For Now

Rivka Heller.
Eighteen years old.
Born and raised in Prague.

She had always been quick with numbers—faster than the chalk, faster than the men who taught her. At the Charlesstadt Institute of Mathematics and Natural Philosophy, professors learned to step aside and let her finish the proof.

In 1938, one of them—an old man who smelled of dust and ink—had closed the door to his office and lowered his voice.

“You have been noticed,” he said.

By Berlin.

He did not say why. He did not have to.

Rivka understood before the sentence ended.

Her parents disappeared soon after. No letters. No notice. Whereabouts unknown.

Now she hid in the Alt Neu Shul with her younger brother, Chaim. Counting breaths instead of equations.

Footsteps outside.

This time they were not soft.

The doors opened hard.

Dogs entered first—two of them—low to the ground, muscles tight, noses working too quickly. Their handlers followed, boots scraping stone. An officer stepped in last, slower, deliberate.

The dogs did not like the place.

They pulled at their leads, whining, circling, refusing commands. One growled at nothing. The other barked once, sharp, then went silent.

“Raus,” one of the soldiers muttered.

They backed out, tugging the dogs with them. The animals resisted until they crossed the threshold—then suddenly went still.

The officer stayed.

He removed his gloves carefully.
Looked around.
Let his eyes adjust.

The synagogue held its breath.

Rivka pressed Chaim closer into the shadow behind the pillar, her hand firm on his shoulder. She felt his heart racing, too loud, too fast. She leaned close, lips near his ear, not speaking—only breathing slowly until he followed.

The officer walked a few steps in. Paused.

He studied the darkness the way a mathematician studies a problem that almost solves itself.

For a moment, Rivka was certain he could see her. That he knew. That Berlin had already arrived.

Then the officer turned.

He did not rush.

He left the way he had come in, alone.

The doors closed.

Only then did Rivka let the air out of her lungs.

Chaim followed, collapsing into her shoulder.

They did not speak.

Outside, the dogs barked again—farther away now.

Rivka rested her forehead against the stone.

“For now,” she whispered.

The synagogue remained silent.

Waiting.

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Aaron Rose is a software engineer and technology writer at tech-reader.blog and aaronrose.blog.