The House of the Seven Heavens
The Rosensweig house was situated diagonally across the street from a curious structure, a bit of an architectural monstrosity. It was called the Klondike Ramp, circa 1905, a spiral ramp supported on concrete piers. It stood sixty-four feet in height. Each level provided seven feet of clearance. The concrete walkway was pitched at a grade of almost eight percent to accommodate foot traffic, bicycles, and kids racing wagons. There were seven complete turns in the structure, which connected the 11th Ward neighborhoods high above to Broadway below. Observing it for the first time, a visitor might describe it as a huge, inverted flour sifter without a hand crank.
The alternative to accessing those neighborhoods above was a notoriously steep hill, known for multiple accidents and injuries, especially in the winter. The 11th Ward included Strong and Summit Streets along with Hamilton Hill, once famous for its speakeasies and tenor sax men like Lester Young and Coleman Hawkins when they were passing through town. Unfortunately, the ramp was constructed next to an unstable clay hill prone to landslides, and littered with trash deposited from the back porches of homes on Strong and Summit Streets. Heavy rainfall over the years saturated the soil, eventually causing a landslide that demolished a gas station at the bottom of the hill. But at the time, the ramp served an almost singular purpose. It provided a useful covered passage for the workers to travel to and from the GE Plant below. Each day a steady stream of employees would descend the ramp, lunch pails in hand. At the bottom of the incline was a viaduct that deposited them out onto Broadway—a short walk to their jobs. After their shifts ended, the workers would ascend the ramp to get home. They would pass the Rosensweig house everyday, streams of them, in various conditions of well-being and mood, endlessly making their way to and from the GE facility.
Some of the workers who traversed the Klondike ramp referred to it as the Seven Heavens because of the seven levels of ramps. There was a strong Catholic presence in the town that held to beliefs they’d been raised by, the Jewish and Christian cosmologies, the concept of the Seven Heavens, and the Pauline Arts, though they might not have recognized or understood those terms. Stories circulated that a few of the folks who regularly made their way through the ramps experienced indescribable feelings, strange passions, or had sightings of a sort they could hardly explain or describe. But given the day to day hardships, the necessity of making a living, the drudgery and repetitive work at the plant, little thought was given to it. It was passed off as fatigue or just anomalies. Some of it was attributed to frequent stops on the way home at The Sanctuary, a dive bar convenient to the ramp’s entrance, which featured a shot and beer for seventy-five cents.
The Klondike Ramp, aka the Seven Heavens, also had a reputation for trouble. It could be dangerous. Groups of teenagers sometimes harassed and robbed unsuspecting travelers. Homeless men would urinate in the ramps. Occasionally, perverts were hauled out by the police for soliciting sex. It was not a good place to be after dark. Ivan Rosensweig had decreed from the time they moved into the neighborhood that his children would stay out of the place. It was not a playground, though some of the local kids, unsupervised by their full-time working parents, would race their bikes down the ramp, often with disastrous consequences like broken legs and cracked skulls. Ivan’s rule was enough to tempt his daughter Davora to explore the peculiar structure and its various levels. She was drawn to it. The stories she’d heard intrigued her. It became a challenge to foray into the ramp and return home without Ivan discovering her disobedience. She’d visited multiple times before she began to realize that the place was somehow affecting her. She would experience things there that would open her up, change her in ways she would not have expected, though she might never fully comprehend what they meant. She sensed that it was much more than just a passageway for laborers to tread. It was a gateway to other worlds.
At the end of spring, summer burst upon the town with a blast of heat as if the GE plant had opened its massive doors and allowed the turbines to release their discharge into the air. Davora had just taken a cool shower and returned to her room to dress. She had a full day at the garage where she was scheduled to replace a clutch on an Oldsmobile with almost eighty thousand miles on it. Ben wouldn’t let any of the other mechanics attempt it. One of them, Leroy, would assist Davora, but she was to be in charge of the job. Leroy was Big Daddy Flanagan’s nephew and she was especially fond of him. She made it a point to teach him everything she knew for when she’d finally get out. She wanted for him to have a solid job as a mechanic. He was a talented kid and played the alto sax in his uncle’s band. She had convinced Ben to hire him. He was reluctant at first. Prejudice cut both ways. They had a heated discussion about hiring Leroy until Davora reminded Ben where they had come from and why they had to leave.
With Leroy helping, the job went smoothly. He stood nearby and knew exactly which tools to hand her as he cleaned up fluid spills and moved the lamp around so she could see well. They chatted while they worked, which Leroy seemed to enjoy very much. Almost none of the white women in the neighborhood would talk to a Black man. Davora thought that was silly; worse than that, it could lead to what was happening in Poland. She asked him about his childhood. He’d grown up in the neighborhood singing in the Living Truth Tabernacle and learning to read music as he studied the alto sax. Big Daddy Flanagan had been the choral conductor and organist as well.
“So you know this neighborhood really well.”
“Like the back of my hand.”
“Have you ever gone up there?” She tilted her head to the left to indicate the ramp.
“Oh, you mean up there? The Seven Heavens?”
She stopped working and lowered her wrench. “You call it the Seven Heavens?”
“Everybody knows that. My Aunt Grace says she saw the Lord up there sitting on his throne.”
Davora was shocked. “She did?”
“Sure she did. She sees God everywhere. Saw the Virgin Mary in her Jell-O. Then she ate it.”
Davora tried not to react and began working on the car again. “Give me the three-quarter inch, please.” He already had it in his hand reaching out to her.
Davora entered the ramp entrance at noon just as the whistle sounded at the plant. It was already eighty-five degrees, but it felt cooler in the shaded structure. She made her way up deliberately, acutely aware of any sounds or people who might be ahead of or behind her. There was a humming sound. Depending on how much wind there was and what velocity it was blowing at, there were often different pitched tones in the structure. Thus far she’d not seen anyone up to the fifth and sixth levels. Then she made the turn into the seventh incline and thought she heard music, but it seemed to be coming from below. She leaned over the railing and peered down and saw a Good Humor ice cream truck. It was the source of the music, but not the usual tinny song it played, recorded from a calliope. It sounded familiar, like something she’d heard many years ago. There were strings accompanying the song, which was not what you’d hear from an ice cream truck. Suddenly the words came to her, Oyfn Pripetchik, a sorrowful Yiddish song she’d heard in her childhood in Szemud. It had to do with giving someone, usually a child, a menorah, and the idea of maintaining the light of Torah study. The song caught in her throat and chest and she began to cry.
She cried for her father Ivan, for what he’d endured. She cried for her murdered brother Josh. And she cried for her homeland which she would never see again. How could anyone, the perpetrators or their victims, ever look each other in the eye again? She cried for Rudy also, realizing that she was perhaps someone who could never marry, never give up her independence. She had tasted freedom in the new world and she hungered for more of it. And all of it…what had brought her to this moment, about to enter the highest level, the Seventh Heaven, and see for herself if God was there on his throne, flanked by angels? What could happen to her if she were to see such an awesome sight? She entered the seventh level and walked to the top. There was garbage strewn about, empty soup cans, crumpled bags, crusts of bread from sandwiches that had been discarded. And it smelled of urine. She concluded that perhaps a group of hoboes had spent the previous night there. There was nothing sacred or holy about the place. In some way she felt relieved. What she’d already seen in this place had upended her life, changed her permanently. And she had no one to share it with.
She began her descent as the intensity of the music increased, now with a woman’s soprano singing the heartbreaking melody. No longer in the distance, the music surrounded her. Davora began to tear up again. When she got to the fifth level she saw two vagrants rounding the curve. One carried a crutch; the other looked as though he carried a book under his arm. She assumed that they were part of the hobo group returning to look for scraps or a place to relieve themselves. When she was within ten feet of them they stopped and waited for her to approach, which frightened her. They stood apart so she would have to pass between them. “What do you want?” she screamed. The one with the crutch, she suddenly realized, was instead carrying a staff with a carved head on the top, possibly a lion or a panther with garnets set in the eyes. The same staff that the vagrant had with him on the bus when she and Sarah had returned from Albany. It was the same fierce man in the burlap robe and sandals, but he was wearing a necklace, a thick silver chain with a perfectly round peridot the size of a walnut. It glowed with a greenish sheen and rotated like a miniature planet.
There was no choice but to pass between them, which she attempted to do but stopped involuntarily. Her legs weren’t weak, but she couldn’t move them. She willed herself to move forward, but she couldn’t. The man faced her and removed the necklace and held it out to her. Slowly, without thought, she raised her hand and pressed her ring against his necklace. The two stones touched, creating a spark that ignited into a greenish-blue flame, which gave off heat without burning her hand. Suddenly she was overcome with feelings of grief and sorrow, deeper and more intense feelings than she’d ever experienced before. It was profound and shocking. She understood in that moment that she was suffering the loss of millions. The deprivation, the torture, millions gone into the flames. Her people and the others caught in the murderous web of the Third Reich. Only people without souls could perpetrate such crimes. She wept uncontrollably for the dead, the mothers, the fathers, the children.
The other ‘vagrant,’ touched her arm gently. She turned and looked into a deeply lined face, the face of the Black Hebrew Egyptian Prince. Not the White face lie that had been handed down for centuries. His crinkled beard disappeared into his robe. He slid the blue sapphire stone tablet from under his arm and took her hand gently and placed it upon it. She traced the tablet with her fingertips. She could feel the words carved into it. And she could hear the words: Honor thy Father and Mother. He released her hand and a swirling feeling came over her as if she were being drawn up into the air. The men backed away from her to either side of the railing. She stood equidistant between them, overcome with emotion. Then she became aware of an intense blue light. She looked about for the source of it and realized it was coming from herself. Rather, the men were projecting the light on to her from their chests, specifically from their hearts. She looked down at her torso and legs and saw that the light was entering her body—she was taking it in. It looked watery and reminded her of when she’d studied amoebas with a microscope. Her sorrow began to dissipate and she felt herself overtaken by an unimaginable sense of reverence, of love for her family and all the families that had perished. There was a brief disturbance like sheet lightning. She looked up and the men, the prophets, were gone. The music stopped with a final loud chord that startled her. She staggered to the railing and leaned over, gulping in the humid air. She thought: I am changed.
*
She ran through the neighborhood; she had to find Ivan. She entered the synagogue, quickly covering her head. Instead of going directly up to the balcony she disobeyed the mechitza law that men and women should be separated, and went straight to the main floor of the sanctuary and stood beside him. The other men, bent in prayer, made audible gasps and moved away from her. They stared disapprovingly. “You are not supposed to be here,” Ivan whispered.
“Papa, I belong here as much as any of them,” she said, referring to the affronted crowd that had gathered in the aisle. “I came to pray with you.” She pressed on and said the prayers and recitations with as much authority as any of the others, and in flawless Hebrew that astonished Ivan. He hadn’t realized that she had retained so much. The men had stopped davening and the sanctuary became silent except for one voice. The rabbi turned to see where the female voice was coming from. Davora finished the prayer and waited in the silence. The rabbi’s eyes widened. He spoke to the men in a hushed voice and then retreated to an anteroom where the worshipers followed him. Ivan and Davora remained seated. She noticed a tremor in his hands, his veins pulsating as he grasped the bench before him. His jaw was clenched. This was not what she’d intended. She had infuriated him. Finally, he stood and exited abruptly. She followed him for a few blocks, afraid to approach him. He stopped at Erie Boulevard and waited for the cars to pass, the late afternoon traffic, competitive and impatient. She caught up and stood beside him. He stood erect and unapproachable, his birdlike head movements glancing left and right at the traffic, waiting for a safe moment. He must have been livid with her. When it was time to cross the wide street she felt something touch her hand. It was his; he’d taken hold of her hand as he had when she was a little girl, walking home with him from shul. Without looking at her he continued to hold her hand firmly, but not too firm, as they walked back to the house. And in those moments her heart filled, he’d accepted her finally, as his child, his equal adult child—a gesture, an embrace, with just a hand, that would last her for a lifetime.
© Mark Morganstern 2022
This story is excerpted from The House of the Seven Heavens: and Other Stories by Mark Morganstern, Recital Publishing 2022.
The Rosensweig house was situated diagonally across the street from a curious structure, a bit of an architectural monstrosity. It was called the Klondike Ramp, circa 1905, a spiral ramp supported on concrete piers. It stood sixty-four feet in height. Each level provided seven feet of clearance. The concrete walkway was pitched at a grade of almost eight percent to accommodate foot traffic, bicycles, and kids racing wagons. There were seven complete turns in the structure, which connected the 11th Ward neighborhoods high above to Broadway below. Observing it for the first time, a visitor might describe it as a huge, inverted flour sifter without a hand crank.
The alternative to accessing those neighborhoods above was a notoriously steep hill, known for multiple accidents and injuries, especially in the winter. The 11th Ward included Strong and Summit Streets along with Hamilton Hill, once famous for its speakeasies and tenor sax men like Lester Young and Coleman Hawkins when they were passing through town. Unfortunately, the ramp was constructed next to an unstable clay hill prone to landslides, and littered with trash deposited from the back porches of homes on Strong and Summit Streets. Heavy rainfall over the years saturated the soil, eventually causing a landslide that demolished a gas station at the bottom of the hill. But at the time, the ramp served an almost singular purpose. It provided a useful covered passage for the workers to travel to and from the GE Plant below. Each day a steady stream of employees would descend the ramp, lunch pails in hand. At the bottom of the incline was a viaduct that deposited them out onto Broadway—a short walk to their jobs. After their shifts ended, the workers would ascend the ramp to get home. They would pass the Rosensweig house everyday, streams of them, in various conditions of well-being and mood, endlessly making their way to and from the GE facility.
Some of the workers who traversed the Klondike ramp referred to it as the Seven Heavens because of the seven levels of ramps. There was a strong Catholic presence in the town that held to beliefs they’d been raised by, the Jewish and Christian cosmologies, the concept of the Seven Heavens, and the Pauline Arts, though they might not have recognized or understood those terms. Stories circulated that a few of the folks who regularly made their way through the ramps experienced indescribable feelings, strange passions, or had sightings of a sort they could hardly explain or describe. But given the day to day hardships, the necessity of making a living, the drudgery and repetitive work at the plant, little thought was given to it. It was passed off as fatigue or just anomalies. Some of it was attributed to frequent stops on the way home at The Sanctuary, a dive bar convenient to the ramp’s entrance, which featured a shot and beer for seventy-five cents.
The Klondike Ramp, aka the Seven Heavens, also had a reputation for trouble. It could be dangerous. Groups of teenagers sometimes harassed and robbed unsuspecting travelers. Homeless men would urinate in the ramps. Occasionally, perverts were hauled out by the police for soliciting sex. It was not a good place to be after dark. Ivan Rosensweig had decreed from the time they moved into the neighborhood that his children would stay out of the place. It was not a playground, though some of the local kids, unsupervised by their full-time working parents, would race their bikes down the ramp, often with disastrous consequences like broken legs and cracked skulls. Ivan’s rule was enough to tempt his daughter Davora to explore the peculiar structure and its various levels. She was drawn to it. The stories she’d heard intrigued her. It became a challenge to foray into the ramp and return home without Ivan discovering her disobedience. She’d visited multiple times before she began to realize that the place was somehow affecting her. She would experience things there that would open her up, change her in ways she would not have expected, though she might never fully comprehend what they meant. She sensed that it was much more than just a passageway for laborers to tread. It was a gateway to other worlds.
At the end of spring, summer burst upon the town with a blast of heat as if the GE plant had opened its massive doors and allowed the turbines to release their discharge into the air. Davora had just taken a cool shower and returned to her room to dress. She had a full day at the garage where she was scheduled to replace a clutch on an Oldsmobile with almost eighty thousand miles on it. Ben wouldn’t let any of the other mechanics attempt it. One of them, Leroy, would assist Davora, but she was to be in charge of the job. Leroy was Big Daddy Flanagan’s nephew and she was especially fond of him. She made it a point to teach him everything she knew for when she’d finally get out. She wanted for him to have a solid job as a mechanic. He was a talented kid and played the alto sax in his uncle’s band. She had convinced Ben to hire him. He was reluctant at first. Prejudice cut both ways. They had a heated discussion about hiring Leroy until Davora reminded Ben where they had come from and why they had to leave.
With Leroy helping, the job went smoothly. He stood nearby and knew exactly which tools to hand her as he cleaned up fluid spills and moved the lamp around so she could see well. They chatted while they worked, which Leroy seemed to enjoy very much. Almost none of the white women in the neighborhood would talk to a Black man. Davora thought that was silly; worse than that, it could lead to what was happening in Poland. She asked him about his childhood. He’d grown up in the neighborhood singing in the Living Truth Tabernacle and learning to read music as he studied the alto sax. Big Daddy Flanagan had been the choral conductor and organist as well.
“So you know this neighborhood really well.”
“Like the back of my hand.”
“Have you ever gone up there?” She tilted her head to the left to indicate the ramp.
“Oh, you mean up there? The Seven Heavens?”
She stopped working and lowered her wrench. “You call it the Seven Heavens?”
“Everybody knows that. My Aunt Grace says she saw the Lord up there sitting on his throne.”
Davora was shocked. “She did?”
“Sure she did. She sees God everywhere. Saw the Virgin Mary in her Jell-O. Then she ate it.”
Davora tried not to react and began working on the car again. “Give me the three-quarter inch, please.” He already had it in his hand reaching out to her.
Davora entered the ramp entrance at noon just as the whistle sounded at the plant. It was already eighty-five degrees, but it felt cooler in the shaded structure. She made her way up deliberately, acutely aware of any sounds or people who might be ahead of or behind her. There was a humming sound. Depending on how much wind there was and what velocity it was blowing at, there were often different pitched tones in the structure. Thus far she’d not seen anyone up to the fifth and sixth levels. Then she made the turn into the seventh incline and thought she heard music, but it seemed to be coming from below. She leaned over the railing and peered down and saw a Good Humor ice cream truck. It was the source of the music, but not the usual tinny song it played, recorded from a calliope. It sounded familiar, like something she’d heard many years ago. There were strings accompanying the song, which was not what you’d hear from an ice cream truck. Suddenly the words came to her, Oyfn Pripetchik, a sorrowful Yiddish song she’d heard in her childhood in Szemud. It had to do with giving someone, usually a child, a menorah, and the idea of maintaining the light of Torah study. The song caught in her throat and chest and she began to cry.
She cried for her father Ivan, for what he’d endured. She cried for her murdered brother Josh. And she cried for her homeland which she would never see again. How could anyone, the perpetrators or their victims, ever look each other in the eye again? She cried for Rudy also, realizing that she was perhaps someone who could never marry, never give up her independence. She had tasted freedom in the new world and she hungered for more of it. And all of it…what had brought her to this moment, about to enter the highest level, the Seventh Heaven, and see for herself if God was there on his throne, flanked by angels? What could happen to her if she were to see such an awesome sight? She entered the seventh level and walked to the top. There was garbage strewn about, empty soup cans, crumpled bags, crusts of bread from sandwiches that had been discarded. And it smelled of urine. She concluded that perhaps a group of hoboes had spent the previous night there. There was nothing sacred or holy about the place. In some way she felt relieved. What she’d already seen in this place had upended her life, changed her permanently. And she had no one to share it with.
She began her descent as the intensity of the music increased, now with a woman’s soprano singing the heartbreaking melody. No longer in the distance, the music surrounded her. Davora began to tear up again. When she got to the fifth level she saw two vagrants rounding the curve. One carried a crutch; the other looked as though he carried a book under his arm. She assumed that they were part of the hobo group returning to look for scraps or a place to relieve themselves. When she was within ten feet of them they stopped and waited for her to approach, which frightened her. They stood apart so she would have to pass between them. “What do you want?” she screamed. The one with the crutch, she suddenly realized, was instead carrying a staff with a carved head on the top, possibly a lion or a panther with garnets set in the eyes. The same staff that the vagrant had with him on the bus when she and Sarah had returned from Albany. It was the same fierce man in the burlap robe and sandals, but he was wearing a necklace, a thick silver chain with a perfectly round peridot the size of a walnut. It glowed with a greenish sheen and rotated like a miniature planet.
There was no choice but to pass between them, which she attempted to do but stopped involuntarily. Her legs weren’t weak, but she couldn’t move them. She willed herself to move forward, but she couldn’t. The man faced her and removed the necklace and held it out to her. Slowly, without thought, she raised her hand and pressed her ring against his necklace. The two stones touched, creating a spark that ignited into a greenish-blue flame, which gave off heat without burning her hand. Suddenly she was overcome with feelings of grief and sorrow, deeper and more intense feelings than she’d ever experienced before. It was profound and shocking. She understood in that moment that she was suffering the loss of millions. The deprivation, the torture, millions gone into the flames. Her people and the others caught in the murderous web of the Third Reich. Only people without souls could perpetrate such crimes. She wept uncontrollably for the dead, the mothers, the fathers, the children.
The other ‘vagrant,’ touched her arm gently. She turned and looked into a deeply lined face, the face of the Black Hebrew Egyptian Prince. Not the White face lie that had been handed down for centuries. His crinkled beard disappeared into his robe. He slid the blue sapphire stone tablet from under his arm and took her hand gently and placed it upon it. She traced the tablet with her fingertips. She could feel the words carved into it. And she could hear the words: Honor thy Father and Mother. He released her hand and a swirling feeling came over her as if she were being drawn up into the air. The men backed away from her to either side of the railing. She stood equidistant between them, overcome with emotion. Then she became aware of an intense blue light. She looked about for the source of it and realized it was coming from herself. Rather, the men were projecting the light on to her from their chests, specifically from their hearts. She looked down at her torso and legs and saw that the light was entering her body—she was taking it in. It looked watery and reminded her of when she’d studied amoebas with a microscope. Her sorrow began to dissipate and she felt herself overtaken by an unimaginable sense of reverence, of love for her family and all the families that had perished. There was a brief disturbance like sheet lightning. She looked up and the men, the prophets, were gone. The music stopped with a final loud chord that startled her. She staggered to the railing and leaned over, gulping in the humid air. She thought: I am changed.
*
She ran through the neighborhood; she had to find Ivan. She entered the synagogue, quickly covering her head. Instead of going directly up to the balcony she disobeyed the mechitza law that men and women should be separated, and went straight to the main floor of the sanctuary and stood beside him. The other men, bent in prayer, made audible gasps and moved away from her. They stared disapprovingly. “You are not supposed to be here,” Ivan whispered.
“Papa, I belong here as much as any of them,” she said, referring to the affronted crowd that had gathered in the aisle. “I came to pray with you.” She pressed on and said the prayers and recitations with as much authority as any of the others, and in flawless Hebrew that astonished Ivan. He hadn’t realized that she had retained so much. The men had stopped davening and the sanctuary became silent except for one voice. The rabbi turned to see where the female voice was coming from. Davora finished the prayer and waited in the silence. The rabbi’s eyes widened. He spoke to the men in a hushed voice and then retreated to an anteroom where the worshipers followed him. Ivan and Davora remained seated. She noticed a tremor in his hands, his veins pulsating as he grasped the bench before him. His jaw was clenched. This was not what she’d intended. She had infuriated him. Finally, he stood and exited abruptly. She followed him for a few blocks, afraid to approach him. He stopped at Erie Boulevard and waited for the cars to pass, the late afternoon traffic, competitive and impatient. She caught up and stood beside him. He stood erect and unapproachable, his birdlike head movements glancing left and right at the traffic, waiting for a safe moment. He must have been livid with her. When it was time to cross the wide street she felt something touch her hand. It was his; he’d taken hold of her hand as he had when she was a little girl, walking home with him from shul. Without looking at her he continued to hold her hand firmly, but not too firm, as they walked back to the house. And in those moments her heart filled, he’d accepted her finally, as his child, his equal adult child—a gesture, an embrace, with just a hand, that would last her for a lifetime.
© Mark Morganstern 2022
This story is excerpted from The House of the Seven Heavens: and Other Stories by Mark Morganstern, Recital Publishing 2022.
Narrated by Mark Morganstern.
Narrated by Mark Morganstern.
