and yawned. He turned a small globe on the counter with his fingers. "Yes?" he asked. He looked at his watch.

"Sir," said Reb Weizmann, "my son and I are here to request passports. We would like to travel to Chicago, America."

"America is not taking Jews," said the clerk, and yawned again.

Reb Weizmann was stunned. "What does this mean, 'America is not taking Jews'?"

"It means that America is not taking Jews. You cannot go to Chicago, America. You cannot go to New York, America. You cannot go to anywhere, America."

"Then we will go to Paris, France."

The clerk shook his head. "France is not taking Jews."

"Rome, Italy?"

"Italy is not taking Jews."

"Portugal?"

The clerk shook his head again.

Behind him, Reb Weizmann could feel those waiting in line growing restless. He reached out to the clerk's spinning globe and stopped it with a finger. "Are they taking Jews here?" he asked, pointing to a country.

"No."

"Then here? Or here? Or here?"

But the clerk only shook his head.

As Chaim looked up, he saw a tear form in his father's eye and his father's face begin to tremble. Slowly, slowly Chaim reached out and took his father's hand. He held it tight, then turned to the clerk.

"Please, sir," said Chaim, "you should have another globe?"


The Spilled Soup

Once in the town of Lizensk, the Rabbi sat down with his disciples for the sabbath meal. Except for the Rabbi, they were all terribly fearful of the new laws that had been announced in their district. There would be new taxes upon them, greater by far than any they had yet seen. They could not go to a movie theater or to the public library. Their children could not go to the state school. They could not appear on the beaches or at the resorts — and even had they wished to appear, they could not go there, since they were not allowed on the trains or buses.

But now there was word of a new law that would be the most terrible yet. And no one knew what it might be.

So the disciples gathered and waited to hear what new part of their lives would be destroyed.

Slowly the Rabbi began to fill a bowl of soup for Mendel, the first disciple. Mendel watched him carefully, and when the Rabbi spilled some on the table, Mendel quickly wiped it up. He looked fearfully at his master, but the Rabbi did not look at him. He filled the second bowl, and again spilled some of the soup. And so with the third and the fourth. The disciples watched in wonder as he spilled some from each of the bowls in turn. Mendel's eyes were wide.

Finally the Rabbi filled his own bowl, and with a start, he tipped it over. All the soup spilled upon the table and dripped to the floor.

"Rabbi!" shouted Mendel. "What are you doing? You will have us all arrested!"

The other disciples looked at Mendel in astonishment. "Arrested?" they asked each other. "Arrested for spilling soup?"

But the Rabbi only smiled. "Do not worry," he said to Mendel. "Now for a time we are safe."

At that moment, in faraway Berlin, Adolf Hitler pushed aside some papers in disgust. Time and time again he had tried to sign them, but a breeze had wafted them to the floor, or a telephone call had interrupted, or a dog had barked, or an aide had called. And now he had spilled ink all over the new edict. He swore loudly. The edict would have to wait.

And so, because of the Rabbi's spilled soup, the Jewish families in Lizensk were safe for a little longer.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Mara's Stories by Gary Schmidt. Copyright © 2001 Gary Schmidt. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

Contents

Title Page,
Stories in the Darkness,
The Violinist and the Master,
Fear and Faith in a Bloodied Earth,
The Dark of the Earth,
A Globe,
The Spilled Soup,
Voices Rising like Light,
The Reply,
The Pretzel Bakers,
A Calf Is a Calf,
The Unexpected Treasure,
Living and Dancing,
The Dance,
From the Stones,
Questions Angels Fear to Ask,
The Three Men,
Which Shoebox?,
Shards,
God in Court,
The Tsaddik, One Righteous Soul,
A Bleak Hope,
The "Good Morning",
The Wonder,
The Rod,
Miracles covered with Ashes,
Keep Tight Hold,
The Miracle,
The Promise of the Talis Koten,
"Make Yourselves Ready",
Remember!,
Notes to the Stories,
The Violinist and the Master,
The Dark of the Earth,
A Globe,
The Spilled Soup,
The Reply,
The Pretzel Bakers,
A Calf Is a Calf,
The Unexpected Treasure,
The Dance,
From the Stones,
The Three Men,
Which Shoebox?,
Shards,
God in Court,
The Tsaddik, One Righteous Soul,
The "Good Morning",
The Wonder,
The Rod,
Keep Tight Hold,
The Miracle,
The Promise of the Talis Koten,
Remember!,
Author's Note,
GOFISH - QUESTIONS FOR THE AUTHOR,
Copyright Page,

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