Tag: Jewish blogger

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Celebrating Jane Austen’s 250th birthday; A Jewish Austen Fan Fiction Author’s Review of the Year

Mirta Ines Trupp

It has been a grand celebration! All year long, Janeites from around the world have been celebrating Jane Austen’s 250th birthday. Naturally, there have been events in Chawton, Hampshire where the author lived and wrote her novels. The city of Bath in Somerset, held a Yuletide Birthday Ball. A special church service was held in Steventon in Hampshire where Jane was born. The Jane Austen Society of North America (JASNA), with a membership exceeding 6,000, organized balls, brunches, and teas across the land. Beyond this, thousands more around the globe—from Argentina to Israel, Australia to the Czech Republic, and places far and wide—gathered to commemorate the occasion. 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂 𝒕𝒐-𝒅𝒐!

Professor Michael Kramp of Lehigh University in Pennsylvania invited me to participate in his ongoing public humanities research project entitled, “Jane Austen and the Future of the Humanities.” I’m still blushing…what an honor! We spoke of my passion of incorporating Jewish protagonists into Austen’s storylines and even explored the cultural and historical roots of Argentina’s vibrant Austen fandom. I will share that interview once the episode is ready to be released and aired on his podcast.

Soon after, I was contacted by Juana Libedinsky, journalist and novelist extraordinaire! She was conducting research for her (now released) book, Queremos tanto a Jane. The scope of that work speaks to the longevity of Austen’s popularity. One of my titles, The Meyersons of Meryton, had led Juana to me. She soon discovered that I had also written a JAFF with connections to colonial (or Regency) Argentina. We talked quite a bit about my immigrant experience and how I connected Austen with the Viceroyalty of Rio de la Plata in Celestial Persuasion.

Between the three of us, we covered Buenos Aires, New York, London, Las Vegas, Nevada and Bethlehem PA.!

Throughout this year, I have had the pleasure of attending Regency teas and was the guest speaker at various book clubs.

In May, I attended the annual Jewish Book Council’s Network Conference where I presented, The Jews of Donwell Abbey: An Emma Vagary. We were each given two minutes to “pitch” our book. No pressure, right? In all honesty, it was a strange combination of anxiety and pride and fun!

The culmination of the year was two-fold. I attended JAFFCon 2025, where I met with other authors and readers of Jane’s fandom. Lively discussions and informative presentations were coupled with games, raffles, dancing, and the partaking of refreshments!

Lastly, I attended the Vegas PBS Annual Tea, where we celebrated Jane’s birthday and enjoyed a wonderful presentation by world renown historian, author, and curator, Lucy Worsley. I heartfelt ‘thank you’ to Cindy Jensen for the invitation!

Austen’s fandom is alive and well! I look forward to new experiences, new stories, and connecting with my fellow Janeites throughout the world!

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Celebrating Chanukah~ A Look at the Festival of Lights During the Regency Era

Mirta Ines Trupp

What’s a nice, Jewish girl to do when the vast majority of the population is snuggling by a roaring fire with Hallmark movies and Dickens’ classics? Well, I’ll tell you. If that nice, Jewish girl happens to write Jane Austen Fan Fiction, she may share a little bit of history on the Jewish Festival of Lights. She may also share a snippet or two from her novels to illustrate the true meaning of the season.

I’ll stop writing in the third person now…

I realize that we’re still in the fall season here in the northern hemisphere, and there are other holidays to commemorate before we head into the darkest part of the year. However, I felt that this post was well-timed as the Jewish community has been experiencing “the darkest part of the year” since the horrific events of October 7, 2023. To date, we are still waiting for all of our hostages to be returned.

In just a few weeks’ time, we will begin preparing our latkes and sufgenyiot for our holiday meals. Dreidels and coins will decorate our tables too. The battles that were won, the significance of the dreidels and coins, the reasons why we eat fried foods—or, even dairy—are all well documented; you can read more about it here.

A Great Miracle Happened There!

Chanukah tells the tale of an impossible victory over the mighty Greek army in the 2nd century. This was a true, historical event—a terrestrial miracle that serves as reminder that Jerusalem and the Temple were lost and recovered due to the Maccabean revolt against tyranny and forced assimilation.

The second miracle of the holiday, however, is not so tangible. It is the story of how a small vial of sanctified oil was able to keep the Temple’s menorah lit for eight days and nights. The flames of the chanukkiah (the Chanukah menorah) speak to faith (emunah) and trust (bitachon). In celebrating this holiday, we are encouraged to emulate these characteristics, even when the world is enveloped in darkness—even when we are heartbroken and our spirits are brought low. As an author of Jane Austen Fan Fiction (J.A.F.F.), I wanted to highlight these themes, and show how I have attempted to underscore their importance in my J.A.F.F. or Jewish Austen Fan Fiction.

חג חנוכה שמח

The Hebrew greeting noted above is transliterated as Chag Chanukah Sameach, which means Happy Chanukah Holiday. No doubt, you have seen many different spellings of Chanukah, Hanukkah, even Januca—as it is written in Spanish. While many people call it a minor holiday—it’s not included in the Torah (the Five Books of Moses a.k.a. Pentateuch)—it has been commemorated by Jews for centuries… even in Jane Austen’s time.

On November 5, 1817, just prior to the holiday season in Regency England, tragedy struck. Princess Charlotte, the Prince Regent’s daughter, and heiress-presumptive to the throne, died after giving birth to a still-born son. The whole of the empire had been following this pregnancy; Charlotte was a favorite amongst the British people and her marriage to Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha had been a love match. The public were besotted by their fairy-tale union and by what the couple’s future foretold; however, Charlotte’s death at the age of twenty-one threw a stunned nation into deep mourning.

The outpour of grief for the young woman and her child was said to be unprecedented. Mourning protocols were highly respected during this period of time. Needless to say, when the deceased was a member of the royal family, and a favorite at that, the public were united in their sorrow.

“It really was as though every household throughout Great Britain had lost a favourite child.” ~ Henry Brougham

The Royal Exchange, the Law Courts, merchants, tradesmen, and schools closed down. There was a shortage of black cloth, as everyone wished to show their respect by wearing mourning armbands. Jane Austen and her family would have participated in these rituals. Naturally, the Jewish community aligned themselves with their compatriots.

Per the Gregorian calendar, November 19, 1817 correlated to the Hebrew date of the 10th of Kislev, 5578. Prior to the tragic news, Jewish congregations throughout the land would have been planning for the upcoming Festival of Lights; Chanukah falls on the 25th of Kislev. However, all such preparations came to a halt upon receiving the sorrowful news.

On November 19th, a memorial service was organized for “prayer and psalms for the day of grief” in the Great Synagogue, St. James’s Place. Congregants were allowed to “pour out their complaint before the Lord, on the day of burial of H.R.H. the Princess Charlotte.”

Hyman Hurwitz, the head master of a “fashionable” Jewish school at Highgate, composed Mourn the Bright Rose: A Hebrew Dirge and it was chanted to the tune of a well-known composition, typically recited on the Ninth of Av—a tragic and solemn occasion on the Hebrew calendar.

Rabbi Tobias Goodman, known amongst his congregation as Reb Tuvya, spoke on “the universally regretted death of the most illustrious Princess Charlotte of Wales and Saxe-Coburg.” Rabbi Goodman quoted Ecclesiastes in saying, “A good name is better than precious ointment, and the day of death than the day of one’s birth.  It is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting, for that is the end of all men; and the living will lay it to his heart.”

I don’t know what followed. Perhaps the rabbi repeated the time-honored phrase, “Od lo avda tikvatienu,” (our hope is not extinguished) capturing the essence of Chanukah. He might have referenced Joseph and his brothers in Egypt, by saying: “Praiseworthy is he who places his faith in God” and “Remember I was with you.” Whatever else was said that day, I can only imagine the congregation went home with words of consolation and hope.

Jane Austen said, “My characters shall have, after a little trouble, all that they desire.” That speaks to her genius, of course. As in any book, there needs to be an arc to the storyline. There needs to be growth. The heroine must face her fears and rise above the obstacles placed in her path.

In my novels, these concepts are interwoven in Becoming Malka, Destiny by Design: Leah’s Journey, Celestial Persuasion, and most recently in The Jews of Donwell Abbey: An Emma Vagary. In keeping with Miss Austen’s playbook, my characters—Molly, Leah, Abigail and even Harriet Smith—all have a little trouble, but it is ultimately their faith and trust that helps achieve their Happily-Ever-After ending.

Of all my books, I think The Meyersons of Meryton highlights the Chanukah message best. In this story, due to a variety of unforeseen circumstances, Mrs. Meyerson—the rabbi’s wife—and Mrs. Bennet find themselves much in one another’s company. Miss Catherine Bennet (Kitty, as we know her) has endeared herself to the rebbetzin and her young daughter, Rachel. In a rather poignant moment, Kitty makes an emotive declaration and both Mrs. Meyerson and Mrs. Bennet are moved—most profoundly.

The passage below is a snippet of the final chapter, where Mr. and Mrs. Bennet have an interesting exchange.

An Excerpt from The Meyersons of Meryton…

When the happy couples at length were seen off and the last of the party had departed Longbourn, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were found in the dining room quite alone, sharing the last bit of port between them.

“What shall we do now, Mrs. Bennet, with three daughters married?”

Surprised at being asked her opinion, Mrs. Bennet gave the question some thought before replying. “I suppose we have earned a respite, husband. Let us see what Life has in store for us.”

“No rest for the weary, my dear, for soon Mary will leave us and then Kitty. We shall have to make arrangements for the inevitable. Perhaps you shall live with one of the girls when I am gone and Mr. Collins inherits the place.”

“Mr. Bennet,” she giggled, “you should have more bitachon.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Perhaps it was the port, or perhaps it was pure exhaustion, but Mrs. Bennet found she had no scruple in sharing the entire tale of Chanukah with her most astonished husband. “Pray Mr. Bennet,” she finally concluded, “what was the true miracle of this holiday?”

“The logical answer,” he replied dryly, “would point to the miracle of such a small group of men overcoming a fierce and mighty army.”

“No, that is not it.” She giggled, as a hiccup escaped her lips.

“Well then,” he sighed, “the esoteric answer would point to the miracle of the oil lasting eight nights.”

“No, Mr. Bennet. Again, you are incorrect.”

“Pray tell me, wife, what then was the miracle, for I can see that you may burst with anticipation for the sharing of it!”

“The miracle, sir, was that they had bitachon. I do hope I am pronouncing correctly. At any rate, it means trust. They knew they only had one vial of sacred oil and had no means to create more. They lit the candle and left the rest up to the Almighty. And that is exactly what we should do in our current circumstance.”

“My dear, it is a lovely tale and I am certain that it has inspired many generations before us and will inspire many generations after we are long gone, but it does not change the fact that Mr. Collins is to inherit Longbourn…”

“Longbourn is entailed to Mr. Collins if we do not produce a son.”

“Yes, and well you know that we have produced five daughters, although you are as handsome as any of them, Mrs. Bennet. A stranger might believe I am the father of six!” he said with sincere admiration.

“You flatter me, Mr. Bennet. I certainly have had my share of beauty, but I wish to say…”

“You were but a child when we wed,” he waved her silent, “not much more than Lydia’s age, if I recall. But, my dear, that is neither here or there, for in all this time a son has not been produced and there’s nary a thing to do for it!”

“Mr. Bennet, there is something I have been meaning to tell you. That is, if you could spare a moment of your time—or does your library call you away?”

His wife’s anxious smile made him feel quite the blackguard. Had he not made a promise in Brighton? Did he not vow he would change his ways? Mr. Bennet decided it was high time he put the good rabbi’s advice into practice. Bowing low, he replied, “Madam, I am your humble servant.”

Happier words had never been spoken.

No matter which holiday you celebrate this December, whether the lights of your chanukkiah or the lights of your Christmas tree shine brightly against the dark, wintery nights, I hope your home and your hearts are blessed with peace.

With love,

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Two Austenites and the Connection Between our Asurim and our Anusim…

Mirta Ines Trupp

Months ago—after having the honor and the delight of being interviewed by author and journalist for the Argentine newspaper La Nación, Juana Libedinsky—I began planning today’s blog. Our discussion was not about Columbus Day or the Anusim (crypto or converso Jews) but rather about Jane Austen—naturally.

photo credit: Chris Beliera

However, Juana posed a question that stirred my curiosity to previously unexplored heights. I wanted to write about my discoveries here today. Needless to say, no one could have predicted that we’d be on the verge of seeing our beloved meshpucha home once more.

The hostages are said to be released within the next several hours.

Uploading a blog post today of all days seemed a bit…indifferent and self-serving. But, upon further thought and introspection, I found some interesting connections between today’s news headlines. At least, it was interesting to me—I hope you’ll let me know your thoughts in the comments section below.

The Hebrew word “anusim” (אֲנוּסִים), is derived from the root א-נ-ס (Aleph-Nun-Samekh). The etymology of the word meaning crypto or converso Jew, suggests the concept of being forced or coerced. The Hebrew word “asurim” (אסורים), refers to one who is physically restrained, held captive or hostage.

The Asurim we have long prayed for, and are anxiously awaiting, are a living reminder of “coerced vulnerability, of innocence bound.” If we reflect on the descendants of the Anusim (those forcibly converted in Spain, Portugal, etc.), it is hard not to see the correlation between the trauma of stolen individuality and the loss of the sacred, of innocence, and of peace of mind.

According to our tradition, we—as a community, as a family—bear the duty to remember, redeem, and restore. Freedom—whether of the body or soul—is an act of redemption. I learned this today while contemplating whether or not I should upload this post—a post about Christopher Columbus, about the Spanish Inquisition, about members of Klal Israel who were lost to us because they were coerced and held spiritually captive.

When I was a child, October 12th was celebrated as Columbus Day. Today—well, not so much. The day is now acknowledged as Día de la Raza (Day of the Race) or Día de la Hispanidad (Day of Hispanicity). Some communities prefer to acknowledge the day with celebrations of Indigenous Peoples’ Day or even Discoverers’ Day. In other words, we have gone from a Day of Observance, where President Franklin Delano Roosevelt invited “the people of the United States to observe Columbus Day, in schools and churches, or other suitable places, with appropriate ceremonies that express the public sentiment befitting the anniversary of the discovery of America” to outright disregard, disdain, and disrespect.

Christopher Columbus—Cristoforo Colombo or Cristóbal Colón— was the son of Domingo Colón y Susana Fontanarossa. There has been an ongoing debate about the family being cryptic or converso Jews. There hasn’t been any concrete evidence to prove that point, but it is interesting to note that Columbus had close ties with Sephardic Jews, and conversos, and his famous voyage in August 1492 coincided with the Jewish community’s final expulsion from Spain.

Coincidence? You tell me. And also ponder this interesting tidbit: Columbus used Hebraic or Kabbalistic notations on his documents and diaries. Why?

There are thirteen surviving personal letters written by Columbus to his son Diego. With dates ranging from November 1504 to February 1505, twelve of these letters display the Hebrew letters ב״ה, which are understood to be shorthand for Baruch Hashem (Blessed be He or With God’s help). And when he was and his crew were stranded in Jamaica among the Taíno peoples, Columbus used his knowledge of Jewish astronomy in order to save the day.

Columbus and his crew were running short of supplies. Relations with the Taíno were…stressed. By consulting the Ephemerides of Abraham Zacuto, a renowned Jewish astronomer, Columbus noted that a lunar eclipse was due on February 29, 1504. In order to secure food and shelter, Columbus told the Taíno that his God was angry at their refusal to help, and that His wrath would be made known with the disappearance of the Moon. As this “magical” phenomenon began to unfold, the Taíno, naturally, were terrified. Columbus “promised” to intercede with his God on their behalf; and, when the Moon reappeared, the matter was quickly resolved to everyone’s satisfaction. Yes, Columbus manipulated an indigenous people to his own benefit. My point, however, is this event showed yet another connection to Judaic practice and knowledge.

Why would Columbus have known the works of a Spanish Jew?  

Juana Libedinsky was in the midst of writing her upcoming book, Queremos tanto a Jane (scheduled to be published in November 2025) when she called me to talk about my fascination with Jane Austen. To say that I am honored to have a small part in her latest project would be an understatement! We discussed my novel, Celestial Persuasion, that takes place in the Viceroyalty of Río de la Plata—otherwise known as Argentina—and how I incorporated a Jewish storyline into Jane Austen Fan Fiction. Juana touched upon one of my recurring pet peeves: Why don’t we ever read about Jews in historical fiction outside of the Inquisition or the Holocaust? Why are Jewish fictional characters always portrayed in a demeaning light, money lenders and rag peddlers? Naturally, the question about Jews in Argentina was posed.

Juana asked if I could substantiate my suggestion that Jewish people have been in that country since the famous voyage of 1492. At the moment, unfortunately, I could only rely on conjecture based on family anécdotas—anecdotes—and Argentine history. I promised Juana that I’d look further into the matter. When I wrote Celestial Persuasion, I completed hours and hours of research on the internet. But, now, I had another resource: ChatGPT. In truth, I am not a fan of AI—much like the Taíno, this “magic” terrifies me. That being said, I couldn’t resist trying to find out more on the subject of early Jewish immigration to the New World.

This is only the tip of the iceberg:

Conversos, Hidden-Jews, New Christians, or Those with Unknown Heritage:

Juan Cardoso Pardo

  • Born in Lisbon, possibly one of the first conversos to arrive in the Río de la Plata
  • On April 16, 1614, the (Roman Catholic) Buenos Aires City Council imprisoned the 22-year-old teacher. He was accused of not teaching the Apostles’ Creed and not praying with his students

Diego Núñez

  • Born in Córdoba del Tucumán, Diego was the son of a Portuguese converso. Like his father, Diego was a physician; unlike his father, Diego was suspected of being unfaithful to Catholicism.
  • While in prison, Diego circumcised himself, and urged others accused of Judaizing to maintain their faith at all costs
  • Subjected to torture and starvation for twelve years, he later was burned at the stake in 1639

Diego de León Pinelo

  • Born in Córdoba del Tucumán in 1608. His father, Diego López de Lisboa y León, and mother, Catalina de Esperanza Pinelo, were conversos who fled the Inquisition
  • The family was often under suspicion and harassed by colonial authorities; however Diego went on to be Argentina’s first literary figure

Ensign Juan Rodríguez Estela

  • A wealthy Portuguese rancher, he married a daughter from a family of conquistadors.
  • He was suspected of Judaizing and sent to prison, where he was tortured to confess, and later burned at the stake

Manuel de Lucena

  • Lived in Buenos Aires in the mid-to-late 1600s
  • Accused of practicing Judaism by the Inquisition of Lima
    • Secretly observing Shabbat, avoiding pork, and Catholic rites
  • The outcome of his trial is unclear in surviving records, but his arrest is well documented, one of the few documented instances of a converso persecuted in Buenos Aires

Domingo Faustino Sarmiento (President of Argentina from 1868 to 1874)

  • Born in San Juan, Argentina, 1811 to Paula Zoila Albarracín y Irrázabal, a descendant from the Acosta family.
    • Sarmiento’s maternal grandmother, María Jesús de Irrázabal y Acosta, was the daughter of Miguel de Acosta.
    • Miguel descended from Gaspar de Acosta, a Portuguese settler in colonial Chile/Argentina.
  • Through the Acosta line, Sarmiento also descends from the Antúnez and Gómez/González families. These families are documented in early colonial Chile and Cuyo (today western Argentina), where many Portuguese conversos settled during the 17th century
    • This is supported by Inquisition trial records in Lima and Cartagena and archival documents showing New Christian status in colonial Chile and Argentina.

Juan Manuel de Rosas aka Juan Manuel José Domingo Ortiz de Rosas y López de Osornio (Nicknamed “Restorer of the Laws”, was an Argentine politician and army officer who ruled Buenos Aires Province and briefly the Argentine Confederation)

  • Born in Buenos Aires 1793 to Agustina López de Osornio, who was connected to the Machado family
    • María Antonia de la Trinidad de Azcuénaga y Basavilbaso (the daughter of María Rosa de Basavilbaso y Urtubia, daughter of Domingo de Basavilbaso) and/or María López de Osornio are the descendants of Ana de Machado, a 17th-century member of the Portuguese Machado family in Buenos Aires

Carlos María de Alvear (A soldier and statesman, Supreme Director of the United Provinces of the Río de la Plata in 1815)

  • Born in Santo Ángel, Misiones Orientales (now Brazil) in 1789 to María Balbina de Sáenz de la Quintanilla y de la Cámara. She was from a noble Spanish family, but her ancestry includes names such as Fonseca and Cámara. Both were associated with Portuguese conversos
  • His father, Diego de Alvear y Ponce de León was born in Montilla, Córdoba, Spain, of Andalusian and Portuguese origin.
    • The Portuguese surname “Alvear” is documented among New Christian families in Porto, Lisbon, and Seville. The Alvear family in Iberia included notaries, merchants, and soldiers, professions frequently held by New Christians.
    • Members in the Alvear lineage appear in Portuguese and Spanish Inquisition records accused of Judaizing.

José Hernández (One of Argentina’s most important literary and political figures of the 19th century, best known for his epic poem, Martín Fierro)

  • Born in San Martín, Buenos Aires in 1834 to Isabel Pueyrredón whose ancestry includes: the Sosa, Rojas, and Alcaraz families.
    • The surname Sosa is of Portuguese origin, and appears frequently in Inquisition records in Brazil and Peru. Several New Christian families named Sosa fled from Portugal to Brazil and the Río de la Plata in the 16th–17th centuries.
    • The Sosa family of Corrientes and Santa Fe, were active in trade and law in the 17th century, had crypto-Jewish connections

Mariquita Sanchez de Thompson aka María Josefa Petrona de Todos los Santos Sánchez de Velasco y Trillo ( A founding mother and patriot)

  • Born in 1786 to Petrona Trillo y Cárdenas, a descendant from the Trillo, Cárdenas, and del Valle families.
    • The Trillo surname appears in Portuguese Jewish naming patterns in Seville and Lisbon in the 16th century
      • There are Inquisition records from Peru and Brazil in which individuals named Trillo were tried for Judaizing
      • In Buenos Aires, Trillo family members were involved in trade, a common profession of New Christians
  • Father, Don Tomás Antonio Sánchez de Velasco y Pérez, belonged to the Sánchez de Velasco family—an established Castilian-Creole family in Buenos Aires
    • The del Valle surname is found in Inquisition records across the Iberian world.
      • Juan del Valle and other family members were tried in Cartagena and Lima for Judaizing
      • Families named del Valle were sometimes of Sephardic origin, and migrated to the Americas under false Christian identities
  • The Cárdenas, Trillo, and possibly Velasco lines include individuals involved in colonial trade, which was disproportionately managed by (Portuguese) New Christians

The last Jews left Spain on the 9th of Av or August 2, 1492. A member of a wealthy converso family, Luis de Santángel, loaned most of the money for Columbus’ voyage. Many speculate that it was Santángel’s “desire to help his persecuted brothers.” On his second voyage to the New World, Columbus set sail with 17 ships and approximately 1200 men. The expedition was paid entirely by the gold, and other valuables, confiscated by Spain from the expelled Jews. This also coincides with log entry written by Columbus which stated: “The object was to secure the property of the secret Jews for the state treasury … [and to] confiscate the property of those who openly professed to be Jews.”

Whatever else can be said about Christopher Columbus, I can’t help but think of the multitude of people who were saved from the Auto-da-Fé (a ritualized, public penance carried out by “relaxing’ or burning the Judaizer as a form of spiritual release or purification) because of his voyages. What does this have to do with Jane Austen Fan Fiction? Nothing—and everything. Everything because fan fiction is a medium that allows an author to incorporate his or her own culture, religion, and traditions into Austen’s beloved classics. Fan fiction allowed me to imagine a Jewish young woman journeying from England to the fledgling nation of Argentina—a country that would abolish the Inquisition laws from its constitution on March 23, 1813.

The Anusim, whether tradesmen, laborers, teachers, soldiers, entrepreneurs or statesmen, were born into Jewish families. Somewhere along the line, they were forced to convert, to flee and abandon their homes, their livelihoods, their faith and culture. Their descendants, for the most part, were lost to the people Israel. Kabbalistic and Hasidic sages viewed these conversions as a metaphor for exile. Their physical beings were coerced by outside forces, and they were trapped in a cultural assimilation. Their souls, too, were held captive by circumstance, and these souls yearned to return, for Teshuva.

According to an article on Chabad.org, it doesn’t matter if a Jew converts or if a Jew lives a secular lifestyle or if, God forbid, a Jew is held captive and is unable to fulfill the rites and responsibilities of his or her faith. That Jew remains “intimately bonded with the God of Abraham.” God “awaits the moment this precious soul will return.” Just as we await, with bated breath, for the release of the hostages; the Asurim, who have too long been bound in exile. May their physical, emotional, and spiritual souls find healing and Ge’ullah—redemption.

Today, when we witness the hostages restored to their families, we will recite:

Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, matir asurim

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, מַתִּיר אֲסוּרִים

“Blessed are You, Adonai, Ruler of the Universe, Who frees the captives.”

Amen.

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Author’s Interview with Lauren Tallman

Mirta Ines Trupp

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to a “Run 4 Their Lives” Hostage Awareness Walk. For those of you in this audience who are today-years-old, my opening statement alludes to an old vaudeville line—and a 1962 musical that is filled with humorous situations and mistaken identities. But I digress…

I wish with all my heart that I could have met today’s guest author under different circumstances; but, until our meshpucha (our family) are released from captivity, we will walk in our neighborhoods—across the country and around the world—to raise awareness that the hostages Are. Still. There.

On one such walk, after having walked together week after week, Lauren and I discovered that we both write historical fiction. Up until that moment, we saw each other as concerned Jews; two middle-aged women outraged at the lack of basic, human rights for innocent people held hostage for two years as of today.

Lauren Tallman, author

Needless to say, we were very excited to learn we had other—more pleasant—things in common. And before any of you “couch referees” or “armchair critics” judge my choice of adjective or lack of vocabulary, excited is absolutely apropos! As you will soon learn, Lauren is much accustomed, shall we say, to that particular sentiment.

According to her website, Lauren Tallman “is a fearless voice in modern erotica and candid conversation.” Yes, you read that correctly. Lauren, also known as Lady Tallman or Lady of Glencoe, founded the Erotic Writers Group of Las Vegas in 2014. She has been a member—and is the current vice president—of the Henderson Writers Group (HWG) since 2009, where her stories have been accepted into six HWG anthologies.

In addition, my lady, Lauren is a columnist for the Vegas Voice where she writes about Health & Wellness and informs us that, “Seniors Still Do It.”

After doing a little research of Lauren’s online presence, I learned my new friend was born in Lithuania. Her arrival to Nevada was quite the trajectory, as stated here: “Her journey spans six cities across four countries, with thirty unforgettable years spent in Israel before making Las Vegas her home in 2006. Her diverse life experiences fuel her writing — bold, raw, and unapologetically honest.”

Lauren’s books, How To Have An Affair And Not Get Caught, Harem of the Dragon, Taste the Kiss Feel the Fire, Anthology X, and Come Again? have received world-wide recognition.

Talk about spicy!

“How did you come to write these provocative narratives,” I asked.

Lauren didn’t miss a beat.

“Because I’m good at it,” she replied.

I wasn’t altogether sure if she meant if she was good at writing or, you know… Very well, I’ll say it: sex.

Naturally, I shared my—um—passion for Jane Austen Fan Fiction with Lauren. And, after giving it a bit of thought, she and I are not so far apart in our writing style. We both are fulfillers of fantasy, we both are devisers of dreams. Certainly Austen cannot be considered a purveyor of erotica, but her writings did contain sexual undertones and innuendo. Think of Northanger Abbey and Mansfield Park.

In this JSTOR post by Beth Lau, Catherine Moreland is shown to “be an astute sexual and social strategizer who ends up marrying the most eligible man in the novel.” And in this essay, author Avrom Fleishman urges caution in “simply assuming that Jane Austen came under Evangelical influence…in order to explain a presumed moralizing tone in the novel.”

“Sexuality is not a topic which springs immediately to mind on considering Jane Austen’s novel, “Mansfield Park,” but, in fact, much of the energy of the novel derives from the powerful machinations of sexual politics and much of the novel’s interest comes from the usually suppressed—though all the more fervid for that—love of Fanny for Edmund.” ~

Giulia Giuffre, “Sex, Self and Society in Mansfield Park”

No, Austen’s contemporaries were certainly not puritanical. Courtesans were prominent in London society. Sexual relationships were often discussed openly, and literature and art were often a celebration of sensuality. If we had a ha’penny every time we read about a couple “anticipating their vows”, we Regency fans would be set for life!

In fact, when comparing the Georgians, Victorians, and Edwardian eras, the Georgians (the era, not the country!) “were considered less prudish about sexual relations compared to the Victorians, who were often seen as more repressive due to strict moral codes. The Edwardians, while still influenced by Victorian values, began to show more openness towards sexuality and social norms.”

I have whet your appetite, I do believe, and expect that you are hungry for more. Do try to curb your frustration. Restrain your lust for the upcoming salacious dialogue because, without further ado, I’ll get on with the interview!

Host: You are very welcome, Lauren. Please tell us about your­­­­­­­­­­­­­­ work.

Guest: As a writer of erotica, I say my genre is “historical fiction with sensual undertones.” It very well tells what I write: erotica. Several books were published after Harem of The Dragon.  After many requests, the sequel is now in the works.

Host: That’s fascinating — “historical fiction with sensual undertones” really captures how you weave emotion and history together. Humanity’s struggles are naturally a combination of frenzied passions, often seen through a cultural or spiritual lens. With that in mind, what are your thoughts on Jewish Historical Fiction? Why is it an important, stand-alone, genre?

Guest: It’s imperative! Fiction always has a seed of truth, based on things we heard at family dinners or read in history class. Those seeds make the story line. Making the stories fiction allows us to read fascinating tales while unwittingly absorbing facts about our people. It’s difficult to read our history. It’s clever to blend it into fiction while still getting truths and facts across.

Host: That’s a wonderful point — by weaving truth into fiction, readers can connect emotionally to history they might otherwise find too painful or heavy to face directly. It’s such an effective way to preserve culture and pass on knowledge through story. Here in the United States, our exposure to Jewish narratives often centers on two main threads — the Holocaust and Fiddler on the Roof-type themes of shtetl life. But as you suggest, there’s so much more to explore, from different eras, places, and diverse perspectives. Could you share some titles of your favorite non-Holocaust Jewish fiction — stories that reveal other sides of Jewish experience and identity?

Guest: My Name Is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok – a Hasidic boy with artistic inclinations which almost destroys his family and life. A little heavy but very well done.

I felt I was hearing Flavius Josephus when I read The Wars of The Jews.  I was there with him. I could see the battles and survival.

Exodus by Leon Uris – I literally took the book to the library (that’s how long ago I read it) and read what I could about the creation of Israel. I looked up the facts such as the name of the real Exodus captain and found where Moshe Dayan was jailed (as used in the book). Ben Gurion was quoted: “…as a piece of propaganda, it’s the greatest thing ever written about Israel.”

The Source by James Michener is a must— I read it while living in Israel. When I realized it was about Megiddo, I drove out there. I searched every inch of the tell. The story was etched in my brain. I studied the tunnel and saw how the rock had been chipped by hand to make way to the source/water, the bringer of life. Trust me, I just stood there and understood the need to live, to survive, for themselves and thousands of years later, for me.

Host: Those are such powerful selections, Lauren, each one not only captures a pivotal moment in Jewish history but also brings it to life through deeply personal storytelling. I love how you described standing at Megiddo after reading The Source — that image of tracing history with your own footsteps is incredibly moving. I appreciate authors who weave accurate history throughout the storyline. While completing research for your novels, did anything particularly affect or move you? Were there any discoveries or moments that truly took you by surprise?

Guest: In Harem, I had 125 pages of research, indicating what they ate, where they slept, their customs, and so much about the difference between Emperor and commoner. No matter what you write, you can’t help but be moved when reading history. How could you know that gold/yellow could only be worn by the Emperor during the Ming Dynasty, and anyone daring to wear it was executed. How could you know that the Star of David worn by Holocaust victims was yellow indicating the color of urine. Without a word, the star was made to be a symbol of the lowest of low. What comes as a surprise? The agility, the rage, and the ability of people to rise up, to become greater than before, yet not as great as they would be in the future.

Host: Lauren, that’s a powerful observation. The resilience of people to rise, transform, and keep striving for something greater is truly timeless. It’s that same human spirit that often defines the heart of historical fiction, even when the setting or circumstances change. As you know, Regency Romance is a favorite genre of mine; however, Jane Austen did not consider herself to be a romance author and she was not labeled as a “Regency” novelist during her time. That being said, Austen’s narratives did impart a sense of physical attraction, of longing. We “Janeites” are familiar with the social taboos of sexual conduct and the corresponding gossip that usually follows. Talk to us about the taboos of today—in a society where apparently “everything goes.”

Guest: It doesn’t go. America is straight-laced compared to most countries. As a writer of erotica, I see people show their disdain for written sensuality. They feel ashamed or, worse, embarrassed about desire. There are affairs – I know, I wrote the book, How to Have an Affair and Not Get Caught. In public, people walked past me at a book signing. But they bought the book online or through my website (laurentallman.com). They don’t talk the talk, but they certainly walk the walk. In short, ‘everything goes’ may happen behind closed doors but speaking to the average Joe about passion doesn’t fly. Taboo means ‘something that is not acceptable’. Passion, want, need, and pure desire have been labeled taboo. How sad.

Host: That’s an insightful statement, because those “unacceptable” feelings have driven some of the greatest stories ever told. Authors lend authenticity to their narratives by not shying away from natural emotions or diverse, complicated scenarios. Which leads me to my next question regarding walking the same ground, so to speak, as your characters. Have you visited any of the locations you’ve written about?

Guest: I try to. I write a monthly column in The Vegas Voice, regarding senior relationships. When I wrote about the hot springs in Cali, I spent the night there. Making love under the stars? I stayed out under the stars, to see if it was doable. (It is doable.) Actually, being at a location gives me far more information than just calling on the phone or looking up a place on the net. And people love to talk and share information that you would never have known otherwise.

Host: Lauren, you are an adventurer! How long have you been writing? When did you first consider yourself an author?

Guest: Oh, forever! Even as a child I could tell a good story. Not that I knew anything about the art but the stories weaved in the senses: rain dripping from tree leaves and hurling to the ground, ivory clouds, the sound of skates on ice. My first book, The Erotic Tales of Renni (not published, long story) was written 35 years ago. When I first published the affair book, I realized I was a true author. Since then I’ve written short stories, my forte, as well as books. At first it was difficult to say “I am an author.”  Someone told me, “You worked hard on your book. You researched, edited, and marketed it. You deserve the title author.”  They were right.

Host: I wholeheartedly agree! Of late, the term “Historical Romance” seems to equate with a narrative containing sexual language or scenes ranging from “clean reads” to soft porn to something rated XXX. While some readers prefer “drawing room romance” to “bedroom romance” —where adult activities are carried out behind closed doors—there is a massive audience that wants the spice level turned up all the way. In your experience; and, speaking in general terms, how does an American audience differ to that of an Israeli audience?

Guest: Day and night. In Israel I can speak about Harem, which has ‘edgy’ erotica, or any of my many short stories, without missing a beat. They commend me for writing an interesting, and truly sensual, story. Here, I had to change the wording on Harem’s cover, from erotic to sensual. Israelis listened, sipped their coffee, and asked questions!

Americans would first say, “I don’t read porn.” And I’d answer, “Neither do I.” They’d stare are me. I often explain, “Erotica is a whisper. It is sensual. It is tender. It can be edgy because sensuality comes in different levels.”

By the way, my books don’t have one “dirty” word in them. A nice Jewish girl from Brooklyn doesn’t say those things. So I turned to erotica which shows you sensuality rather than tells you. I wouldn’t write, “He grabbed her (fill in the blank).”  Rather, I write, “Her skin felt like silk under his fingers.”

Host: I love that you make it your own and have no need to apologize or explain your style.

“I could not sit seriously down to write a serious Romance under any other motive than to save my life, and if it were indispensable for me to keep it up and never relax into laughing at myself or other people, I am sure I should be hung before I had finished the first chapter. No – I must keep my own style and go on in my own way; and though I may never succeed again in that, I am convinced that I should totally fail in any other.” ~ Jane Austen

Host: Lauren, thank you for participating on another fascinating, Author’s Interview! Before we end our chat, is there anything else you’d like to add?

Guest: Yes, thank you. My books can be found on my site laurentallman.com. My podcasts and columns are on The Vegas Voice site (thevegasvoice.net).  Id like to share the last paragraph in Harem:

I jumped out and walked alone until I reached the edge of the mighty wall.  

I breathed in the brisk air. My nostrils flared and my chest burned as a fire waited to burst forth.

The waves crashed but dared not splash onto me.

The wind swirled but did not have the courage to dry my eyes.

I raised my arms, clenched my fist, and shouted out to the ebb and flow of the water.

“I am Long, Chief Eunuch of the Emperor’s Harem. Hear me waters. Hear me wind. Scream my name to the sky and say, I am the dragon.”

Thanks, again, Lauren! And thank you, reading audience! I hope you’ve enjoyed the post and I look forward to hearing your thoughts in the comments below.

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Jane Austen, the Romantics, and the Jews

Mirta Ines Trupp

English poet, Lord Byron and Jane Austen lived through the Napoleonic Wars and the Regency era. Austen was twelve years his senior; her family moved in different social circles. It is very likely the pair never met. They were, however, distantly related by marriage…distantly, being the key word. Bryon’s great-aunt Isabella married William Musgrave. Williams’s great-uncle, the Reverend James Musgrave, was the husband of Catherine Perrot, Jane Austen’s mother’s great-aunt. Yes, the kinship was remarkedly distant; yet, interestingly enough, Austen did find a place for the Musgra(o)ve name in “Persuasion” and “The Watsons.” And, in a letter penned on Monday, September 5, 1796, Jane Austen wrote the following to her sister, Cassandra: Mr. Richard Harvey is going to be married; but as it is a great secret, and only known to half the neighborhood, you must not mention it. The lady’s name is Musgrave.

Austen was certainly familiar with Byron’s titles, such as “Oriental Tales,” “The Giaour,” and “The Corsair.” We can safely assume this is an accurate statement because Miss Anne Elliot and Captain Benwick discuss his work in “Persuasion.” And as for Byron’s recognition of Austen’s work; a recent study of Byron’s book collection revealed the poet owned first editions of “Sense and Sensibility,” “Pride and Prejudice,” and “Emma.”

Austen and Byron were the two great Romantic writers with a sense of humour.” ~Peter W Graham, Professor of English

It is interesting to note that both, Austen and Byron, worked with publisher, John Murray. In a letter to Cassandra, written on Sunday, November 26, 1815, Austen stated: “I did mention the P. R. in my note to Mr. Murray; it brought me a fine compliment in return. Whether it has done any other good I do not know, but Henry thought it worth trying.”

According to the audit of Byron’s library, it was John Murray himself who provided the copy of “Emma”—complete with its dedication to the Prince Regent.

Austen’s work was published while the Romantic movement was still in its infancy. Romanticism was, partly, in response to the previous Age of Reason—the Enlightenment—and had nothing to do with romantic love. It was meant to address our “greatest mental faculty”—our imagination. It was meant to make us think about the world in its entirety, the physical and spiritual realm, and humanity’s relationship with nature. I’m not the first one to say that Austen’s Realism encompasses some of these attributes, or that her insight into human nature overlaps with Byron or Keats. In “Persuasion,” we follow Captain Wentworth’s metamorphic growth as he comes to terms with his faults and convoluted feelings. We rejoice in Captain Benwick’s transformation from a widower, wallowing in grief, to a man who rallies and loves again. We admire Miss Anne Elliot’s impassioned, internal dialogues; we understand her musings of nature and her longing for time alone to ponder and reconcile her thoughts. All attributes of Romanticism…

He is a rogue of course, but a civil one.” ~ Jane Austen

One could speculate, and rightly so, that Jane was referring to Byron in the above-mentioned quote. He was thought to be a degenerate. His own mother thought him to be a wastrel, with no care of money or duty. But Austen was not speaking of Byron. She was referring to her publisher, John Murray. “He offers £450 [for Emma]—but wants to have the copyright of M. P. & S&S included. It will end in my publishing for myself I dare say,” Austen told Cassandra in one of her many letters home.

As an independent author myself, I see that Austen shared something else with Byron. She despaired to see her work in print, but she knew her worth. In a letter dated November 30, 1815, the author wrote her niece, Fanny Knight, saying, “People are more ready to borrow & praise, than to buy—which I cannot wonder at;—but tho’ I like praise as well as anybody, I like what Edward calls pewter too.”

Byron’s association with Murray earned him nearly £20,000 over ten years, in comparison to the approximate £668 that Austen earned during her lifetime. That being said, Byron began to feel exploited by his publisher and confronted him on more than one occasion. Murray was first, and foremost, an astute businessman. Naturally, he was concerned about his customers’ tastes and opinions, especially when his famed poet attracted increasingly negative attention, both in his personal life and with his controversial causes.

I am worth any ‘forty on fair ground’ of the wretched stilted pretenders and parsons of your advertisements.” ~ Lord Byron

Portrait by Philips, supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

George Gordon Byron (1788–1824) was known for his passionate and flamboyant nature. He was a man given to romantic liaisons and extensive traveling. Sometimes, his travel plans were not of his own volition. Facing threats of personal violence—even hanging—Byron was forced to flee England on several occasions. His friendship with the Shelleys is well known, as is his love for supporting the underdog, lending his voice—and his pen—to the Greeks in their fight for freedom from the Ottoman Empire.

In May of 1813, Isaac Nathan, the son of Polish immigrants, placed an advertisement in the London Gentleman’s Magazine regarding a new project entitled, Hebrew Melodies—a collection of music well over one thousand years old. Nathan was not a newcomer to London society. He had been working as a music historian at St James’s Palace and was a singing master to Charlotte, Princess of Wales. It may have been due to this royal connection that Byron’s friend, the Honourable Douglas Kinnaird, suggested he contact the aspiring composer.

Isaac Nathan

Between October 1814 and February 1815, the poet and the musician did, indeed, work together. Their first collaboration included “She Walks in Beauty”—a poem that predated their partnership, although Nathan married this work to a known melody used for Adon Olam, a song for the Sabbath morning service. He set the first volume of Byron’s poems to music for voice and piano in April 1815— presumably for the Pesach (Passover) holiday which was commemorated that year from April 24th through May 2nd. It was printed by T. Davidson of Lombard Street and published by John Murray—and dedicated to the Princess by royal permission. Before absconding from England, Byron bestowed the copyright of the publication to Nathan.

Nathan sent his partner a gift with the following note: My Lord, I cannot deny myself the pleasure of sending your Lordship some holy biscuits, commonly called unleavened bread, and denominated by the Nazarites Motsas, better known in this enlightened age by the epithet Passover cakes; and as a certain angel by his presence, ensured the safety of a whole nation, may the same guardian spirit pass with your Lordship to that land where the fates may have decreed you to sojourn for a while.

The following response was received: Piccadilly Terrace, Tuesday Evening~ My dear Nathan, I have to acknowledge the receipt of your very seasonable bequest, which I duly appreciate; the unleavened bread shall certainly accompany me on my pilgrimage; and, with a full reliance on their efficacy, the motsas shall be to me a charm against the destroying Angel wherever I may sojourn; his serene highness, however will, I hope, be polite enough to keep at desirable distance from my person, without the necessity of besmearing my door posts or upper lintels with the blood of any animal. With many thanks for your kind attention, believe me, my dear Nathan, yours very truly, BYRON

Not all of the poems in Hebrew Melodies are specifically Jewish in theme, but they do express sympathy for the plight of the Jews. Due to his enthusiasm for supporting “foreign liberation struggles,” the poet’s teaming up with Isaac Nathan may not have been much of a surprise to society. George Canning, a British statesman, once said that Byron was, “a steady patriot of the world alone, the friend of every country but his own.” Whether he meant to be, or not, he was immensely popular with Zionists. In fact, Anglo Jews said if their political organization had only begun a few decades earlier, Lord Byron may have been “its champion.”

Zionist poetry owes more to Byron than to any other Gentile poet.” ~ Nahum Sokolow

According to those in the know, there is no evidence that Byron “saw the Jewish tragedy as amenable to a political solution.” Yet, the poem “Oh, Weep For Those!” laments that the Jews have no home. Listen to the melody here

Thanks to https://jewishmiscellanies.com/tag/lord-byron/

The work was later translated into Hebrew by J.L. Gordon as Zemirot Yisrael (1884) and into Yiddish by Nathan Horowitz (1926). Thanks to these translations, settlers of the First Aliyah (1881 – 1903) sang, “Oh! Weep for Those!” to their own—improvised—tune. Theodor Herzl, the father of modern Zionism, may have even quoted it at the Second Zionist Congress 1898.

Byron’s influence on his own generation of Russians surpassed that of Tolstoy. ~ Vladimir Jabotinsky

Having received such accolades and support from Jewish leaders, one would think that Lord Byron was Klal Israel’s chief advocate. That, sadly, was not the case. Byron’s main interest was championing Greek independence and, in that cause, Greek Christians did not favor their Jewish neighbors. In 1821, all one thousand Jewish inhabitants were massacred in Tripolitsa, along with their Muslims counterparts. Byron did not repudiate the action. A few years later, in 1823, Byron wrote, “The Age of Bronze”—a poem that raged against land barons, including Anglo Jews such as Rothschilds, as “living on the blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions.” It is said that Byron was well aware of the flaws in some of his philosophies and causes. His willingness to look past them is the dark side of Romanticism, where reason is completely overwhelmed by Man’s ability to do evil.

Theodore Herzl

That said, Herzl, and many of his followers, believed that Zionism owed a debt of gratitude to Romanticism. These authors provided the inspiration—the impetus—for Jews finally returning to their homeland. It seems that, despite religious, political, or geographic differences, Lord Byron remained popular with Jewish readers. Perhaps it was because they could identify with the man’s passionate nature and questioning mind.

The Romantics encouraged us to feel the full spectrum and intensity of human emotion: joy, grief, love, anger, veneration, jealousy, pride… They asked us to observe an object of beauty, or empathize with someone’s pain, in order to transcended rational thought; and in doing so, to connect with the essence of humanity.

In this day and age, where we text and post and rage without thought of the pain we may cause—or the Truth we may be concealing—I wonder if we shouldn’t take a page from the Romantics, and connect to something greater than ourselves. Just the ramblings of an Independent Author…

With love,

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The JBC’s Network Conference~ On a Day Such as This

Mirta Ines Trupp

Even in the midst of all this anguish, we still wake up and thank God for returning our souls to our bodies—such is His faith in us. We fulfill our commitments, never setting aside the pain, never forgetting the fear—knowing we are not alone. Klal Israel is our meshpucha.

A new day will rise, life will go on. Everyone cries, don’t cry alone…” Written Keren Peles, interpreted by Yuval Raphael

For several months, I have been preparing for the 27th annual Jewish Book Council Network Conference. This is a whirl-wind, high-tech event where traditional and independent authors are allowed exactly two-minutes to pitch their books to orga­ni­za­tions across North America, including JCCs, syn­a­gogues, Hil­lel groups, Jewish Federations, and cul­tur­al cen­ters.

My initial draft was revised and rewritten numerous times even before I had my coaching session with a program advisor. There were Zoom meetings for technical support, ensuring visual and audio were functioning at optimum performance levels—not to mention the many questions and concerns presenters had regarding virtual backgrounds, appropriate attire, and what the program director meant by ‘Up Next’ and ‘Up Now.’

After my practice session and the group orientation, I felt energized and ready to go. My office was reorganized and spruced up. I changed my outfit three times. I adjusted the camera at least as many times. I went to sleep…well, I went to bed, but couldn’t rest. I kept repeating my lines and thinking of different ways I might change my cadence, projection, or tone.

Before tossing the bedsheets aside the next morning, I murmured, “Modah ani lefanecha…” Thank you, God. I had been waiting for a day such as this! I was excited. I was motivated. I was going to nail my presentation. It was only a few minutes later when I heard the devastating news. A young couple had been murdered in the nation’s capital. Senselessly. Without cause. Without any consequence to the situation in the Middle East.

After October 7th, after watching endless protests, after hearing antisemitic vitriol being spewed from the mouths of useful idiots, I thought my heart was beyond breaking.

I was wrong.

At some point, I went online and checked my emails. I wondered if the conference would be postponed—cancelled, even—but then remembered that putting off a simcha or joyful event was not in keeping with Jewish tradition. Was that only for weddings? No, it wasn’t; but, more to the point, we have been here before. We don’t retreat. We don’t back down.

The conference was not cancelled.

The Jewish task is not to fear the real world but to enter and transform it.” Rabbi Lord Sacks

At the appointed time, the authors joined the webinar. We supported each other in our grief and shock, and we went on. I heard the others present their stories; some poignant, some humorous. Each, at its core, a testament to our resilience as a people.

At the end, we all held up our books, those little pieces of ourselves that we are bravely sending out into the world, and took a group picture. I was so nervous! I guess the point is that I shouldn’t have been. After all, I was speaking to my meshpucha…

The following is what I managed to say within the allotted time:

Hi! I love everything about Jane Austen and Fan Fiction. By incorporating Jewish storylines into Austen’s work, I hope to showcase that Jews were an integral part of every-day, Regency society. By 1815, the year that “Emma” was first published, Jewish communities had re-established themselves all throughout England—many in the upper echelons of society. I’m thinking of the Rothschilds, Goldsmids, and Montefiores. “The Jews of Donwell Abbey: An Emma Vagary” allows readers to escape to the charm of the Regency era, but there is so much more.

Miss Harriet Smith, a secondary character in Austen’s original story, faces judgement and scorn due to her humble—and questionable—circumstances. Characters struggle with romantic angst and foolish misunderstandings, pettiness and bigotry too; however, in keeping with Austen’s morality and Jewish teachings, there also is spiritual growth. Yes, Harriet finds herself attending fine dinners, assemblies, and soirees, but it’s her inner battles that provide an element of introspection and self-determination. What is more Jewish than that?

Jane Austen wrote: “Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.” These words encourage us to recall our triumphs—even over small, every-day challenges. Given the times, our community craves such assurance and inspiration.

The Jews of Donwell Abbey delivers a touch a whimsy, but it also inspires pride and cultural cohesion. It nurtures that quintessential Jewish quality called: hope. Let’s indulge in an afternoon of tea and conversation! We’ll talk about Jews in the Regency era and their often— overlooked—contributions to society.

Having had time to think back on the day’s events, I might have changed a word or two. With all due respect to Austen and her well-meaning advice, I’d update the statement to say:

Think only of the past, as it remembrance gives you strength and propels you forward.

We will overcome this darkness, we will dance again, and laugh again, and write heartwarming love stories. Baruch dayan ha’emet and may Yaron and Sarah’s memory be for a blessing.

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Soap Operas, Shakespeare & Secrets: An Excerpt from “Go On Pretending” by Alina Adams

Mirta Ines Trupp

It was recently pointed out to me that I was born in the “early 1900s.”

Wait! What?

You could have knocked me over with Mr. Carson’s Bowler hat…

Obviously, I know my own birthday—I know that I’m considered a “baby boomer”— but, come on now!

Some of you are from my generation. How does that statement strike you? The “early 1900s” gives Downton Abbey vibes, doesn’t it? Not hip-hugger bell bottoms, olive green and orange kitchens, or mountain-high platform shoes!

That being said, I have to admit the speaker was right. I was born in 1962, in the middle of what is known as the “Mid-Century Modern” period; and, while I typically gravitate to the late Victorian or early Edwardian eras for entertainment, many others think of Mad Men, The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, or Call the Midwife. That’s why when author, Alina Adams told me about her new release, I thought she’d be a fabulous guest host. Along with her personal family history and immigrant experience, her professional background lends itself perfectly to this complex and conflicted era. That’s why I am honored to welcome Alina back to the blog!

We have previously collaborated, as some of you may recall, such as in this author’s interview promoting her book The Nesting Dolls, but today, Alina will be sharing an excerpt of her latest novel, “Go On Pretending.” It’s scheduled to be released on May 1, 2025.

I first discovered the author when I read The Fictitious Marquis. The Romance Writers of America named this Jewish Regency Romance the first Own-Voices Jewish historical; however, along with being a New York Times best-selling author, Alina is a soap opera industry insider and a pioneer in online storytelling and continuing drama. Throughout her career, Alina has worked as a television writer, researcher, website producer, content producer, and creative director. So without further ado—ladies and gentleman:

ALINA ADAMS!

I realize this blog is usually about romance in the Regency, Victorian and Edwardian eras (with some sprinkling of Jews), but I’m hoping readers will indulge me just a little for this guest post. I promise there will still be romance! Only it will be more modern. The 1950s, to be precise. So not too modern. And it will still feature romance. Plus some Shakespeare, to boot! (Which, I realize is Elizabethean… so… closer.) But there will definitely be Jews!

In fair New York City, where we set out scene, Rose Janowitz (that’s the definitely Jewish part) has just started working for the radio soap opera “Guiding Light” and it’s brilliant, mercurial creator, Irna Phillips, when she is forced to confront the drama, intrigue and romance of her own life – or lack thereof. What happens next is not at all what anyone expected…

There were llama droppings on the marble stairs.

Rose couldn’t have been happier.

“Props!” she shouted, leading to a chorus of chuckles and groans. The studio where they staged The Guiding Light for fifteen minutes live every weekday, year round, also broadcast periodic, experimental television programs. Said programs featured a disproportionate number of animal acts. As the building had no elevator, the cast, sets and assorted creatures arrived via marble staircase. This not only made a clatter – while they broadcast, Rose stationed boys at the top and bottom to stop anyone from interrupting; an aspect of Rose’s job Irna had neglected to mention – but also proved a magnet for fecal droppings of many sizes and textures. There was an ongoing building argument about which department’s responsibility clean-up fell under. Most recently, it had been dumped on – pardon the expression – props. Hence, Rose’s call.

 While such matters, technically, did not fall under her job description, Rose didn’t mind. She was happy to do whatever it took to keep the wheels of production churning. Because, as she’d promised Irna, the show came first. Everybody from Network Head to actors with a single line, not to mention the sound effects crew, the director and engineers, put their personal needs on the back burner and rallied to ensure their product was the best it could be from the moment the organ announced its histrionic beginning, until the music adroitly faded “until next time.” Rose would have expected to experience the height of worker solidarity at proudly socialist WEVD. It turned out, though, that there was nothing like money to be made to get everybody enthusiastically rowing in the same direction.

 Money, of course, was also the source of some of their greatest conflicts. Not among the staff, but among those who created the shows and those who controlled them. Sponsors loved getting into the act, demanding characters use their products, orate about using their products, and marvel at the convenience and thrift of using their products. Irna was a wizard at scripting heart-clenching drama to take place amidst a variety of cleaning supplies. If a villain wasn’t being threatened to have his mouth washed out with soap (only one brand would do!), then the heroine was hurrying to get her laundry done before her husband arrived home and learned she’d been out all day, engaging in who knows what mischief. How lucky she was that this brand of detergent took half the time for twice the results!

Their bigger problems stemmed from all that they weren’t allowed to do by Standards and Practices. According to “daytime morality,” good men and women could not smoke. This infuriated Irna, who saw thousands of dollars in potential sponsorship monies wafting away like, well, smoke. It was Rose who came up with having the bad characters be the smokers, but of having the good ones constantly remark on it. “Go, and take your (brand of) cigarettes with you!” and “I knew you’d been there. I could smell your (brand of) cigarette the second I arrived!” That way, they wouldn’t be going against the censors, but the product would still be associated with the voices of heroes and heroines.

They faced the same obstacles with alcohol. Even beer and sherry were off limits. Tea or coffee were the mandated beverages of choice, no matter what the crises. (They could always select from hot or iced, in case anyone complained of feeling creatively shackled.) Inspired by prohibition, Rose suggested to Irna that she write any drinking as either religious or medicinal. When Rose submitted that having Jewish characters would make a sip on Friday a directive from God Himself – what pious censor could deny that? – she actually pried a smile out of her redoubtable boss.

Their biggest problem, however, was sex. They couldn’t show it. This was radio, not the movies. They couldn’t speak of it. This was radio, not… the bible. (Irna had chortled at that one, too, which was the biggest compliment Rose could hope for.) On The Romance Of Helen Trent, one of the few radio soaps not created by Irna, where the titular heroine had been proving that “romance can begin at thirty-five” for seventeen years; while managing to remain thirty-five – they spoke of the “emotional understanding” that could only come with marriage. And not a second before. They meant sex. Everyone knew they meant sex. But no one was allowed to say it. Irna gave notice she wasn’t going to adopt that awkward turn of phrase for her own shows.

So, on The Guiding Light, characters begged each other to “hold me and never let me go.” They embraced. Quite a bit. They stared into each other’s eyes. Sometimes from one day to the next. And then they somehow ended up pregnant. Viewers filled in the gaps on their own.

Rose wished she could do the same. She’d told Irna the truth when she answered she wasn’t married. But she’d never confirmed the implicit promise that she never would be. She’d like to be. No matter how many times Mama told Rose she’d ruined whatever chance she’d had – what man would want her after what she’d done, what woman would want a man who would; it was quite the recursive question – Rose never quite managed to give up hope. She was a year short of thirty now. If Helent Trent could “find romance” at an even more decrepit age, why not Rose Janowitz?

She spent her days surrounded by men. For a woman’s genre, daytime drama – save Irna – was suspiciously dominated by men. Men at Procter & Gamble, men at the network, men at the advertising agency, men in the production booth, men on the studio floor. There were men in tailored suits and men in shirtsleeves. Men in fedoras and men in caps. Men wearing the latest No. 89 by Floris cologne, and men who smelled of the Ivory P&G gifted each employee at Christmastime. There were men wherever Rose looked. So why was she still alone?

Naturally, a majority of those men were married. Rose wasn’t ready to go the mistress route yet – though she knew Irna had a stable of such philanderers in her life. Irna preferred doctors and lawyers, just like on her shows. If Rose were twenty, the pickings might have been broader. But men her age were interested in younger women. And older men were either divorced – which came with children and alimony… and bitterness – or… well, Mama said Rose was picky. As tall as she was, she had to accept that some men would be shorter. As opinionated as she was, she had to accept that silence could be golden. And certainly she must never talk about how much money she was making. No man would stand to be emasculated in such a manner. Yet, after all that, remember, he had to also be Jewish. Anything less would be unthinkable.

The worst part was, Mama was right. Rose was too picky. She could put up with short. She could put up with poor. She could put up with old. The one thing she could not put up with was: boring. Compared to the hustle, bustle, constant crises and close calls of production, the conversation proffered by the majority of men Rose met for dinner dates left much to be desired. Mama said it was because Rose challenged them. Rose should be sitting quietly and listening. Yes, even when the men were wrong. Especially when they were wrong. A good man, Mama lectured, didn’t expect the woman across from him to know more about a given subject than he did. And he certainly didn’t appreciate her demonstrating it. When a man waxed poetic about a film he’d seen, he didn’t need Rose breaking down the dialogue and scene structure. When he talked facts and figures about his job, he didn’t need to know that Rose also oversaw a budget – and it was greater than his. And he definitely had no interest in anything she had to say about politics! Rose found the men she stepped out with boring. She could only imagine what they thought about her.

Luckily, she had very little time to dwell on it. Irna lived up to her promise. She kept Rose so preoccupied, the only love lives Rose agonized over were Bill and Bertha “Bert” Bauer as they battled that floozy, Gloria, and whether widowed reporter Joe should choose Nurse Peggy, whom his children preferred, or ex-jailbird Meta, who made Joe’s heart flutter. Irna was thinking bigger than radio. She’d already produced one television soap-opera, These Are My Children, which sputtered out after less than a month of episodes on NBC. Yet Irna remained convinced the fledgling medium was her serials’ future. To that end, she was battling to convince Procter & Gamble to resettle The Guiding Light on the small screen. To assuage their doubts about its viability, Irna used her own money to produce a pilot. When it failed to convince her sponsors, she set to work on a second one.

This meant Irna had less time for the radio version. Outside of writing, which Irna still guarded ferociously, the bulk of responsibilities were now Rose’s. Rose raced from advertiser meeting to rehearsal to casting session. When the latter was plunked in her lap, Rose switched all auditions to the telephone. It allowed her to sift through paperwork without the actor noticing her distraction and getting – rightfully – offended. It also kept Rose from basing her decisions on appearance. It was difficult to picture a dashing, romantic leading man when the applicant was balding and barely came up to Rose’s chest, or an ingenue when the lady reading for the part looked more appropriate for grand opera. Since all that mattered was how they sounded, Rose holding auditions over the phone was more likely to yield unprejudiced results. Which was what was best for the show. Because the show always came first.

On the schedule for today were tryouts for a new role, that of ne-er-do-well Edmund Bard, who’d be coming to town to set every young and not so young lady’s heart aflame, toy with them mercilessly, then be revealed as the illegitimate son of a pillar of the community. It was a fun, juicy role, and Rose was looking forward to hearing her candidates’ takes on it.

The first six proved a disappointment. They were playing it too evil right from the start. There was no tension, no surprise, nothing to reveal or learn. Rose couldn’t imagine listeners at home not seeing right through the literal bastard and wondering why the women of The Guiding Light couldn’t do so, as well.

For the seventh applicant, Rose didn’t even glance at his name until after he’d been speaking for almost a minute. She didn’t even listen to the words – she’d heard them so many times – until she realized that – what was his name, now? Cain… Jonas Cain – was offering a completely different interpretation from the men who’d preceded him. Where they’d snarled, he purred. Where they’d bellowed, he murmured. Where they’d insisted on seduction, he made the listener want to be seduced. No, he made the listener ache to be.

“Mr… Cain,” Rose needed to clear her throat, lest her voice crack.

“Yes, Miss Janowitz?” His speaking voice was the same as his auditioning voice. Which meant he was either always on, or always himself.

“That was… that was quite… good.”

“I thank you for saying so.” Yes, he was definitely always… something. Impossible to believe he didn’t realize precisely what effect his speaking voice had on the listener. And that he wielded it for all it could do for him. Rose didn’t blame him. She’d do the same in his position.

“May I ask what inspired your take on this character? It’s so different from how every other actor saw him.”

“Is it now?”

A drawl? A bass clarinet? A full-throated pipe organ? Just what was it about this man’s voice that made Rose vibrate from hip-bone to hip-bone as surely as if he’d plucked a string, like Rose might melt through her desk-chair, dissolving towards the carpet.

“Yes.” This time, she swallowed instead of coughing. Hardly less obvious.

“Well, it’s obviously Shakespeare, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Edmund Bard?” His laugh rolled in like a fog diffusing throughout her senses. “You gave the whole game away right there. He’s Edmund the Bastard from King Lear.” Jonas quoted, “To both these sisters have I sworn my love; each jealous of the other, as the stung are of the adder, which of them shall I take?” When Rose didn’t reply quickly enough; primarily because she’d run out of coughs and gulps and felt pressed to come up with an alternative; speaking was out of the question, his confidence wavered. “Did I get it wrong, then? How terribly embarrassing.”

“No.” Rose found her voice, because his had briefly tottered. “You’re one hundred percent correct. When Irna – Miss Phillips – when she told me about the character, I suggested the name. As sort of a little joke between the two of us.”

“Ah! So you’re the Shakespearean scholar.”

“Hardly!” Her snort was instinctive. If utterly unladylike.

“It was precisely the guidance I required to understand this man. He commits villainous acts, seducing married women, attempting to murder his father and brother, but he does not see himself as the villain. After being cast aside for an accident of birth, he feels righteously justified to, as they say: top the legitimate. I grow; I prosper: Now, gods, stand up for bastards! Surely, a sentiment we’ve all experienced. Whether or not we’d admit it.”

Was that the moment Rose fell in love with him? In later years, decades, centuries, that was the seed she traced it all back to. The moment when Jonas Cain – with a pinch of help from William Shakespeare – put words, put poetry, to the feelings Rose had been pressing down her entire life. Because the one time she’d let them roam free, she’d ruined everything.

She’d read those words. If she hadn’t read King Lear she wouldn’t have known of Edmund, and if she hadn’t known of Edmund, she never would have suggested that name to Irna. And if she’d never suggested that name to Irna, what would Rose and Mr. Cain be speaking about now?

She’d read those words. But she’d never heard them outside a well-meaning college professor who made as apt an Edmund as she did a Juliet. Rose had read the words, she’d heard the words recited. She’d never realized they were about her until they came undulating over the phone line at her office on the East Side of Manhattan.

Rose might have fallen in love with Jonas then and there. But the only thing she said was, “You’ve got the job.”

Rose sent the standard contract to Mr. Cain’s agent, perplexed when it was returned promptly, without a change. She wondered if her new employee had inexpert representation – it was an unknown to her agency – or whether they were desperate to see the document counter-  signed before… what?

What could they be hiding? She’d heard the voice. The voice was all that mattered. The worst Rose could conceive of was Jonas Cain might be a pseudonym, and he was employed on another show which forbade him from performing on competing programs. But Rose listened to a lot of radio. She felt certain that, if she’d heard his voice before, she’d have proven incapable of forgetting it.

On the morning Jonas Cain was scheduled to come in for his first broadcast, Rose made a point of not dressing any differently. It was just another day. No longer did a chic autumn coat cost more than her weekly salary. Thanks to Irna, Rose could afford a closet full of crepe and taffeta tunic dresses with their touted slenderizing waists and straight three-gore skirts.  She’d paid extra to have the lapels and pockets dotted in rhinestones, as per the current fashion. The sole reason Rose chose the lightweight green over the navy fine-ribbed was because the day was shaping up warm. She didn’t want to overheat. It wasn’t because the white jabot of the latter made Rose appear older – she saved those for meetings with the sponsors – while the overbodice of the former brought out the hazel in her otherwise dull brown eyes. A pair of black Capezios with sharply pointed toe-tips completed the ensemble. Rose opted for flatties. No reason to appear any taller than she needed to.

Because one thing that Rose had already braced herself for was the possibility of Jonas Cain being short. She had no idea why a disproportionate number of deep-voiced men seemed to be challenged in the height – and follicle – department. Maybe a compressed entity was vital to generate such a profound resonance? Rose told herself she didn’t wish to intimidate Mr. Cain by towering over him. Not on his first day.

“Jonas Cain is…” the voice of the unspeakably competent assistant Rose met the day of her interview and now knew to be named Hazel, that she was twenty-four years old, working to pay her husband, Ike’s, way through medical school, counting the days until she could quit and just be a normal wife and, hopefully soon, mother to a brood of baby Ikes, echoed through the intercom on Rose’s desk, “… he’s here.” In later years, Rose would wonder if her taking heed of the unusually long pause in Hazel’s announcement might have changed anything. Would she have been better prepared for what was to come? Might she have circumvented it in some way? Did she wish she had? Would she have wanted it any other way?

“Send him in,” Rose chirped, oblivious to the message Hazel was trying to transmit.

“How do you do, Miss Janowitz? Jonas Cain, at your service.”

Rose had been in the process of rising to greet him. She’d just pressed her palms into the desktop, which came in handy when she nearly lurched forward, only stopping herself from plunging face first by the fact that her arms were already locked at the elbows.

She’d braced herself for Jonas Cain being short. She’d braced herself for him being ancient, him being a child half her age. She’d braced herself for his having a face Mama called “perfect for radio,” and a host of other deficiencies, as well.

She hadn’t braced herself for him being a Negro.

For soap operas, viewers had to tune in tomorrow to find out “what happens next.”

For readers, though, here is the rest of the story….

To pre-order “Go On Pretending,” please click on the link: https://www.historythroughfiction.com/go-on-pretending

Thank you!

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The Musings of an Austenesque Novelist~ Following the Crumbs: Part II

Mirta Ines Trupp

In “The Jews of Donwell Abbey: An Emma Vagary,” the spot light is on Miss Harriet Smith. As stated—so succinctly, I might add—by Mr. Knightley in the original novel, she is the “natural daughter of nobody knows whom.” Austen’s famed protagonist and resident know-it-all, Miss Emma Woodhouse, assumes she knows her prodigy’s genealogy; however, as the story unfolds, her imagination does not serve her well. Yes, I will say it: Miss Woodhouse is rather clueless. More to the point—and the reason for this post—Mr. Knightley’s admonishment provided enough encouragement to write my own version of Austen’s “Emma.”

No, that’s not quite right. I wasn’t encouraged. I was provoked!

In my previous post, I referenced Hansel and Gretel from the famed Grimm’s fairy tale. We all remember how these youngsters left a trail of bread crumbs, hoping others would follow. Whether or not Austen meant to tease future authors of fan fiction with a few suggestions, or hints, is irrelevant. I relished the opportunity to gather said crumbs and gently fold them into a new version, one that incorporated a Jewish storyline. It was a natural progression for me, but I understand that some readers might question the legitimacy of such a plot. They may ask if the Jewish population in Regency England could merit such diversity and inclusion in an Austenesque novel.

The answers were waiting for me as I tumbled down the rabbit hole…

Sometime around 1690—when exiled Jews were allowed to return to England— a synagogue for the Ashkenazi community was constructed in London. At the time, it was known as Duke’s Place Synagogue, and was probably one of the earliest of its kind.

Six or seven years later, additional land was acquired for the establishment of a Jewish cemetery. By 1722, the congregation had outgrown the original structure and a new building was consecrated, thanks mostly to the philanthropy of Moses Hart. Some six decades later, between 1788 and 1790, with the influx of Eastern European immigrants, the Great Synagogue of London was redesigned in order to accommodate its growing numbers. The principal donor, this time, was Judith Levy, daughter of Moses Hart.

Of course, there were other Jewish communities outside of London. Synagogues, schools, and cemeteries could be found in Cornwall, Dover, Exeter, Plymouth, Ramsgate, and Sussex to name just a few. Prayer boards were typically paced in the entryways of these sacred spaces, the ancient words were made readily available for all who wished to pray on behalf of the royal family.

A Society for Visiting the Sick was established sometime around 1722, as well as A Society for the Cure of the Soul (Hebrath Refuath haNephesh). There was as an Orphan Aid Society (Hebrath Gidul Yethomim) and a society for “dowering poor brides.” Another group helped the destitute with clothing and other provisions, and a Society for Ransoming Captives (Hebrath Pidion Shevuyim) was created to “help those reduced to slavery by the barbarous customs of Mediterranean or Muscovite warfare.”

Credit: jewishmiscellanies.com

Such institutions had always formed an important part of the Jewish community, but as Anglo-Jews strove to assimilate, and be accepted in English society, it became evident that something else had to be done in order to retain—and to motivate—the community to remain religiously observant. In 1789, David Levi published a new daily prayer book (a siddur), the first publication of Hebrew liturgy with English translation.

Therefore, the answer to the posited question is: Yes! There was sufficient numbers of Jews to merit a Jewish storyline in an Austenesque novel—if, indeed, one actually needs to rationalize or justify the need for a Jewish storyline, but I digress.

Credit: Pinterest

In fact, the Jewish population of England was over 18,000 by the time Austen introduced her readers to Miss Emma Woodhouse and friends in 1815. By 1880, the number soared to over 60,000! While a normal person might be satisfied with that level of research, I’m here to tell you that my quest was not yet complete.

My ancestors left Imperial Russia somewhere in between 1899 and 1910. They immigrated to Argentina. During that same time period, Ellis Island was receiving wave after wave of immigrants from all across Eastern Europe. But what was going on over in Western Europe, and how could I use those events to get my fictional character, Doctor Yosef Martsinkovsky, to Surrey, England?

Austen fans are sure to know about The Napoleonic Wars, which lasted from 1803-1815. These conflicts had monumental ramifications throughout Europe at large, but the timeframe didn’t coincide with my story. I needed something of similar magnitude; and so, I followed the trail through the rabbit hole once again…

The Seven Years’ War was an attempt to prove dominance. The “usual players” involved included: Prussia, Hanover (a separate state at the time) and Britain battling against Austria, France, Spain and Imperial Russia.

The conflict raged on from 1756-1763, at the same time the British colonies in North America were making their voices heard.

Over in Prussia, Frederick the Great was busy…being not that great. His “Revised General Privilege” doctrine of 1750 allowed for the exploitation of successful Prussian Jews and the persecution of all others. In many instances, the population was worse off than their contemporizes in other lands; and, now — whether facing danger on the battlefield or facing danger at home—these Jewish communities were at the point of extinction.

The Seven Years’ War is often referred to as the first true world war. Upon its conclusion, and after all the treaties were signed, the world was a different place. Taking advantage of the First Partition of Poland in 1772, Frederick the Great expelled thousands of Jews from their homeland. This research, by the way, not only helped draft my outline, but also corroborates my family’s understanding of how our Trupp ancestors migrated from Lithuania to Ukraine. Again…I digress.

Having resolved two points that needed substantiating, I was ready to move on. Please take a moment to enjoy the excerpt below, where Mr. Knightly addresses the party at Hartfield and introduces Doctor Martsinkovsky to one and all.

Excerpt from The Jews of Donwell Abbey: An Emma Vagary :

Mr. Knightley began to pace, attracting the company’s full attention. “My father, the Colonel,” he declared, “owed his life to Doctor Martsinkovsky.”

“You have the right of it, good sir!” cried Mr. Woodhouse.

“Oh, dear! I do hope you will spare us some of the details, Mr. Knightley,” cried Miss Bates. “Pray remember we have yet to dine. Is that not right, Mama?” she said, patting her matriarch’s wrinkled hand. “Would that you could save the details for when you and the other gentlemen are enjoying your port and cigars. We are rather delicate, are we not Mama, and do not wish to hear that which might ruin our appetite.”

Mr. Knightley did not offer a reply, though he did perform a curt bow. Harriet felt a great story was about to unfold as the gentleman began his discourse, inviting one and all to recall the summer of ‘57.

He asked the party to recall how great armies had been on the move, not only on the continent but across the ocean in the Americas. Complex strategies had moved the King’s men like chess pieces upon a checkered board. Mr. Knightley reminded those old enough to remember how Austria united itself with France and how Frederick II, in turn, aligned his kingdom with the English Crown.

“And with that, Prussia’s invasion of Saxony brought the leading nations of Europe to war,” said Mr. Knightley. “Frederick not only required English funds to support his campaign, he required English troops.”

“How could anyone of us forget, sir?” asked Mr. Weston. “Only think of the men we lost—just in this parish alone—I will never forgive the king’s own son for causing so much pain. The coward!”

“Do allow Mr. Knightley to continue, dearest,” said Mrs. Weston, laying a soothing hand upon her husband.

“It is true; the Duke of Cumberland was sent to command the Hanoverian Army. His regiment, the 1st Battalion of Grenadiers, included my father. The Grenadiers were sent to support the Hanoverians—nearly 40,000 strong—to prevent French troops from crossing the Weser River. My father proposed that men be strategically placed to defend the Rhine; however, the duke rejected the plan!” Mr. Knightley’s fist came crashing down upon a side table. “This miscalculation cost them the day and much more.”

“Mr. Knightley, you are not yourself,” said Miss Woodhouse. “I insist you sit down and have a cup of my father’s good wine. If you need to hear my capitulation, sir, here it is: I surrender! There is no need to continue in this manner—all to explain how a foreigner of no consequence came to live among us.”

“Emma, my dear!” cried Mrs. Weston. “That is badly done!”

“How do I offend, Mrs. Weston? As hostess, is it not my duty to see to my guests’ comfort? Why spoil Serle’s dinner with all this talk of war?”

“I fear Harriet has asked one too many questions,” Mrs. Goddard supplied. “Perhaps it would be best, dear, to refrain from posing another.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Goddard; however, in the interest of time, I will endeavor to measure my words and bring closure to the tale,” Mr. Knightley said and bowed to Miss Woodhouse. “The Duke of Cumberland’s hapless orders did indeed lose the battle at Hastenbeck. His retreat, as Mr. Weston intimated, was a matter of shame and needless casualties—among the wounded, of course, was my father.”

“Were his injuries severe, sir?” Harriet asked, unwittingly prolonging Miss Woodhouse’s vexation.

“To be sure, it never fails to astonish how my father survived that day, shattered and beaten as he was.”

“It was all due to the good doctor,” cried Mr. Woodhouse. “I may be in my dotage, but I know what I have seen and the healing I have personally experienced by that man’s hand.”

“Now, Papa, there is no need—”

“Miss Smith,” Mr. Woodhouse continued, “if only I could make you understand the consideration given to cleanliness—the rituals observed by his people. Tell them, Mr. Knightley! Tell them, for my proclivities must always appear foolish to one and all.”

“Oh no, sir!” cried Miss Bates. “That we cannot allow! Is that not so, Mama?” She enunciated loudly into her mother’s ear, though the lady was beside her. “Mr. Woodhouse says he is foolish. Such condemnation of a gentleman we hold in high esteem—why the idea…no! Never that!”

The gentleman waited until the lady had done. Harriet could only admire Mr. Knightley’s patience and solicitude, knowing that the party intended to hear the full of the story and that the gentleman was inclined to comply. In an effort to acknowledge Miss Bates’ protest, Mr. Knightley offered her a brief smile before continuing with his explanation.

“Thanks must be given to the good men who carried their injured to the nearest military outpost, marching across blackened fields littered with the remnants of the battle. When my father awoke, he found himself being prepared for the surgical theatre, such as it was. He noted a surgeon washing his hands as he moved from one patient to the next. The Prussians mocked the man, making gestures and smirking behind his back as he approached my father’s gurney. He, in fact, was not a surgeon, as my father surmised. Yosef Martsinkovsky introduced himself as the physician assigned to the British troops. The Prussians preferred to be attended by their own kind.”

“I do not understand, sir,” said Harriet. “Was he not Prussian, himself?”

“Indeed,” replied Mr. Knightley, glaring at Miss Woodhouse. “He was Prussian by birth; however, the doctor was considered a foreigner because he was an Israelite in faith.”

Read more about the good doctor, Miss Woodhouse, and Miss Smith in, “The Jews of Donwell Abbey: An Emma Vagary.” Get your copy here!

With love,

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The Musings of an Austenesque Novelist~ Following the Crumbs: Part I

Mirta Ines Trupp

In The Jews of Donwell Abbey: An Emma Vagary, I weave a unique backstory into Jane Austen’s novel and allow Miss Harriet Smith to come to the forefront. Austen gives us a glimpse at this secondary character, this “natural daughter of nobody knows whom.” Readers must form their own conclusions—until the very end, when Austen provides a sentence or two in an attempt to wrap things up. But does she attempt to satisfy our curiosity—or does she mean to tease? In the famous Grimm’s fairy tale, Hansel and Gretel drop crumbs along their trail, leaving a path for others to follow. Can you guess where I’m going with this? Naturally, I had to follow the crumbs Austen left behind. There was another story to tell—I was sure of it—one with new characters and a Jewish storyline.

Austen provides a scenario in “Emma” that set my creative wheels in motion. I don’t want to reveal too much; but, for those of you who have read the original novel, the chapter that sends Mr. Elton off to London with Miss Smith’s portrait in hand provided my first crumb. A plot unfolded easily enough in my mind. The challenge was to ensure that historical events matched Austen’s timeline. You see, in other novels, I’ve used my own family’s immigrant experience to authenticate my protagonist’s journey. However, the exodus from Imperial Russia did not coincide with the Jewish population in Regency England. I had to look elsewhere. The timeframe allowed for a population of a majority of Sephardic Jews and a smattering of Ashkenazim of German descent.

This second crumb sent me whirling further down the rabbit hole until the Weiss family was created and I placed them in London. They were an immigrant family; their original home, I decided, was in the Judengassin—the Jewish ghetto in Frankfurt. I had to find the impetus for their migration, something catastrophic that opened the ghetto gates and allowed for their freedom. And here is the conundrum that all authors face. A plot is conceived, the players are named, but the story cries out for historical accuracy. It may only be a few sentences; but, as any author will tell you, that sense of time and place requires hours and hours of research. And that was precisely what happened to me.

Without batting an eye, I could tell you about the Jewish Colonization Association and the immigration from Imperial Russia to Argentina. I could describe the lives of Jewish gauchos or the “cuentaniks” of Buenos Aires. What I can’t—or couldn’t—do is explain how immigrants fleeing Germany’s infamous Judengasse (Jewish Street) found their way into an Austenesque novel.

Research, my dear reader, research…

In Heinrich Heine’s book, “The Rabbi of Bacherach,” the narrative unfolds in the 15th century where Kaiser Friedrich III and Pope Pius II demand that twenty Jewish families be removed from their homes and resettled in the Judengasse. By the year 1500, approximately 100 people live in the area nicknamed, “The New Egypt.” One hundred people in 14 houses. By 1600, there were 3,000 people living in 197 houses, wooden structures that were crammed together, story upon story until they blocked out the sun, reduced air flow, and created hazards that resulted in massive fires—three of historic consequence in 1711, 1721, and 1774.

Rabbi Naphtali Cohen

Rabbi Naphtali Cohen was called to Frankfurt am Main after his house was destroyed on January 14, 1711. Summoned to testify before the court, it was noted that the fire consumed the entire Jewish ghetto, but the rabbi—known for his Kabbalistic practice—had had the audacity to survive. Not only did he survive, the kabbalist was accused of “preventing the extinguishing of the fire by ordinary means.” The rabbi was accused of witchcraft and summarily thrown into prison. He was set free by renouncing his title and practice.

Juda Low Baruch, otherwise known as the poet, Ludwig Borne, lived in the ghetto during the late 1700s. His memories are bleak, to say the least. “The highly celebrated light of the eighteenth century has not yet been able to penetrate [the Judengasse].” His writings expressed disgust, anger, despair—futility. “If one were to consider play in childhood as the model for the reality of life, then the cradle of these children must be the grave of every encouragement, every exuberance, every friendship, every joy in life. Are you afraid that these towering houses will collapse over us? O fear nothing! They are thoroughly reinforced, the cages of clipped birds, resting on the cornerstone of eternal ill-will, well walled up by the industrious hands of greed, and mortared with the sweat of tortured slaves. Do not hesitate. They stand firm and will never fall.”

Adolf von Knigge, a German author, blamed the horrific living conditions on his Christian brethren. In his work entitled, “The Story of My Life”, he reminds his audience that these Jewish families were once “craftsmen, wine-growers and gardeners.” They once lived freely and contributed to society; however, “ecclesiastical ordinances” reduced them to peddling and to “practices of usury.” The very people who condemned this once-proud society to live in squalor, were the first to criticize and ridicule. For Knigge, these actions were the very antithesis of an enlightened society. His work was known to speak out against “aristocratic courtly culture as [being] superficial, immoderate, and wholly lacking in inner values.”

In his novel, “Labyrinth,” Jens Baggesen describes the inhuman living conditions he witnessed in the Judengassin of Frankfurt. This Danish-German author advocated for German Jews, locked behind ghetto gates night after night, not to mention Sundays and on all Christian holidays. How could an enlightened society allow such a thing? They were denied the pleasure of open air, of walks in the parks and plazas. They couldn’t patronize restaurants or coffee shops, or “walk more than two abreast in the street.” Baggesen leant his voice to the growing movement for civil rights and Jewish emancipation.

Many people have heard the name Rothschild. Mayer Amschel Rothschild and his descendants are very likely the most famous people to have lived in the Judengasse. Their surname evokes images of great wealth and power. For some, the name inspires thoughts of moxie and resourcefulness. For others, it inspires thoughts of greed and manipulation. What is the truth?

By 1560, Mayer’s ancestor, Isak, was confined to living in the ghetto. It was common for residents to be known by their address, so the family surname was most likely taken from the red shield (zum roten schild) that hung at their front door. Isak and his family were known to be pious and relatively successful cloth merchants. By the time Isak died in 1585, he had accumulated an income of 2,700 gulden. His great grandson, Kalman, had an income more than twice as large, and his son, Moses—Mayer Amschel’s grandfather—continued to prosper by not only dealing with silks and other costly materials, but with rare and foreign coins. This was not an unusual practice; Frankfurt was centrally located and was popular with businessmen from various neighboring towns and countries—not to mention noblemen and politicians.

Mayer’s father, successful merchant and patriarch, continued to live in a modest home with his family. It had been designed to suit their business needs, with an office on the ground floor, a kitchen on the first floor, and bedrooms on the top level. Mayer was allowed to attend rabbinical school at Furth, although he later was known to have said that he “only studied his religion in order to be a good Jew.” When both his parents succumbed to an unknown, but inevitable, epidemic that attacked ghetto inhabitants, Mayer’s studies came to end. He returned home for a brief time, before being sent to Hanover to apprentice with his father’s associate, Wolf Jakob Oppenheim.

Mayer was just twelve years of age when his journey into the privileged and elite world began. He learned what it meant to be a “court Jew,” garnering knowledge from Oppenheim’s family, court agents to the Austrian Emperor and the Bishop of Cologne. He learned how to work with aristocrats who were always in the business of buying and selling rare coins, jewels, and medals. In this manner, Mayer returned to Frankfurt, somewhere around 1764, a prosperous and renown businessman. In 1769, he was granted the title of court agent. In August of 1770, at the age of twenty-six, he married his beloved, Gutle, the sixteen-year-old daughter of Wolf Salomon Schnapper, court agent to the Prince of Saxe-Meiningen. All this success, and yet, he and his wife were confined to the ghetto.

Gutle Rothschild

Mayer and Gutle went on to have a large family; nineteen children were born, ten survived. While Gutle managed home and hearth, Mayer continued to grow more prosperous. By the mid-1780s, the Rothschilds had accumulated approximately 150,000 gulden and were able to move into a new home—substantially larger, yet still behind the ghetto gates. The new house, known as “the green shield” (zum grunen schild—they didn’t change their name at this point), was approximately fourteen feet wide. The rooms were narrow and cramped. The children all slept together in the attic. Still, it was considered to be a desirable residence. It had its own water pump! The lavatory was outside in a small courtyard. From these humble beginnings, a powerful and philanthropic family emerged.

Rothschild Coat of Arms 1817

To this day, the Rothschilds are criticized, judged, and maligned. Everyone has an opinion on their legacy. Perhaps, like Rabbi Naphtali Cohen, it would have been better if they had succumbed to their wretched circumstances. Perhaps they should have had the decency to fail miserably. Perhaps it is envy that is behind the contempt for the Jew.

The antisemitism we are living today does not differ much from what we have seen in the past. But that’s why understanding our own history, even in the form of “light” historical fiction or so-called, “Chick Lit” is vital. The past may reveal many injustices, but it also reveals our courage and our determination to survive—and to thrive.

Dignity is a powerful thing. We shall use it to break through the walls of the ghetto and set ourselves free.” – Sara Aharoni

I set out to show you how one simple thought can lead to hours and hours of research. And that, I have done.

I needed to piece together the whys and wherefores in order to bring my fictional Weiss family to London, England. And that, I have done.

I didn’t realize that this post was going to end up being some sort of call to arms. If I have encouraged you to be proud of your heritage, to advocate for justice, to look to your non-Jewish friends for support, to fulfill your dreams and destiny; then, I am glad to say: that I have done! I suppose that’s what happens when you follow one little crumb.

That being said, the original point of this post was to show how all. that. research. led to this short excerpt. I hope you enjoy!

It was September 1794. Hannah Weiss, a young woman who had not yet reached her majority and had no real knowledge of the world beyond the four corners that united her neighborhood, believed herself to be in love with Yaacov Kupperman.

Left quite unrestrained by parents who were otherwise engaged in rebuilding their lives in a foreign land, Hannah and Yaacov’s childhood friendship blossomed. They shared the love of the written word and the love of adventure. Stolen moments were spent sharing tidbits of knowledge, whether acquired from the streets teeming with intriguing activity or from passages within a tattered book. Whispered promises and fanciful dreams became woven into their very existence. It seemed so natural a thing. They spoke of their future lives with the same assurance that their mothers would bake sweet challah for the Sabbath and their fathers would sleep through the rabbi’s sermon the following day. It was inevitable. It was bashert—it was meant to be.

On a cool, temperate evening, unencumbered by chaperones or naysayers alike, the besotted pair anticipated their wedding vows. Yaacov murmured his pledge to be Hannah’s knight in shining armor, such as the men from days of yore. He vowed to protect her, to provide for her. There would be no more talk of the Judengasse, of poverty, or fear. They were English now, and their lives would be the stuff of fairytales.

“You will speak with my papa?” Hannah whispered. “You will come by us for Shabbes?”

Yaacov gently tugged on a golden curl. “Do not speak in that foreign manner, my sweet one. Instead, you should say: Will you come to our house for the Sabbath? We are native Londoners, even if our parents were born in Frankfurt. Let us not speak as if we were still in the ghetto.”

“You would admonish me now?” she bristled. “After we—after just—”

“You are such a little girl! See how you blush!” Bringing her closer, Yaacov whispered, “Never fear, my dear heart. I will speak with your papa and should be pleased to share the Sabbath meal with your family. How else will I earn my mother-in-law’s favor?”

Hannah smiled at his teasing but persisted with her train of thought. “What of your papa? Oughtn’t you speak with him first? Perhaps now, you may become his partner!”

“Perhaps,” he chuckled. “My father certainly has high hopes for the family business. I will speak with him on the morrow after he has broken his fast. Rest assured, my love. We shall be wed before Chanukah.”

Later that evening, Hannah peeked out her window and gazed into the heavens. She sent up a prayer asking for forgiveness. She was not so ill-bred that her earlier actions did not cause her some shame. Perhaps they ought to have waited until after the words had been spoken—after they had stood under the wedding canopy and the rituals had been commemorated.

I shall be married soon enough, and all will be well!

Hannah murmured another grateful prayer, for her dreams would soon be fulfilled. By December, she would recite the blessings over the chanukkiah, the precious heirloom that had been in the family for generations. It would soon be passed on to the newest bride.

September went by in a flurry. October and November, although bathed in vibrant hues of red and gold, foreshadowed the bitterness that was yet to come. Hannah could not take pleasure in the riot of colors that fell upon the city, not when her eyes were clouded with remorse. Yaacov had not come for Shabbes that Friday evening. Indeed, he had not been seen for many months past.

Hannah considered asking for him at synagogue after services or when she encountered Mrs. Kupperman at the butcher, but the unspoken words stayed upon her lips. How would she respond if they questioned her? It was not becoming for a young, unmarried girl to ask after a young man, even if they had been friends and neighbors throughout their youth. People were certain to talk. To be sure, in this matter, there was no distinction between the ghetto of Frankfurt and the streets of London.

See what people are saying about “The Jews of Donwell Abbey: An Emma Vagary” and get your copy today!

With love,

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Jewish Austen Fan Fiction~ Cover Reveal Day!

Mirta Ines Trupp

Drum roll please…

Surrey, England

August, 1812

Harriet Smith looked around the room she had shared with Miss Martin for these months past. She had been invited to spend the summer holiday with her schoolmates and was made to feel quite at home. Such a simple, yet evocative word. Home. It was the one thing she truly did not have of her own. It affected her keenly to leave just now, especially after the warm reception she had received; however, the circumstances surrounding her abrupt leave-taking were not of her doing. Harriet would have given anything to have remained for the three months complete, but it was a sorrowful event that had brought the visit to an end. The Martins had been thrown into a period of mourning.

Harriet had been roused from her slumber by foreign sounds, having grown accustomed to the natural cacophony of Abbey-Mill Farm. A messenger from the abbey had knocked upon the door, even before the family’s favorite rooster crowed his first morning’s call.

Wiping the sleep from her eyes, Harriet sat up and turned to her bedmate who had been awoken by the persistent rapping as well. Elizabeth bade her to be silent as they heard her brother’s footsteps pass their chamber and down the stairs. The youngest family member, Judith, thankfully remained asleep. She would have caused a great commotion, as was her wont, and they would have been unable to keep their awakened state—and curiosity—unknown.

As it happened, the girls were unable to make out anything of interest, for only a mumbled exchange could be perceived. Elizabeth removed the counterpane and edged her way to the door, placing her ear against the thick wood in the attempt to hear below. Harriet waited abed, holding little hope that her friend’s action would provide any clues. It was only when the messenger took his leave, and the front door was shut closed, that Mr. Robert Martin made his way back up the stairs.

Elizabeth scurried back to Harriet’s side, and pulling the bedlinens back into place, the girls awaited for news of what was amiss. They shared a moment of disappointment when they heard Mr. Martin knock upon his mother’s door. In truth, Harriet was more relieved than disappointed. She would have burned with embarrassment had Mr. Martin seen her in such a state—in her night rail and her hair rolled up in curling paper.

Elizabeth crept up against the door once again. The ploy proved more successful this time as her mother’s chamber was down the hall, and the voices were easily discerned.

“Baruch Dayan Emet,” Elizabeth heard her mother utter.

“Blessed is the Judge of Truth,” Elizabeth and her sister repeated quietly.

“What is it?” Harriet whispered. “What has happened?”

Elizabeth brought her finger to her lips as she pried opened the door, and motioned for the girls to come forward. Huddled together, they peered through the opening and watched Mrs. Martin reach for a sewing kit that had been thoughtlessly discarded atop a chest of drawers.

Withdrawing a pair of scissors from its cover, Mrs. Martin took hold of her son’s shirt collar and made a deep cut. Taking hold of the fabric, Robert deepened the cut with his own hands.

“A time to rend and a time to sew…do you know the verse, Harriet?”

“Yes, of course, I know it. It is from Ecclesiastes, but what does it signify?”

“Someone has died,” cried Judith.

“It could only be one person for Robert to perform such an act,” Elizabeth offered. “Grandpapa…”

Touched by this pronouncement, Harriet moved to embrace her friends, but Mrs. Martin caught sight of her daughters and called them hither.

“Mr. Knightley has sent word this morning,” she began. “Your grandpapa, peace be upon him, is no longer with us—now, now girls—” Mrs. Martin tightened her embrace, “we have been prepared for this eventuality. I beg you, be calm. Grandpapa, no doubt, has been reunited with his son, your own dear father, and your grandmama.”

Mrs. Martin brought a handkerchief to her lips and paused but for a moment. “We must dress and prepare the house. The rabbi will, no doubt, be visiting shortly.”

The family dispersed, each quietly seeing to their morning ablutions. Once dressed, the girls made their way downstairs and looked to their mother for direction. Harriet wished to be of service, though she knew her best efforts would only cause her friends additional work.

During her six-week visit, Harriet had learned that the Martin household was like no other of her acquaintance. The pantry and cupboards, indeed, all kitchen matters, were governed by a particular set of rules. Food preparation was of the utmost importance, as was the observance of the Sabbath, which began on Friday evenings and lasted through dusk the following day.

Unable to control herself, Harriet had asked the girls to explain this strange practice. She smiled now, recalling how Judy had rolled her eyes upon hearing yet another question, but it could not be helped. Harriet had always been a curious creature.

“Mysteries are the bane of my existence!” she had declared on more than one occasion. How she came to live at Mrs. Goddard’s school, she understood, was a mystery that could never be resolved. Therefore, at a very young age, Harriet determined that asking questions was her right—even if impertinent Miss! was often applied to her name.

Today, however, was another matter entirely. The household was in an uproar; the Martins were clearly distressed. Harriet would not add to their discomfort for the world, and so she sat quietly with her cup of tea and waited to be of service, and not a hinderance.

The cottage was not a grand home, not by any means, but Mrs. Martin had made it comfortable and had added feminine touches throughout. A framed mirror of respectable size had been placed by the front door where one could adjust one’s wrap or bonnet. Nonetheless, this instrument of vanity was the first to be draped with linen. The girls covered their hand-held mirrors and placed them face down upon their dressing tables. One’s toilette was not of importance on this sad day.

Mrs. Martin directed her son to gather as many small stools from around the farm that could be found while she swept the better of her two parlors. As mourners, the family would be seated low to the ground; those coming to condole would be offered the finer furniture—the upholstered chairs usually reserved to receive honored guests such as Mr. Knightley or his steward.

At length, Elizabeth put her friend to work, handing over a basket full of fresh eggs.

“Pray, set these to boil in the appropriate pot,” she instructed. “You know which one by now, dear Harriet.”

Before quitting the room, Elizabeth grabbed hold of her friend’s hand. “I know you are bursting with the need to ask your questions, but now is not the time. I promise I will explain it all—perhaps you will not find it that much different from your own family’s mourning rituals.”

These words, no doubt, were kindly meant; nonetheless, Harriet could not help but feel her shame even more profoundly. Whatever was Elizabeth thinking?

Family rituals? She did not have a family—other than Mrs. Goddard and the girls at school. In truth, she was all alone in the world. But it was not her custom to be petulant or dreary, and certainly not when her friends were in crisis.

Harriet gently placed the eggs to boil and was quite pleased, knowing she had chosen the proper pot. Indeed, Mrs. Martin had instructed her upon her first day at Abbey-Mill. The kitchen had been carefully prepared to house two separate sections: one for dairy products and preparation, and another for meat. Explanations as to why had not followed, and Harriet had to tuck her questions away for another time. She had collected a great list of questions during her visit, and it would take another six weeks to address each and every one!

Harriet overheard voices from the parlor as Mrs. Martin sent Judith to find a small table to set outside the door. Elizabeth was to follow with a bowl and pitcher of water. The girls were heard scurrying about, when Harriet heard yet another knock upon the front door. Checking on her pot of boiling water, she wiped her hands on a borrowed apron and peered into the foyer as Mrs. Martin welcomed the visitor.

The gentleman was unknown to Harriet, having never made his acquaintance in Highbury. In truth, upon further inspection, she found him to be oddly fascinating.

Dressed in unrelieved black, his long coat reached down to his calves. His pointed beard, peppered with gray, reminded Harriet of the Martin’s billy goat, and she nearly embarrassed herself by laughing aloud at the thought. She was unable to see the color of his hair, or if he had any at all, for he would not remove his hat—though he was in the presence of ladies. It was altogether strange to note that the man appeared to have ringlets on either side of his face!

Whatever could he be about?

Elizabeth and her sister had taken a seat by their mother’s side and signaled Harriet to join them in the parlor. While Mr. Martin offered the guest their most comfortable chair, Harriet quietly crept in, standing behind the girls in silent solidarity. The man opened a book he had withdrawn from his coat pocket and, speaking in the language that Harriet had grown accustomed to hearing in weeks past, began chanting a mournful prayer.

“Thank you for coming to us so quickly, Rabbi Kolman,” said Mrs. Martin after the family pronounced their amens. “We only just learned the news—you find us in quite a state.”

“One is never sufficiently prepared for these events, Mrs. Martin. Pray, do not make yourself anxious. Doctor Martsinkovsky, of blessed memory, would not burden his family and friends by being ill-prepared—even for his own funeral.” The rabbi allowed himself a slight chortle at his attempt at levity.

“My grandfather was known for his meticulous attention to detail,” said Mr. Martin. “He was the best of men.”

“Indeed. You will find that everything is in order, Mrs. Martin. The burial will take place this afternoon at three o’clock; our small congregation will accompany you during your seven days of mourning.”

“What?” gasped Harriet. “So soon?”

Elizabeth glared at her friend, who immediately understood her blunder. Bowing her head, Harriet silently vowed to say no more.

“Robert,” the rabbi continued, “you will want to unbolt the front door. It will be incommodious to be interrupted by visitors while at evening prayers. Whoever wishes to condole with the family will wash their hands before entering and come in quietly thereafter.”

“Yes, Rabbi Kolman,” replied Robert Martin. “I will see to it.”

“And girls,” the man said, addressing the Martin daughters, “make sure your dear mama does not tire herself with cooking and baking. The women of our congregation will fill the house with enough food to feed an army—certainly enough to last the week of mourning.”

The rabbi rose and shook hands with the man of the house and made for the door. “Remember to exchange your leather boots for other footwear. The weather has been relatively pleasant of late. I doubt you will be plagued with mud or muck. And one more thing! There is to be no shaving nor hair cutting—you young men today seem to have a penchant for fashion rather than following our traditions—for the whole of the week, mind!”

He gave a short bow to one and all before declaring: “May the Almighty comfort you among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.”

Taking to her feet upon the rabbi’s departure, Mrs. Martin clapped her hands to rouse the party from their melancholy. “That’s it, then,” said she. “Let us finish preparing ourselves…”

Another knock upon the door, however, interrupted Mrs. Martin’s directive. Harriet hoped whomever it was came bearing good news. She watched as Mr. Martin made for the door once again and was astonished to see Miss Emily Bickerton, her classmate, standing there. Sitting atop the pony trap was Peter, Mrs. Goddard’s manservant.

“Why, Emily!” cried Harriet. “Whatever do you do here?’

The young lady, known to Elizabeth and Judith Martin, for the foursome were at school together, was asked to enter and offered a glass of cool lemonade. This she was tempted to accept—the morning sun had taken its toll, even on the short ride—however, Emily Bickerton had been given a task, and she meant to discharge it with alacrity.

“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Martin,” she began and offered a quick bob of a curtsey. “I should be happy to take refreshment with you and my friends some other time. Mrs. Goddard has sent this note for you, ma’am.”

Having made her little speech, and handing over the missive, Emily turned to her classmates and took hold of their hands. “Harriet is to return with me,” said she. “Word was received that the doctor had passed—Oh! Please accept my condolences—Mrs. G. thought it best that Harriet return home.”

“Oh, no!” cried Elizabeth, her sister joining in unison. Even Mr. Martin seemed disappointed as his shoulders drooped even further, though he did not give voice to his objection.

Harriet felt herself blush. How kind they were to make such a fuss on her behalf. But she felt it only right to pack her things and return to school. Surely, she would only be in the way, and the family ought to have some privacy at such a time.

“Miss Smith,” said Mrs. Martin, as Harriet made for the staircase, “our present circumstances must draw your visit to a close, but you are such a sweet, unassuming girl, I know you will understand.”

“Pray, ma’am, be at ease. Naturally, I understand and should not wish to inconvenience you at such a time.”

“Our tradition requires us to observe certain practices, my dear, beginning with the full state of mourning for a week complete. Perhaps, after the following thirty-day period, when our restrictions are lessened, you girls may make arrangements to meet—certainly, you shall see each on Market Day or a visit to Ford’s.”

“Robert, now you must say something,” Judith decreed. “Lest Harriet feel she is not welcome by the whole family!”

Mr. Martin, it seemed, had no notion that he, too, was expected to add his farewell remarks. Caught unaware, he mumbled, “Miss Smith is always welcome at Abbey-Mill.”

Coming soon on November 5, 2024!