by Pam Jenoff
“Shot with machine guns.” A rock pressed against Sol’s chest as the image crystallized in his mind. “Men ambushed his car. That’s all we know so far.”
Jake sometimes rode along with the foreign minister, Sol recalled anxiously. “When?”
“Last night about nine.” Sol inhaled, relaxing slightly. Jake was with Miriam then, on his way to the jazz club.
The rabbi finally signaled the call to worship and Herz retreated. As Sol took his seat, he thought again of his brother. Jake idolized Rathenau, who had mentored him and brought him on board. It was more than just admiration for a single man, though. To Jake, the fact that one of the highest posts in the cabinet was occupied by a Jew was proof that they were fully accepted into German society, that despite the insults and struggles they really were accepted as equals. Did he know yet what had happened?
After the morning service had ended, Sol hurried toward home, his mind still racing. The news of Rathenau’s murder, while surprising, was not entirely a shock. Politics had grown more virulent in recent years and assassinations of politicians, either by the ultranationalists on the right or the extreme socialists on the left, were not uncommon. He remembered Jake describing how the esteemed Doktor Einstein and another man had called on Rathenau and begged him not to take the job as foreign minister on peril of his life. But Rathenau insisted, refusing the bodyguards that would encumber his movements and his ability to do his job. And now he was dead.
As Sol rounded the corner onto Rosenthaler Strasse, an arm shot out of a doorway and grabbed him by the shoulder, dragging him into an alley. He froze, certain that he was being attacked. Frantically, he tried to remember the grappling techniques he’d been taught in military training, but his mind was blank.
“It’s me, Jake.” His brother’s voice broke through the haze.
Sol relaxed slightly. “Rathenau’s dead,” he replied by way of a greeting. The words sounded smug, as if they confirmed everything he had ever believed about assimilation, and his own observant lifestyle choice had been vindicated.
Jake did not answer, but released Sol from his grasp. Sol noticed then the way his brother’s hand shook as he lit a cigarette, the paleness of his face. “I’m sorry,” he added, softening. “I know you liked Rathenau, respected him.”
“It’s not that,” Jake replied, his voice a hoarse whisper. He took a drag from the cigarette and exhaled, letting the smoke unfurl above them. “I think it’s my fault.”
“Your fault?” Sol stared wide-eyed at his brother. “How could you possibly—”
“I was out at a club a few weeks ago. Miri, the girl who was at dinner last night, introduced me to some friends of hers. From the university, she said. We were drinking, talking. I think they asked me questions about the minister, his schedule …”
Sol could instantly picture the scene: Jake, his tongue loosened by too much liquor, boasting about his position, saying more than he should. His stomach twisted. “What about Miri?” he asked, picturing the attractive brunette. “Have you asked her?”
“Gone. I tried to find her this morning but her flat is deserted.” Jake buried his head in his hands and leaned against the doorway. “There will be an inquiry. With the information that was given, it’s only a matter of time before they figure out it was me. What am I going to do?”
Sol summoned his big brotherness, all four and a half minutes of it. “You don’t know that.” But even as he spoke, he realized Jake was right. The government would be looking for someone to blame and the police force was notoriously anti-Semitic. A Jew betraying Rathenau would be a convenient story; Jake, portrayed as a disgruntled subordinate, would make the perfect scapegoat. “You need to get out of the country,” Sol said finally, surprised at his own decisiveness, the certainty in his voice.
A light appeared in Jake’s eyes and Sol could tell he was thinking of the salons of Paris and London and other grand cities, images gleaned from the boyhood stories their father had told of his travels. “East,” Sol added authoritatively.
“East?” Jake’s shoulders slumped as the visions of cafés and social halls evaporated from his mind.
“Yes. It’s easier to cross the border and you’ll be less likely to be noticed. And there are Jews there who will help.” Jake’s brow wrinkled, imagining the shawl-clad immigrants from the Pale. “Papa has cousins near Lodz,” Sol persisted, as if making his case. “Go to them and from there you can arrange a longer journey, by sea to America or somewhere else. I’ve heard there’s a train that goes all the way to China.”
Jake’s eyes danced once more as he imagined more exotic adventures. Then his face fell. “I don’t have the money,” he said, confirming, as Sol had long suspected, that the government job did not carry a paycheck that matched its prestige.
“We’ll figure that out,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “But you have to leave right away and—”
“Miri,” Jake interrupted. His eyes darted back and forth rapidly. “I have to find her first, make sure she’s all right.”
It was the first time Sol had ever heard his brother express concern about anyone but himself. What kind of hold did this girl have on him after such a short time? Then, remembering the effect Miri’s sister had on him, he understood.
“And perhaps she can provide an explanation, prove that I had nothing to do with it,” Jake added desperately. “Maybe we can even leave together.” Sol wanted to tell Jake that his loyalty was misplaced; Miri had clearly abandoned him, perhaps even set him up. But he could tell from his brother’s stubbornly set jaw that it was futile; he wouldn’t leave without finding her, or at least knowing where she had gone.
Leah, he remembered suddenly. Maybe she knew where her sister had gone. “Wait here,” he instructed Jake and started from the alley, nearly slipping in his haste. Steadying himself, he set off hurriedly down the street.
Twenty minutes later, he barreled through the entrance to the department store, then stopped. Did he actually dare speak with her? But there was no time to lose. He steeled himself, then walked toward the counter. The salesclerk, blond and stout, was not Leah. Of course not. She wouldn’t be here, surely, on Shabbes. And even if she wasn’t observant, she might not be working today. His heart fell. But perhaps a coworker might have her contact information, know where Sol could find her.
He started forward. “Excuse me …” As he neared, he saw a second girl, hunched over a cardboard box. She turned and his breath caught. Behind the counter, as if she had never left, was Leah. She was even more mesmerizing up close, he decided as she straightened. A mix of surprise and delight filled him.
A flicker of what Sol thought resembled recognition crossed her face and for a moment he hoped that perhaps she had noticed him too on his previous visits to the store. “May I help you?” she said, and her voice, which he had imagined so often in his mind these past few days, was even more lyrical than he had dreamt. But her tone was formal, as though she were speaking to anyone.
He stifled his disappointment. “Leah,” he blurted, and the girl seemed so taken aback that he wondered if he had made a mistake. “You are Leah, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” She blinked, as if unaccustomed to being known. “Have we met?”
“No. I’m acquainted with Miri.” She looked annoyed then, having been asked too many times about her sister by young men, he suspected. “She’s a friend of my brother, Jake.” Leah’s expression relaxed slightly. “Do you know where I can find her?”
“She’s left,” Leah replied evenly, her eyes narrowing. It seemed to Sol then that he might spend his entire life watching her face. “On holiday, she said.” Her emphasis on the last word made clear that she did not believe her sister’s story.
“Do you know where she’s gone? So that I might tell Jake,” he added quickly.
“I would think that he should already know,” she retorted, and whether Leah was just being protective of her younger sister or was aware of what had happened, Sol could not tell, but he
knew she would say nothing further.
“I’ve seen you working here before,” he ventured. “But I would not have thought today …”
“I don’t normally work Saturdays,” she replied, a touch of defensiveness creeping into her voice. “But the other girl called in sick. I didn’t have a choice.”
No, he agreed silently, forgiving her transgression more readily than might be expected, given his steadfast beliefs. Principle had to give way to practicality on occasion, if one hoped to keep working in this economy.
She was watching him, he noticed then. Her gaze held his without wavering and there was a spark of interest there that he had never seen before—from anyone. Adrenaline surged through his veins and, pushed forward by it, he took a deep breath. “What time do you finish working?” he asked, the words tumbling out atop one another. “Perhaps—”
“Leah,” the other salesclerk called, interrupting before he could finish his invitation for coffee.
“I have to go,” Leah said, glancing over her shoulder nervously. “But I’ll tell Miri that Jake asked for her. If I see her,” she added, then turned away.
Sol fought the urge to call after her, then stopped, knowing further conversation might put her job at risk. The momentary surge of confidence receded and he walked quickly from the store. Outside, he shivered, cold and lonely once more.
As he headed back to Jake, his mind raced. He had done it, spoken to Leah, perhaps even laid the groundwork for future encounters. Then, remembering the purpose of his visit to the store, his heart sank a little. He was no closer to finding Miri for his brother. She was gone; he was sure of it. And he had to persuade Jake to leave, now. His brother needed money for the journey, too, and the meager amount he saved from his job at the Gemeinde would come nowhere close to being enough.
Perhaps Mutter … he thought, then stopped. Telling their mother was impossible—she’d have too many questions, and would insist that he stay. Surely her boy, her beautiful Jake, could never have done such a thing and the world would see if only he explained. No, she wouldn’t understand, and even if she did, she did not have that kind of cash. Dora had a houseful of things she treasured but individually none was worth much.
Except the clock, he remembered suddenly. He pictured the domed timepiece that sat on the mantel. A treasure, his father called it more than once, when no one but Sol seemed to be listening, proud of the bargain he’d wagered. He had bought it from a provincial clockmaker who was unaware of its full value, which had surely increased with time.
Inside, the parlor was quiet, the smell of eggs from breakfast lingering in the air. He paused to listen for their mother who, God willing, should still be at market with the maid if the lines were long. Then he rushed into the dining room, where the silver from the previous evening’s meal lay neatly stacked and polished, waiting to be put away. Reaching the mantelpiece, he stopped. Beneath the glass dome the four pendulums of the clock rotated in one direction, then stopped and continued in the other direction on their endless journey.
Sol hesitated, picturing the clock on the mantelpiece for generations to come, his mother showing it to her grandchildren. (He was surprised that in the vision, the children were his, girls with dark curly hair and close-set eyes.) She would be devastated to find it gone. But Jake needed to go, and this was his only hope. He grabbed the clock and carried it out under his jacket.
He walked back down the street as quickly as he could without attracting attention, and slipped into the alleyway where his brother crouched low to the ground, smoking another cigarette. “Miri?” Jake asked hopefully, standing up.
Sol shook his head. “I spoke to her sister. She’s left the country for good. Leah didn’t know where.”
Jake’s face sagged and Sol felt a stab of guilt at the lie. But Jake would never leave if he held out hope of finding Miri. “Here.” Sol produced the clock.
Jake paused, and for a moment Sol expected him to object. But his brother, never one to question what was given to him, took the clock. “If Mama asks …” Jake began, then faltered. Then without another word, he turned and ran.
“Auf Wiedersehen,” Sol said under his breath as his brother disappeared around the corner. Jake had not, he realized, even bothered to thank him.
He started slowly back toward the house. From the foyer, he could hear two voices, his mother’s high-pitched and the maid’s higher, back from market, recounting the previous night’s festivities as they put away the silver. There was a pause in the conversation, a moment of silence followed by a scream. Steeling himself, Sol walked toward them.
“Gone,” his mother said simply as he entered the dining room, and for a minute Sol thought she was talking about Jake. But Dora had gotten so used to her sons coming and going it would be days until she remarked upon the lack of Jake’s shadowy presence, the fact that his bedclothes seemed undisturbed. “The clock is gone.”
“Ja, Mutter.” He faltered as the moment he had waited for his entire life unfurled before his eyes. Now he could tell her Jake had taken it, vilify the golden child who was no longer here to defend himself and finally claim his rightful place as the favored son. But then he saw Jake in the alley, vulnerable and helpless, and he could not bring himself to do it. It was best if their mother knew nothing when the police came asking questions about his whereabouts anyway. “I saw that the latch to the back door was open this morning so I expect someone may have broken in and snatched it.”
Her complexion paled. “We were robbed?” she asked, disbelieving.
“I don’t think it was that serious. More likely someone who saw the door left ajar and seized the moment. Nothing else was taken. But I’ll report it to the police first thing.” He watched remorsefully as a torrent of emotions washed across her face, shock then sorrow and anger. But her expression soon slackened to one of resignation. The clock was her most beloved possession, but in the end it was only an object and no one could afford to get very attached in these troubled times. The blow of Jake’s unannounced departure would come much harder and he was grateful that in the moment she did not ask.
There seemed to be nothing more to say, so Sol started up the stairs. As he reached the landing, optimism surged through him suddenly. He had done it—helped Jake and taken the clock and gotten away with it. And after Shabbes he would stop by the department store to see if Leah was working again, follow through on his invitation to coffee. He didn’t require an introduction now. For years the notion of someone who might share his life had been a concept so foreign and remote he’d scarcely entertained it. But now as he saw Leah’s face in his mind, new possibilities stirred inside him.
Sol pictured Jake running with the clock and recited silently the prayer for safe travel, while half suspecting that it was better than his selfish, mercurial brother deserved. But there was no need to be petty—he was here in Berlin and Jake was not, and the house and the family and all of this would be his for the rest of his life.
Five
WADOWICE, 2009
Charlotte brushed the wrinkles from the front of her pants as she stepped out of the cab that had picked her and Jack up from the Katowice Airport just over an hour earlier. She groaned inwardly, noticing a smudge of gray dirt across the front of the khaki fabric. Amazing that despite all of the economic development, the wider roads and gleaming shopping centers they had seen along the way, the same fine coat of coal soot seemed to cover everything here as it had years ago.
As Jack paid the driver, Charlotte inhaled deeply, welcoming back the familiar crisp morning air, tainted by the odor of burning brush. Wadowice, she reflected as she studied the main square, was something of an anomaly. Bigger than a village yet too small to be a city, it seemed to hover in between, attracting enterprising new businesses to its narrow, traffic-clogged streets while stubbornly clinging to its provincial, Old World character. She had passed through on research trips before the motorway was built, when the road between Kraków and the other cities still ran through dozens of
little places exactly like this one.
They walked from the square in the direction of the address that she had Googled before leaving. “Wadowice is where Pope John Paul II was born,” Jack noted, pointing to a plaque in front of one of the houses.
Charlotte nodded, more than a little pleased to be the one with more background knowledge this time. “And the interesting part is, when he was a boy here, his best friends were a Jewish family, the Turnowiczes. One of the sons, Ryszard, later became head of Kraków’s Jewish community. The pope used to stop and visit him on his return trips from the Vatican. And when Turnowicz died in the early nineties, the pope sent three cardinals as emissaries to the funeral.”
“That’s a side of Polish–Jewish relations you don’t hear much about,” he replied, a hint of interest in his voice.
“Most people don’t take the time to learn it,” she agreed. “They come to Poland, visit the concentration camps, and leave again. There’s so much more to it than that.”
“I wonder if Roger knew the pope as a boy,” Jack mused. “They would have been about the same age.”
“Good question.” She stopped. “This is it.”
She looked up at the house before them. Three stories high, with a sloping wood roof and freshly planted flower boxes in the windows, it was set close to the road, as was the fashion in these parts. Jack came to her side and knocked on the door. “Roger said that the caretaker would be here to let us in.”
At the Munich airport that morning, Jack indicated that he had spoken to Roger and told him of their plan to go to Wadowice. Roger had seemed indifferent to the idea, Jack reported, but had made arrangements so the caretaker would be expecting them. “Maybe he’s having a late lunch,” Charlotte suggested when no one answered, looking at her watch.
Jack raised his hand but before he could knock again, the front door flew open and a woman with short dark hair and a square, stocky build, reminiscent of an Olympic volleyball player from the Eastern Bloc days, appeared. “Tak?”