The Stars and the Cookie Jar

4:30 Am. Day off. Scheduled opener in emergency room.

I haven't even gone to bed yet, because I was writing, because I was counting on a day off.

first person who crosses me today had better mind their gods-damned merchandise, because I'm in a shredding temper.

36 hours no sleep.

Here, have a Raissa cookie.

           
"Which of you is Katriel?"
            He took Fayge's hand in his; hers was small, and very white, with darker lines where dust had stuck to the currant jam. His fingernails were finer. He raised Fayge's hand as if to carry it to his heart, and no one spoke.
            "Tell me, who is Katriel?"
            Into the long silence, a scream; Fayge's forehead damp and rain-colorless, and no other sound from her, no moan, no whimper, but he had snapped her smallest finger.
            "Is Katriel here?" He asked again.
            Raissa looked at the desk, and at Fayge, and then at Murer. She pushed back her chair, and stood up. "I have been known by that name, sir," she said.
            Murer threw Fayge to one side, and the desk to the other. It skidded over the lip of the stage and crashed in the dark of the pit. Nothing was between them, now, and Raissa stood in her patched jacket, barefoot, and tried not to flinch.
            "Do you have a real name, Jew-girl, or would you rather die as Katriel?"
            There was a low sound, like wind over stones, as the actors and the orchestra heard him speak. Raissa heard a bird beating against a window, a mouse broken by the kitchen cat; a noise from her lips, or Fayge's.
            "My name is Gellerman," she replied. "Raissa Sylvie Markiewics Gellerman."
            He caught her one simple, stunning blow to the shoulder, and she landed on her back with an inkwell crushed beneath her. Lying amongst ink and glass and paper she groaned.
            "Get up, girl," said Murer, "and bring me a box."