If you've ever been curious about lesser-known corners of the world, this episode of the Online for Authors podcast is your perfect invitation. In an engaging and insightful interview, author Ellis Shuman takes listeners on a journey through his collection of short stories, Rakiya: Stories of Bulgaria—and into the soul of a country often overlooked on the traveler's map.
I sensed it before Max
did. A rustling in the bushes. A snap of a twig. A muffled crackling sound. Max
lifted his head, assumed his full-alert, ready-to-attack mode, and strained at
his leash. A final movement, and then it burst into the open. A porcupine,
determined to escape after encountering Max and me in the dark.
It was five in the morning, our forest path lit by the waning moon and a
scatter of the night’s last stars. I was leading Max on his pre-dawn walk,
necessitated by my having to leave shortly to catch the first train to my job
in Tel Aviv. Max had already done his ‘business’ and we were on the return
journey, back to the streetlights of civilization leading to my home in our
small community outside Jerusalem. And then the porcupine came into view.
With the erect quills on its back, the animal was as tall as Max, a mid-size
mixed-breed dog. We see porcupines nearly every morning. Add that to the
jackals and wild boars we meet from time to time, a bounty of wildlife in the
forested hills near my home rarely seen in daylight. I may be crazy for walking
my dog in the pitch-black hours, but these unexpected encounters in nature
fascinate me. And they thrill Max as well.
I know to stay clear of porcupines; they can attack when threatened. Several
months ago, a man in northern Israel nearly lost his life after being stabbed
in his arms and legs with 41 quills. Porcupines are Israel’s largest rodent and
use their quills in defense. They don’t actually shoot them, I’ve learned, but
it’s best to stay as far away as possible.
There’s another reason the presence of porcupines irks me. I recently planted a
small vegetable patch in my backyard, and had already harvested cucumbers, with
tomatoes soon to follow. At summer’s end, I was excited to plant my first
lettuce seedlings, but overnight, they were eaten down to their tiny stems.
Basel and flowers also lost their leaves, and I assumed nocturnal porcupines
were the culprits responsible for the damage.
Today’s porcupine ran off into the brush, sending Max into a frenzy of barking
as I tightened my grip on his leash. Before I knew it, the creature had
vanished into the dense thicket of hillside undergrowth as if it had never
been. Max and I continued our walk, with him sniffing for traces of the
animal’s scent and occasionally lifting his leg to mark his territory.
More rustling near the path. This time Max saw the porcupine before me. He
struggled to break loose from his leash, to run down the creature just as he
chases the stray cats on our street. Within seconds, it was gone, following the
trail of its partner. Max calmed down, and we headed for home.
Twenty minutes later, I finished my breakfast and filled Max’s water bowl. He
had enough food to get through the day, and I patted his head before locking
the front door behind me. My wife would care for him until I returned from
work, but her walks with the dog would be in bright daylight.
I got into my car and started the motor for the drive to the train station. I
adjusted the mirror and began to pull out of my parking spot when a dash of
movement caught my eye.
A lone porcupine darted in front of the car, disappearing into the bushes on
the far side of the street. Too bad I didn’t have my phone ready to snap a
picture of the wayward animal. No worries. Max and I were bound to meet more
porcupines on our next pre-dawn walk.
Originally published in The Loch Raven Review.
“Buttermilk.”
“Butterfly.”
“Butternut.”
“Bread and butter!”
“But that’s butter at
the end.”
“What if I eat the
butter first?”
“How can you eat the
butter first on a piece of bread?”
“By licking it off!”
It’s a word game we
play, one of the many ways I keep Kira occupied when her mother is gone. I love
spending time with my granddaughter. She’s beautiful, and it’s not just me who
says that. Kira has a keen mind and is wise beyond her seven years. She’s a lot
of fun!
“Buttercup.”
“Butterlicious!”
“Now you’re making
words up.”
“Grandma, you do that
too, sometimes.”
“I would never…”
“What about that time
you tried to convince me that Ant Warp was a place.”
“Antwerp! It’s a city
in Belgium.”
“Have you been to
Belgium?”
“No.”
“So, how can you know
for sure?”
I laugh, push up the
blonde bangs from her forehead. Her face is so pretty. Brown eyes and thin
lips. Dimples you could die for. She gets them from her mom.
“When’s she coming
back?”
I look at my phone.
“Soon. She has some errands to run.”
“Oof, always errands.
Maybe I’m an errand she should run!”
“You’re not an
errand,” I say, stroking her shoulder. “You’re the reason she runs her
errands.”
“Do you think she’ll
buy me that magical unicorn?”
“It’s not your
birthday yet. That’s in two months.”
“Two months is a long
time.”
“It’ll be here before
you know it.”
“We’ve been here a
long time. When can we go home?”
My phone rings, a loud
ring. My daughter insisted on a loud ring because I’m hard of hearing. I’m not,
I argued, although I knew what she said was true. Partially.
“I’m running late,
Mom. There’s traffic, and I didn’t get to the drugstore yet.”
“Kira is getting
impatient.”
“Why don’t you play
one of those word games with her?”
“That’s what we’ve
been doing.”
“Is that Mommy? Let me
talk to her!”
I hand Kira my phone,
lean back in my chair and smile. My lovely granddaughter. Kira talks with her
mother, an exaggerated pleading for her to finish her errands and come back as
soon as possible. The conversation ends and Kira returns the phone.
“She said she’ll buy
me a Snickers bar.”
“Okay. So, what do you
want to play next?”
“I don’t want to play.
I want to go home.”
“I know,” I say. I
can’t promise her that, or anything, for that matter. I look up at the infusion
bag, making sure the drip continues at its slow, steady pace. “As soon as the
doctors say you can go home…” I don’t finish the sentence.
“Oof! Always the
doctors!”
She looks sour for a
minute, eases back on her hospital bed, as if she’s trying to get as far away
from her disease as possible, but then her face lights up.
“Butterscotch!” she
announces triumphantly, and we both giggle.
# # #
Originally published in Emerge Literary Journal.
The envelope was creased from being in my friend's briefcase for several months, but actually, it had much more aging in its history. It was a First Day Cover, an envelope bearing a stamp cancelled on the date the stamp was first available for postal use, dating back to 1992.
The image on the stamp, and on the postcard inside the envelope, was of the Great Synagogue of Sofia. The words on the envelope in Bulgarian explained the significance of the stamp and the year it was issued.
500 years of Sephardic Jewish settlement in Bulgaria.
Of course! 1992 was 500 years after the Jews were expelled from Spain. Although Jews have had a continuous presence in historic Bulgarian lands since before the 2nd century CE, apparently a significant number arrived in the country following their expulsion from Spain.
The Sofia Synagogue is one of the most beautiful buildings in the Bulgarian capitol and its construction, completed in 1909, would serve as the religious home for the city's mainly Sephardic Jewish community.
In 2009, Jodie and I attended the 100th anniversary celebration of the synagogue, a ceremony in which the President of Bulgaria sat a few rows ahead of me in the audience. We returned to the synagogue on a number of occasions, and prayed in the building's main sanctuary on the High Holidays.
Back to the First Day Cover envelope. How did it come to be in my possession, 33 years after the stamp was issued?
In August 2024, I spoke to the Literary Modiin book club about my recently published collection of short stories, Rakiya - Stories of Bulgaria. One of the attendees of the Zoom session listened to my talk about Bulgaria, and afterwards gave the envelope to the book club's founder/organizer, Julie Zuckerman. Julie put the envelope in her brief case, intending to give it to me the next time we met. We very occasionally travel together on a Modiin-bound train after the end of our work day in Tel Aviv.
This week, I attended one of Literary Modiin's monthly gatherings in person, and Jodie joined me. The authors giving talks about their books were Ayelet Tsabari, Avner Landes, and Joan Leegant. Before the session began, Julie gave me the envelope. The next day I managed to translate the words printed on the envelope.
500 years of Sephardic Jewish settlement in Bulgaria. An amazing milestone in Bulgarian Jewry's story and I had the envelope to mark the occasion.
When I invite my customers to order
their last drinks, several raise their fingers, sure I’ll remember what they
previously ordered. One more beer, one more vodka. Another Gin & Tonic. In
the darkened room, several night owls linger at their tables, heads low, engaged
in whispered conversation. One man sits alone on a stool at the far end of the
bar. He’s wearing a red plaid shirt and sports a thin gray goatee and wise
eyes. My age, maybe a few years younger. He's been sitting there for about
thirty minutes or so. He calls me over.
“It’s been busy tonight, hasn’t it?”
It’s more a statement than a question. “Do you always get such late-night
crowds?”
“It can get noisy,” I tell him,
waiting patiently for his order.
“It must be difficult to handle all
this on your own,” the man notes.
“What can I get you?” I point at his
empty shot glass. “Another?”
“No, I’m fine. I’ll just sit here
for a while, if you don’t mind.”
“We’ll be closing soon.” I turn to attend
to the other customers.
It’s not my bar, but I work so many
shifts, you’d think I owned the place. I’ve been working here since my college
days. At first it was to finance my studies, but now it just helps pay the
bills. The steady employment at nights leaves my days free to pursue my writing
career. Freelance, mostly, but nothing steady. I make do on what I earn as a
bartender. Which is not all that much. Luckily, the tips are good.
We get all kinds at the bar. The
college gangs, loud and boisterous. The businessmen, drinking away the
pressures of their dead-end jobs. Couples on romantic interludes. Men and
women. Men trying to pick up women. Men and men. Women and women. Divorcees,
deadbeats. All kinds.
Everyone’s welcome—that’s what the
sign in our window says.
They share their frustrations, their
troubles, and their worries, as if I’m their therapist. I nod when appropriate,
but I have few words of advice to offer. They don’t seem to mind. After
spilling their life stories, they pay their bills and head out into the night.
Sometimes so drunk I need to call them a taxi.
Tonight’s shift has been nothing out
of the ordinary. The early hours were busy with beer and wine orders. Fancy
cocktails and spritzers. Whisky—on the rocks or straight. Casual drinking at
first, followed by more serious alcohol consumption. Nothing I can’t handle,
especially with Melanie at my side.
Melanie’s a good worker. She serves
the drinks and the salty accompaniments that keep everyone drinking. Pretzels,
peanuts, potato chips. Melanie cleans counters, wipes tables, washes glasses,
and pours draft beer. All of this Melanie does with a dimpled tip-encouraging
smile.
“How would I get along without you?”
I say, as I have on many occasions.
“We’re a good team,” she admits.
“You’re good at your job, completely
trustworthy, and the customers appreciate you.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she
says, dismissing my compliments with a wink of her eye.
Melanie’s good looking, and I’m
attracted to her, but if I considered something more than our companionship in
the bar, nothing would ever come of it. She has a steady boyfriend.
“Gus is so demanding,” Melanie complains.
“And he doesn’t trust me. He can get jealous over nothing. If he saw how the guys
ogle me, reach for my ass, he’d go berserk. You don’t know what he’s capable
of!”
Melanie and me—we’re coworkers. We've
share tidbits about our personal lives, but nothing more. Still, I’d do
anything for her. We’re a team. An inseparable team.
An hour before closing, I send
Melanie home. She has a dentist appointment in the morning and I assure her I can
handle things on my own. Now, an hour later, I'm serving the night's final
orders.
“You been working here long? How’s
that going for you?”
It’s the single man, the one with
the gray goatee. He gazes at me while he fingers his empty shot glass. I had assumed
he’d already left.
“It’s okay.” There’s something about
him, something that makes me suspicious, but I can’t determine what it is. “Is
there anything else I can get you? I told you we’re closing.”
“No, I’m good. Very good, in fact.”
That statement invites a reply on my
part. “What’s so good?”
“This bar. It’s an OK place,
wouldn’t you say?” He looks around the place, at the remaining customers,
finishing their drinks. “I wondered what you thought about it.”
It’s a strange thing for him to say,
not anything I’m expecting. How am I supposed to respond? Should I tell him I’m
satisfied working the night shift? That the pay is sufficient and the hours
conducive to my morning writing sessions?
“I guess you could say that,” I reply
at last.
“It’s in a good neighborhood, I
think. That’s why I bought the place down the street last week.”
“Frank’s?” I hadn’t known that
Frank’s bar was up for sale.
“Yeah, I got it cheap. Old man Frank
wants to retire, head to Florida, I guess. He needed someone like me to take
over, to build it up. I think Frank’s has a lot of potential, probably more
than this place,” he says, indicating my bar with a dismissive wave of his
hand. “No offense, of course, but a bit of competition never hurt. Two bars on
the same street. It might even attract more business; wouldn’t you say?”
I nod and continue to rinse off the
glasses and put them into the dishwasher. I expect the man to be gone when I
turn around, but he’s still there, perched on his stool and staring at me.
“You're good at your job. I’ve seen
how you work and I’m impressed. That’s why I have an offer for you.”
“An offer?”
“I’d like you to come work for me.
At Frank’s. In fact, I want you to manage the place. I need someone with
experience, and you have no shortage of that. You could run Frank’s, I think.
So, what do you say?”
“Are you for real?” Then I step
back, realizing I’d said these words aloud.
“I guess you didn’t expect to get a
job offer at this hour of the night. But, let me tell you, my offer’s real and
I think you’ll manage Frank’s just fine.”
I look around, wondering if any of
the customers are overhearing our conversation. One couple gets up to leave,
the man putting his arm around the woman’s shoulder so suggestively that I suspect
they’re not married. At the back, three college students raise their beer mugs,
laughing at a raunchy joke. No one’s paying attention to me and the man sitting
at the counter.
“Listen, I don’t know who you are or
anything about you.” I’m trying to sound diplomatic in my response. If his
offer’s real, and there’s an opening at Frank’s with better pay and more
responsibility, maybe it’d be something to consider. Do I have any loyalty to
this place? Despite the many years I've put in, not really. I never said I’d
work here forever. Changing jobs? Maybe, if the conditions are right.
Managing Frank’s, with more
responsibility, will mean more hours, I tell myself. What about the mornings I
devote to freelance writing? If I had to spend more time at the bar overseeing
things, I wouldn’t have as much time for that. But on the other hand, if the
pay at Frank’s is good, maybe I could give up most of the writing gigs.
“What sort of salary are we talking
about?” I ask.
The man throws out a number, and it’s
significantly higher than what I’m currently being paid. “And, of course, there
are tips,” he adds. “I see your customers here are very generous, so there’s no
doubt you’d make a pretty penny managing Frank’s. You’d share them with your
coworkers, of course, but I’m sure there’d be enough to go around.”
My coworkers! Melanie!
“I can’t imagine handling the night
shifts without you.” I had said
those very words to Melanie earlier in the evening. “We’re a good team,”
she’d said to me, and she was right. We are a team. An inseparable team.
“I’ll have to think about it,” I
tell the man. “But there is one thing,” I add.
“What’s that?”
I weigh my words, as I don’t want him
to withdraw his offer. “If I would come work for you, you'd have to also hire my
coworker.”
“Your coworker?” he asks, raising
his eyebrows.
“Melanie. She’s great at what she does.
You’d have to give her a job.”
“Is that your condition?” he asks.
Have I screwed up his unexpected
offer? No matter what the salary, I couldn’t do that to her.
“Yes. Me and Melanie, or no deal.”
“Well, then.” He stands up and reaches
out to shake my hand. But then, he doesn’t. He sits back down.
Confused, I stop drying the beer mug
I’m holding and step back.
“My name is Gus,” he says.
“Melanie’s told me about you, but I had to check for myself.”
“What?”
“She’s said only good things, I can
assure you,” he says. A mischievous smile appears on his face.
“Gus is so demanding,” Melanie said to me earlier that evening. “You don’t know what
he’s capable of!”
“You’re Melanie’s boyfriend,” I say,
realizing he’s been testing me. Playing me for a fool.
“Yeah, we’ve been together for a
while.”
“Are you buying Frank’s?”
“Of course not! Why would I buy that
place when your bar here is doing such good business? Besides, I don’t have the
funds.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing for you to say.
You’re good. You stuck up for Melanie, and that’s what counts. She can continue
working with you. I should be going. I don’t want to get back too late and wake
her. She’s got a dentist appointment in the morning.”
Gus walks out. All the other
customers have already left and I’m alone in the bar, still confused by what
just happened. Strange things can happen in the middle of the night, I guess.
An over-jealous boyfriend. And I had fallen for his trap!
I put the last of the whisky glasses on the shelf, wipe off the counter, and hang up my apron. I shut the lights and lock the door. Time to go home and get some sleep. I have that writing assignment I need to finish.
# # #
Originally published in POSTBOX, Scotland's International Short Story Magazine.
Photo by Louis Hansel on Unsplash
On Friday, I ran the 10 kilometer run in the Tel Aviv Marathon, clocking in at 59:24, a personal best. This put me in 37th place in my age category (65-69). I am very pleased with the result!
I had a bad start to the race. As I approached the starting line, I couldn't get my Nike running app to load. There were 20,000 runners participating in the 10 kilometer run, 5,000 of them starting in my heat, and as a result, my Internet connection wasn't working. The app said 'Unable to establish a connection' and I tried to restart it, to no avail. I crossed the starting line, and for the entire race I worried that my feet hadn't hit the black mark on the road that recorded the start time.
I gave up on the app, stuffed my phone into my running belt, and concentrated on the race. Still, I couldn't dismiss my worries. Had my feet touched the black mark? Would my time be recorded?
The run itself wasn't easy. My legs felt a jolt each time my feet landed on the hard pavement of Tel Aviv's streets - Rokach, Dizengoff, Ben Gurion, Ibn Gvirol, and back on Rokach. I kept a steady pace the entire race - the second half was run at exactly the same time as the first half - but I had nothing left in me for a final sprint.
I crossed the finish line and looked at my phone. I had done it in under an hour! Awhile later the official results came in. 59 minutes and 24 seconds. This was 2 seconds faster than my result in the Tel Aviv Night Run in October.
As I said, I am very pleased with the result!
Previous articles
Tel Aviv Marathon Man: I Run the 10 Kilometer Race
Jerusalem Is Much Harder to Run than Tel Aviv
The Tel Aviv Marathon was yesterday. I ran my 10 kilometer race today!
I Run the Jerusalem Marathon 10K and Finish in 18th Place in My Age Category
"We had never visited Bulgaria before. We utilized the two years living in Sofia to travel extensively around Bulgaria, to learn about its culture and history, to visit its picturesque villages and see its stunning nature. We fell in love with the country. I've always desired to be a writer and when the two-year contract ended and we came back to Israel I realized that I could go back to Bulgaria every day through my writing, and that's when I began to write about Bulgaria."
I joined Edith from Book Lover's Companion to talk about my collection of short stories in and about Bulgaria, my adventures, and my love for this country.
