“Hey, what’s the matter? We weren’t making any noise at all. We weren’t even singing and it’s past lunchtime. We have all been saying Tehillim. I mean, it’s Rosh Hashanah afternoon, and we’ve been really quiet.”

Everyone listened to the banging coming from the apartment above them. This was a regular occurrence, especially on Shabbos or Yom Tov, but it had usually been while they were singing.

“Maybe she heard that it is Rosh Hashanah and has been expecting noise all day. Maybe it is just an advance warning for us to be quiet,” said Fraidie going back to her Tehillim. She really wanted to get through saying the whole book.

On the first day they hadn’t had time, between going to shul, a long festive meal, and tashlich, for which they had to walk for miles. Now they were quietly concentrating.

There was silence for several minutes and again they heard the banging, a little weaker this time. Could the woman be unsure of why she was complaining? The children’s father, Dovid Silizky had tried several times to speak to her, but she had only hurled abuse at him, saying that she couldn’t stand all that Jewish music, and would they please be quieter as this was a decent English neighborhood.

It was later, during Havdalah, that once again they thought about their upstairs neighbor. Shifra noticed Yosef looking rather fixedly at the ceiling, which of course made her look up, and then their mother, and then all six of the other children. When their father had finished bentching over the wine, he, too, looked up.

“Tatty, the roof is leaking,” said Yosef quite unnecessarily, as everyone by now could see very clearly that the roof was leaking. Rochel Leah was looking thoughtful. “Perhaps that is why she was banging. Perhaps there is something wrong.”

“All right, we will go up there,” said their father. “Who will come with me?”

“I will,” said Rochel Leah. “I am sure there is something wrong.” Father and daughter were soon knocking at the door. They knocked softly at first and then more loudly. There was no response. All they could hear was the sound of... was it water running?

“We have to find the caretaker,” said her father. “She has the authority to go into the apartment if there is something wrong. And I am beginning to agree with you, Rochel Leah, that there is something wrong; something very wrong.”

The caretaker was a little annoyed to be disturbed during her off-duty time, but she could not risk the building being flooded. She thought the lady, Mrs. Burris, had probably fallen asleep with the bath water running... Yes, that could be a possible explanation. They hoped it was.

There was no response to the caretaker’s telephone call, nor to her knocking, which had been much louder and more persistent than that of Mr. Silizky and Rochel Leah.

She unlocked the door, giving a grunt of disgust as she saw the carpet swimming under a film of water. The tap must have been on full blast for several hours.

She waded in, going quickly into the bathroom and turning off the taps. Mrs. Burris was obviously running the water for a bath. Rochel Leah and her father saw the woman lying unconscious on the soaking floor; her foot in an awkward position.

It was the next morning that Mr. and Mrs. Silizky arrived to visit Mrs. Burris at the hospital. The ambulance had arrived in quick response to their call, and when the Silizkys had phoned later, they heard that though she was very shocked and chilled and had twisted her ankle badly, they did not think she was in serious danger. They had to watch out for pneumonia in such an elderly woman, of course, and had therefore admitted her for a few days.

“Do you think she will see us?” said Mrs. Silizky to her husband. “I mean, we have been causing her a great deal of annoyance over these months and she doesn’t like Jews.”

“We must see her,” said her husband. “Apart from being neighborly, I think we should explain why we didn’t respond to her knocking.” They walked towards the ward to which they had been directed. Mrs. Burris looked incredibly vulnerable dressed in her hospital gown, her white hair, usually so carefully permed, now straight and scraggly. She turned large, gray eyes towards them, registering obvious embarrassment as she saw who her visitors were.

“We came to see how you were,” said Rivkah, “and to see if there was anything we could do for you. We have been very worried about you... and of course we came to apologize.”

“Apologize?” asked the woman, obviously puzzled. “Why would you come to apologize?”

“Well, my children told me that you were banging, and they didn’t realize you were banging because you needed help. They thought that...” “They thought that I was complaining about the noise,” she said flatly. “I thought of that myself. That is why I didn’t carry on banging. It wouldn’t have helped. Anyway, you weren’t making any noise. It isn’t noise, really, that irritates me, it is just those songs you sing. They are so Jewish, so disturbing.” She gave a shudder.

“Is there anything we can do for you?” asked Rivkah, wanting to change the subject.

“Well, my apartment,” said the woman. “The carpets and everything must be ruined!”

“They are, rather,” said Dovid, “but we helped the caretaker last night after the ambulance had taken you away. We managed to dry quite a lot of things.”

“Thank you. I was very worried about that and I am grateful for your help, especially as I haven’t always been the best neighbor. It was just those songs...” She suddenly turned even whiter than she already was. “My photograph albums. They are right at the bottom of my cupboard. Do you think they got wet? I don’t want them ruined. They are all I have. I don’t have any more family. I just have those pictures.” “We will look for them,” said Rivkah. “Do you want us to take the photos out and put them somewhere else if the album is very wet?” The woman’s face turned from white to red. She seemed to think for several minutes. “I suppose so,” she said at last. “Perhaps you could ask one of your daughters to do it for me.”

When they found the photograph albums in Mrs. Burris’ apartment, they discovered that only one was really damaged and the photographs had to be removed right away. Dovid put the album into a supermarket bag and took it downstairs for Shifra and Rochel Leah to work on.

The girls were soon busy working, taking out the old photographs and carefully drying them out. This was going to take a long time... “Hey, where did these pictures come from?” asked Shifra, who had just turned a page. “How on earth would pictures like these get into the photo album of an anti-Semite like Mrs. Burris?” She showed them to Rochel Leah and together they took them to their father.

He gave a gasp and then a smile.

“Hashem works in strange ways,” he said. “But these ways always reach their mark. We will talk to her this afternoon.”

They felt differently about Mrs. Burris on their next visit. They thought they now understood her confused feelings about Judaism and about Jewish music. Was this the answer to the mystery?

After they had given her the clothes, toiletries, and other necessities she had requested they bring, and had made sure her health had not deteriorated, Mr. Silizky took out two photographs, yellow with age: photographs of a Jewish family, the mother with her hair covered and the father and boys with yarmulkes. Was one of the girls... Mrs. Burris?

Again the woman blushed. “I see you found those,” she said softly. “Maybe that will make things clearer to you. That is my family. This is me,” she said, pointing to one of the girls. “I am the only one of the family who survived the War. I survived because I joined a gentile family who was prepared to look after me. I joined them in every way, even giving up my Judaism. After all, there seemed to be no hope for Jews. We were being wiped out by the thousands, even the millions: my family, my rabbi, my teachers, my friends... Nothing was left. I had no option.

“It was difficult at first, but I settled down eventually and grew to love the parents who had been so good as to have saved my life. I eventually married the son of my host’s cousin, so then I truly became a part of the family. We had one child, but he did not survive and we never did have any more. Except for these photographs which I hardly ever look at, I almost forgot I was Jewish... until you started singing those songs, some of which I remember from the days when I was a Jew. I think I just missed being a Jew. I think I regret having given it all up. I suddenly felt a need to be with the Jewish people from whom I had cut myself off for eternity.”

“What makes you think you cut yourself off for eternity?” asked Rivkah quietly.

“Well,” said the lady, crying freely now, “I did it to myself. I’m the one who gave up my Judaism. I thought it was dead. Only when I saw you and your family did I really see it was alive. After my first husband died, I married Mr. Burris, an Englishman, and we moved to an area where there were no Jews. Only on rare occasion did I have regrets, and then I could block out my feelings about it. It was your family that stirred everything up in me again as if to mock everything I had given up. I haven’t got all the time it would take to convert back. My time is limited.”

“But you don’t have to convert again,” said Dovid. “You are a Jew. Nothing can ever change that.”

“What do I do?” asked the woman; a spark of light suddenly inflaming her eyes.

“What is your Hebrew name?” asked Dovid.

“Menucha.”

“Menucha,” he said, “in a few days’ time it will be Yom Kippur. I am sure your doctor won’t let you fast, but at least you can eat according to the way a person who is not allowed to fast can eat. I will get the Rav to come see you.”

“And,” said Rivkah, “you will, of course, be breaking the fast with all of us.”

Mrs. R. Barney is a freelance writer living in New York.