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ela
hen Rachel Calof saw
that her daughter,
Hannah, had touched
the hot stove, she ran
for the eggs as her mother-in-
law advised. It was not an easy
task.
"I had no eggs but I was des-
perate to help my child," Rachel
wrote. "I ran to the field where
(my husband) Abe was working,
and he ran to the nearest neigh-
bor, over five miles dis-
tant, for eggs."
stunned disbelief her eyes glazed
and turned up into her head. I
grabbed the water bucket but
even as I dashed the water over
her, I felt my knees buckling.
With a great effort I literally
threw the (other) unconscious
children through the doorway,
meanwhile screaming with all
the power left in me. Although
my mother-in-law's shack was
more than a quarter of a mile
Rachel Calof s Story
(Indiana University
Press) is the fascinating
tale of a Jewish home-
steader. It was written by
the author when she was
60, then discovered nine
years ago.
She was born Rachel
Bella Kahn in Russia. In
1894, when she was 18,
Rachel left for the United
States where she would,
for the first time, meet her
fiance. His name was
Abraham Calof.
The two settled in
North Dakota, where
Rachel and Abe lived with
his parents. It was a
shanty with a dirt floor
that also would be home
to Abe's younger brother
and, in the winter, 24
chickens and a calf.
"Words are useless to
describe the nightmare of
those months," she wrote.
"I can only say, when
March arrived, we still
lived."
For light, Rachel made Rachel Calof: Wild mushrooms and lamps of butter.
lamps of mud and rags
smeared with butter. For
shelving, she nailed an apple away, she heard my desperate
cart to the wall. For a feast, she shrieking, and immediately
prepared wild mushrooms, gar- started for us. She found me un-
conscious with my arms around
lic and fresh bread.
She also helped arrange for a my children. We were all more
mohel for her sons and main- dead than alive. The baby,
tained a friendship with the Bessie, was so far gone that my
shochet (kosher slaughterer), mother-in-law could not revive
whose medical skills Rachel ad- her. When consciousness re-
mired. She bore healthy children turned to me, all my in-laws were
and made her own home, which there. They were working on
Bessie trying, but failing, to find
was always clean.
Yet life was always traumat- a sign of life in the infant. The
first words I heard were that the
ic.
"One day shortly after my
third daughter, Bessie, was born
and while we were still living in
the shack, I went outside to feed
the cattle and our few remaining
chickens. My outside chores fin-
ished, I returned to the shack
and upon opening the door any
eyes beheld a dreadM sight. (My
daughter) Hannah was shaking
violently, and as I stared in
child was dead. That awful mo-
ment is one which I will never
forget. I tried to go to my poor
baby but they held me back. I
fainted again, but now the baby
began to show signs of life, and
when I recovered I was told that
all the children were living after
all. Whereupon I fainted again,
this time from the emotion of joy
and thankfulness. This nearly
fatal disaster was caused by
smoke and gas inhalation from
the stove."
I
he weak of heart should
step aside.
Speak No Evil (Mys-
terious Press), the latest
mystery by Rochelle Majer
Krich, begins with a gruesome
incident. Two Los Angeles
lawyers are found dead, their
tongues cut out.
Debra Laslow is a
criminal defense attor-
ney who fears she's next
on the killer's list. Then
she, herself, becomes the
prime suspect.
Meanwhile, Debra
takes over a case for one
of the slain attorneys.
Her client is a physician
accused of date rape. His
accuser is part of the Or-
thodox community to
which Debra also be-
longs.
Whoa. Sounds like
something you might see
on "Maury Povich."
Even those who don't
enjoy mysteries (or in-
variably turn, halfway
through the book, to find
out the name of the
killer) will have fun with
the many Jewish refer-
ences throughout Speak
No Evil. After all, in how
many places can you find
an Orthodox rabbi ad-
vising his daughter on
conflicts between work (
and religion, or read a
passage like this:
"Debra was reciting
the Amidah, a part of her
morning prayers, when
she heard the crackling of leaves
being trampled outside her win-
dow.
She froze, then listened in-
tently. It was possible she'd
imagined the sounds; she was
jittery because of Susan's mur-
der and exhausted — the caf-
feine in the two tablets she'd
taken (the equivalent of seven
cups of coffee, a doctor had told
her) had kept her up for hours
before she'd finally fallen into a
restless sleep.
She heard it again — heavy
footsteps, human footsteps. Her
phone was on the desk, within
reach, but she wasn't permitted
to speak during the Amidah.
A twig snapped."
Ms. Krich also is the author
of Where's Mommy Now? and
Angel of Death.
And if you're still hungering
for suspense (and who isn't?) af-