Eve and Adam– First Two Chapters

1.
The guard dogs picked up the scent of approaching danger. They searched the area, ears vertical, teeth bared, a low growl rising up from deep in their throats.
The menace snaked up the dirt path leading to the gate, indifferent to the dogs. A thin line of dawn stretched over the hills of the Galilee and illuminated the two men—well-seated in their saddles, rifles cradled in their ready arms.
The barking shook Moniya Abramov out of his sleep. He listened in silence, straining to sift the sounds of the intruders’ identity from the cacophony outside his door. Although unable to isolate any solid hints, he recognized the peril in his dogs’ throats.
Arabs are raiding the house, he thought. In those days, Arab marauders, attempting to stem the tide of Jewish settlement, frequently preyed on distant Jewish villages and farms. They robbed and murdered, burning homes, silos, and barns. Fear filled the hearts of many Jews during the stormy, uncertain days of 1938. The dread kept Moniya Abramov perpetually on edge: ever since the marauding began he had slept in his clothes, his boots on his feet.
He got out of bed and peeked out the window. What he saw might have calmed him: There were only two riders; their faces were pale, their heads unadorned with a kaffiyeh or abayeh. But Moniya Abramov was not pacified by their distinctly Western appearance. The second possibility was equally dreadful. He guessed the identity of the two riders and feared them as much as the bands of marauders. His hands, rough and rounded, grabbed the loaded rifle by his bed, his finger finding the crescent trigger.
He lived in a small brick house, on his own land, in the upper Galilee. He could hear the sweet tumble of the Jordan River as it spilled into the Hula Valley. At twenty-eight years old, he was tall, wide-shouldered, and weathered. His hair was tightly curled and his eyes cold. The riders, he saw from his perch at the window, stopped at the wooden gate. One of the men barked out his name. Moniya did not recognize his voice, but knew who had sent him and the reason for his early-morning arrival.
They waited for a reply. When none came, one of the riders ripped the lock from its hinges with the stock of his rifle. It swung open, releasing the coiled pack of dogs. The two men loaded their rifles and leveled them at the angry mutts, but Moniya issued the first shot. He shattered the stock of the first rider’s rifle, forcing the second man to grab hold of the reins rather than squeezing the trigger. The dogs froze in their tracks, terrified by the crack of the gun. The riders dropped to the ground, took cover behind the stone trough, and started firing wildly at the house.
The exchange of fire continued unabated for several long minutes. The bullets shattered the glass windows and tore through the cheap brick walls. One of the bullets sliced through the only family photo left behind by Moniya’s parents. The clay jars above the charcoal cooking stove shattered.
Moniya was miserly with his ammunition. It was expensive and in his state of affairs he could not afford enough bullets for an extended battle. He pulled the trigger only when certain he would hit his mark. Sighting one of the riders as he rose up from behind the trough, Moniya put a bullet into the thick muscles of his shoulder. The barking dogs and squawking birds muffled the man’s shriek. The second rider continued to fire for another hour, but, certain that this battle could not be won, he dragged his injured friend to the gate, hoisted him into his saddle, and traced his steps back down the dirt road, slowly disappearing from view.
Moniya scanned the extent of the damage. There was no reason to tidy up since he knew the riders would return. He only hoped that he would be able to chase them off again.
His throat was dry as autumn leaves and the hum of hunger continued to harass him. There was nothing but stale tea and a bit of sugar in the pantry. He started up the fire and prepared a cup of tea. The rifle remained by his side, loaded, the safety removed. His eyes did not stray from the path.
They returned a few hours later, in the light of day. This time there were four of them, and they were well spaced, like disciplined soldiers. Their eyes were hidden under the brims of their hats. They stopped at the gate and loaded their weapons.
Moniya knew he could contend with one, perhaps two riders, but certainly not four. He seized the initiative, firing several rounds in their direction, forcing them to take cover rather than advance on the house. But they were well armed and patient, and they kept up a steady drip of fire. One bullet ripped the flesh in his arm, sending a searing pain through his limb. He flattened himself on the floor, shimmied out of his shirt, and wrapped it around the wound with his teeth and his good arm. Lying still, he felt his strength seeping out of him as bullets continued to fly over his head, announcing themselves with a terrifying zing.
He crawled across the glass-strewn floor towards the back door and out to an orchard of barren trees. Crouching, he sprinted past the empty cowshed and its smell of maturing garbage. Two of his dogs ran beside him, prodding him for a friendly pat.
He hauled himself over the back gate of his property and ran through a field of sharp thistles. From afar he imagined he heard the sound of his door being opened and the crash of men conducting a hasty search through his home. He knew that upon return he would find his possessions broken and scattered.
With the last of his strength he accelerated through the fields. Sweat poured off his body and his wound throbbed, his rifle dug into his side and his feet jammed into the jagged rocks. His heart sagged. He had gotten himself into a labyrinthine mess. For weeks he had been struggling to find a solution, but, buried by debt, he had no way to stop his enemies from forcing him off his land.

His feet took him to the Jordan River. Trampling through the tall reeds he waded downstream. Although his feet went numb with cold, this route was better than the open fields. His clothes got wet and he began to shiver, but his destination was near and he consoled himself with the thought of a fire. He scrambled up the bank towards a shack, its gaping holes like parched earth beneath the uneven patchwork of wood. White smoke spiraled out of the chimney. Two cows grazed, a dog barked shrilly, and a young wheat-blond boy dribbled a rag ball. When he caught sight of Moniya he disappeared into the house.
The door squeaked open before he arrived. A couple stood in the doorway, surprised by the sight of his face and the fear spread across it.
“What happened?” Sara Schwartz asked. His face was familiar to her; they worked neighboring plots of land.
He told them about the gunfight and the four riders who had chased him out of his house. “They might come here too,” he said panting, “they’ll look for me anywhere.”
The woman looked out towards the fields, her eyes seeking distant riders. She saw no one. Only in her thirties, she seemed far older than her years. Life, in this forgotten corner of the Galilee, had sucked the vitality from her face and worn her body down. Her hair was swept up into a sloppy bun, her simple handmade dress faded from multiple washes. Her husband, Moshe, just slightly older than her, was thick and solid all through his body, and his clothes were stained with fresh soil. She held a baby in her arms.
“Come here,” she said, “I’ll clean your wound and bring you some dry clothes.”
She handed the baby to her husband, sat the fugitive by the stove, and went to fetch the medicine kit and some of her husband’s clothes. With expert hands she dressed the wound and urged him to change into something dry.
When she had finished, she asked whether he was hungry. Moniya Abramov answered honestly. His eyes snapped to attention when he saw the pot on the stovetop. It had been a week since he had eaten something other than the shriveled vegetables from his garden. The income from his produce barely covered the cost of transporting it to market. His money gone, he could not afford even the most basic staples.
“We only have a bit,” she said by way of an apology as she ladled the broth into the bowl. It was a poor man’s soup. The hot salt water was accompanied by nothing more than a few garden roots and a potato. Moniya Abramov ate lustily, rushing the soup to his mouth and tearing away at big chunks of the freshly baked bread.
He was immersed in his food when the boy charged back into the house. “Someone’s coming,” he said.
Sara and the two men rushed to the window. Four riders, fanned out in an uneven row, made their way across the plowed earth, their guns visible.

2.
The golden-haired girl’s long fingers and reedy voice brought Schubert’s Spring Dream alive on the piano.
I dreamt of colorful flowers
Such as bloom in May;
I dreamt of green meadows,
Of merry bird songs.

And when the roosters crowed,
My eyes awoke;
It was cold and dark,
The ravens were shrieking on the roof.

The piano teacher sat rigid beside her pupil, nodding her head in time. The Viennese afternoon carried a civilized tranquility. Schubert’s chords floated through the living room as pleasantly as summer clouds. Suddenly, as though life had been breathed into the words of the song, everything changed. A rock flew through the window and smashed against the piano, denting the polished mahogany. The window slid out of its frame and shattered across the floor. The stone thrower, lingering on the street, yelled: “Dirty Jew!” The teacher pulled her pupil against her chest. An encumbered silence filled the room, punctuated by the rhythmic sway of the metronome.
“My dear,” the piano teacher said in a measured voice, “I’m afraid we’ll have to end our lesson a little earlier than usual. You’d better hurry home.”
The 18-year-old girl nodded. She walked towards the hall and wrapped her coat around her. “See you next lesson,” she said, her cream colored face an even lighter shade of pale than usual.
She raised the hem of her dress as she walked down the stairs. The snow outside swirled with each push of the wind. There were few pedestrians. She avoided all eye contact. The fear that anyone might do her harm quickened her steps. In her homeland, during the dark days before the Second World War, her religion, Judaism, was a recipe for instant trouble.
Alone at the station, she tucked deep into her jacket and waited for the streetcar. When it arrived she hurried inside, seeking refuge from the street. It was warm and the passengers seemed caught up in themselves, providing her with a sense of safety. She tried to look through the steamy windows. Maybe its best I can’t see, she thought to herself, that way I won’t have to lock eyes with the brown-shirted thugs. Hopefully, her father would soon be able to get the family entry visas to a new country. She knew he woke up early each morning to take his place in line at the consulates. She felt his pain at each rejection. He asked, begged, and bribed officials, who sent false hope but did not deliver. He did not have a useful profession, strong ties with people in high places, or enough money for a country to relish the though of his investments in their banks and institutions. He feared following the example of other Austrian Jews who had fled across the border: Too many stories had made their way back to him about passuers who had taken kingly sums and then stranded their clients halfway through, or, worse, betrayed them outright.
The Jews of Vienna shared a common wish: to escape, to escape before it was too late. Ever since the Nazis had killed the prime minister, ushering their loyalists into parliament; the Austrian chancellor, under pressure from Hitler, resigned; Germany annexed Austria; and the SA Nazi thugs began showing up in each and every city, it had become strikingly clear that the country’s Jews were in dire straits. Until recently she had believed their strife would be short lived.
She had carefully laid plans for the future. Just weeks ago she had gone to an interview with the dean of the medical school. Young students filled the waiting room. She appraised their faces as they emerged from the interview; many were beaming. She was sure that her high grades and warm recommendations would suffice and that she would be enrolled in medical school by the coming fall. But when she entered the dean’s office, he looked up at her over his half-moon glasses with tired, apologetic eyes. He hated the Nazis and all they had done to Austria, but he had seen too many lives ruined over refusal. She hoped she had misheard when he told her that the university was, from this point forth, off limits to Jews. She asked him to repeat what he had said, which he did reluctantly. The day she had been waiting for, the long anticipated interview with the dean, had become a nightmare. She felt she had been hit with a blunt object. She was aware of all that had happened in Austria during the last few months—the SA rallies, their loudening calls to deport all the Jews and confiscate their assets—but she believed wisdom would prevail over extremism, and that the universities, the kingdoms of culture, would remain beyond Nazi reach.

Seated in the streetcar, she considered the near miss at her teacher’s house. She wondered whether she would ever risk crossing the city alone again for additional lessons. Only then did she remember that her parents, her grandmother, and Max, her boyfriend, were supposed to meet at her house on Josefgasse for a family celebration in honor of her eighteenth birthday. She hoped her father would bring her the only present she really wanted: the entry visas.
The streetcar driver yanked the emergency brake. The steel wheels screeched to a stop. The street was filled with protestors, including hundreds of Brownshirts chanting slogans. “I think we’ll be stuck here for some time,” the driver intoned, opening the door and asking everyone to leave.
She stepped out onto Kartnerstrasse, where up until recently mothers had paraded past with their children, customers shopped at the high-end stores, and the cafes reverberated with conversation. Today, the street was blackened by thousands of protestors calling out anti-Semitic remarks. SA crews drew white stars of David on Jewish storefronts. They had lists and knew the location of all Jewish stores.
Her father’s jewelry store was just down the block. She turned in that direction and strode off, unsure of what she would do when she arrived. She prayed her father’s place had been spared. Someone grabbed her arm and laughed. A wide-shouldered man of about 25 with closely cropped hair stood opposite her. It was not the first time she had seen him, but it was the first time he had touched her and it was certainly the first time she had seen him suited up in an SA uniform.
“Rimmel,” he said, “Wolfgang Rimmel, you remember?” She nodded. He had been a delivery boy for the local grocer and had come to her house several times a week. She recalled how he would always linger around the house, seeking her out, and offering, far too profusely, any and all help to her mother. On many occasions he had invited her to the movies or to coffee, but she had resolutely declined. She had several suitors but remained true to her childhood sweetheart, Max. Wolfgang Rimmel swallowed his pride and continued to ask her out. He did not dare cross the line between wooing and harassing, though, as he knew her father would call the police. Still, he sought her out in his own cautious, calculated way. Often, she noticed him following her on the street. They never exchanged more than a few words. Now she noticed a sea change in his appearance and manner of speech. Once he would address her in the polite third person—“How is Miss Cohen feeling this morning? Miss Cohen’s looking lovely today”—now he spoke to her directly.
Bursting with self-pride, he stood opposite her, his hand clinging to her arm. His uniform seemed tailor-made. As he squared his shoulders, she felt his confidence soar.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “so long as I’m here no one will touch your father’s store.”
“But they’re already there,” she said, looking at the men as they dipped their paintbrushes into the buckets at their feet.
Rimmel approached the posse and issued an order. They picked up their buckets and moved on to the next shop.
“You see?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, angered by the thought that he had saved her father’s shop.
“You know what your problem is?” he asked, his deep voice rising above the din of the streets. “You never appreciated me. You just saw me as the delivery boy but I knew that one day I’d get mine. I waited patiently for my opportunity. I knew I’d show you one day who I really am.”
“So, who are you?”
“Forget everything you know about me. I’m an officer in the SA, I’m in charge of this area; I give out the orders here.”
She tried easing her arm out of his grip. She had never felt comfortable with him, and now less so than ever, but she could not afford to appear ungrateful. “I very much appreciate what you’ve done for us,” she said.
He brought his face close to hers. “You owe me now,” he said, and then laughed. Something in his voice stirred a sense of dread deep inside her. Speechless, she turned around and hurried home, his rolling laughter following her.

Max and her family were waiting at the house. She looked at her father’s crestfallen face and understood that he had not come home with the visas. She considered telling them about her day, but decided silence was best. What use would it do, she thought, to sadden them further?
She painted a cheerful expression on her face and sat down to the table with the rest of the family. They were trying to assume a sense of levity. Each feared the future, but was willing to play along for the sake of the others.
The chandelier lit up the table in a festive light. The antique furniture and the oil paintings lent the room a sense of formality and the thick curtains partitioned off the outside world.
Eve’s mother, Johanna, had prepared a feast, including her daughter’s favorite wienerschnitzel. Her grandmother, Miriam, no longer what she once was in the kitchen, made an apple strudel. Her father, Isidor, wore his best suit, and her heart’s desire, Max, held her hand under the table, casting glances of warm love in her direction. Her father poured wine and toasted her, her mother brought out a gift-wrapped box with a stunning ball gown, and her grandmother handed her an envelope full of bills.
The stove warmed the room, but fear kept everyone ill at ease. No one mentioned the events of the day. They tried to ignore the situation. Had they dared to read the sign language of virulent anti-Semitism earlier, they could have left the country with relative ease. Now that they had reached the inevitable conclusion that this was not a storm to be weathered, it was too late—the world had closed its gates.
The Cohens were proud Austrian Jews. They had been raised in the school of German culture; their lives were tranquil and happy. Anti-Semitic incidents did happen now and again but they treated them as a necessary evil, as a price Jews paid everywhere. It was easy for them to ignore the signs, to convince themselves that the simmering hatred would never reach a full boil. Many Austrian Jews were members of the upper class. They often had ties with people in power and, as a result, enjoyed a sense of security, even strength. The Cohens, like many other Jews, restricted religion to their home. Isidor ate kosher food and marked the holidays; on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur they all went to synagogue, but on Saturdays the family store stayed open, with Isidor behind the counter. Miriam was from a rabbinical line. She had sent her son to Jewish schools but he had endowed his daughter with an Austrian education. Johanna and Isidor named their only child Eve, which worked well in both German and Hebrew.
She wanted the party to end: a celebration seemed like a strange way to finish the day. She looked closely at her family, trying to peer into the deepening lines of worry on their faces. Her father’s ashen features were especially troubling. His heart condition, along with the yoke of responsibility he wore as head of the family, had chipped away at his health.
Max held her hand and tried to cheer her up. He made himself sound confident when he said that certainly one of the consulates would provide them with entry visas, even though he knew that their chances were slim. Eve asked about his mother, who had been hospitalized after his father, a well-known journalist, had been murdered. He had written against Austrian annexation to Germany. The killers left no evidence behind them, but it was clear at whose behest they had acted.
The Cohens considered Max to be a family member. It was clear he would marry their daughter after university. They dreamed of a small apartment in the old part of town and at least two kids, but the events of the last few months had left them in doubt. Neither of them, like the rest of Austria’s Jews, had any clue what the next day’s dawn would bring.

Miriam unveiled the cake with a theatrical flourish. She put a generous piece on Eve’s plate and then froze. Someone knocked forcefully against the front door.
The table went silent. Johanna Cohen sought refuge in her husband’s eyes: they weren’t expecting any additional guests.
Isidor wiped his mouth with a napkin, left it on his plate, and walked slowly towards the door. Everyone watched him till he disappeared into the anteroom. Deep voices could be heard in place of the knocking. Three men in brown uniforms entered the room. Isidor Cohen brought up the rear, looking as though he were being dragged in their wake, afraid to protest the intrusion.
Wolfgang Rimmel scanned the people at the table until his eyes met Eve’s. She turned away. “We’ve come to conduct a search,” he said, his eyes latching on to her. He did not say why or under whose authority, but times had changed in Vienna and the law was now in new hands. The SA searched Jewish homes at will and at random, taking what they liked and arresting whomever they pleased. There was no use in asking to see a warrant.
The three thugs got everyone up on their feet and checked their papers.
“Mr. Rimmel,” Isidor Cohen said in a voice that resembled his own, “you’ve known us for a long time, you used to come to our house every week; you know full well that we are in no way involved in illegal activities. We’re having a family celebration and I’d appreciate it if you would suspend this search or conduct it at a later date…”
The young Austrian showed no sign of having heard him. He nodded at the other two uniformed men and they took the father to the study and the mother to her bedroom. “Be careful,” Miriam called after them, “my son has a heart condition.” They glared at her. “Shut up,” one of them yelled.
Wolfgang Rimmel took Eve by the arm. “Come with me,” he commanded. Pale and upset, Max got out of his seat. He was Wolfgang’s height, but far thinner. “Let her go, you hear?” Wolfgang’s face folded into a smirk. He unsheathed his pistol and cracked the young man in the head. Max fell to the floor, blood staining his white shirt. Eve screamed and tried to wiggle free of Wolfgang’s grip, but he held fast and dragged her to the bedroom, shutting the door.
“Alone at last,” he panted.
“You have nothing to look for in here,” she said. “I’m not hiding anything in my room.”
He laughed. “The search is an excuse. Don’t you realize I came here just to see you?”
She pushed herself against the wall like a broken-winged bird, making herself small, invisible to harm.
His face was flushed, his mouth open. He tried bringing his fleshy lips to her face for a kiss, but she twisted away.
“Not nice,” he said, “have you forgotten that you and your family are indebted to me. Your father’s place is one of the only Jewish stores in the city that wasn’t damaged. I kept it safe and risked my good standing in the SA when I gave the order to leave it alone. Don’t I deserve a bit of thanks?”
“Thank you, Wolfgang, for what you did.” Fear and helplessness coursed through her. “I’m sure my father would like to thank you…you know we have some money and…”
“I have not come for thanks or for payment. I did everything for you, not them. I’ve always been in love with you. You know I’ve been dreaming about you at night? You have no idea how badly I want you…”
She closed her eyes and prayed he would disappear, never to return.
“If you treat me right, I’ll protect your family,” he said. She felt his breath on her face, the stench of tobacco. He ripped open her shirt and groped her breasts. Pushing up against her, he tried to throw her down on the bed, but she flailed out of his arms.
“If you cause problems,” he said, “we’ll throw you all in jail. You know it would be no problem to arrange.” Heavy tears flowed down her face.
“I’m begging you, please don’t touch me.”
His eyes were alight with malevolence. He pulled open his belt. “I’ve been dreaming about this moment for a long time. Be a good girl, be a good girl and I’ll watch over all of you…”
His pants down, he tried to remove her dress. She felt she would not be able to resist much longer. In one feral movement she clawed his face, ripping into the skin.
He cursed and punched her, wiping away the blood with his hand.
“You Jewish whore,” he growled, reaching out for her again. She brought her knee up forcefully, straight into his groin. As he doubled over in pain and shock she raced out of the room, down the stairs, to the basement. She sighed in relief when the thick metal door opened. Shaking, she felt her way to the corner and collapsed onto the cold floor.
Wolfgang Rimmel came out of her bedroom. The insult and the degradation smeared across his face in his own blood.
“Where is she?” he yelled.
No one answered. He ran through the rooms. When it became apparent she would not be easily found, he stormed back into the dining room, grabbed hold of the tablecloth and mopped the blood off his face, sending the dishes crashing to the ground.
“You’ll be seeing me again,” he said, signaling his friends to follow.