by Amy Sorrells
“Here with the guys, or by the window with the ladies?” Nyesha asked as she wheeled his chair into the dining room, a large, open room with a severely pitched ceiling and exposed rafters. A stone-encased, double-sided fireplace separated this room from the recreation room, which featured plenty of couches and therapeutic, industrial recliners for broken-down residents who wanted to read or knit or sit and watch all their final minutes and hours drift by, each one, if the truth be told, wishing death would hurry and go on and take them.
Jakob considered the two tables. At one sat old Judge Golladay. In his prime he was the county prosecutor most feared by drunks and wife beaters and other good-for-nothin’s. Now he sat hunched in his wheelchair, thinning, peppered hair combed back with Vitalis, coffee dribbling down his chin, and a chunk of scrambled egg stuck next to the Izod logo on his green, button-down cardigan. Lloyd Loeffler, whom Jakob had hired to work on the line at Brake-All decades earlier, sat next to him. Back then he’d been a recent high school graduate with barely a whisker on his face and a very pregnant, newly wedded wife to care for. Jakob had hired him against the advice of his supervisor, but he was never sorry about it since Lloyd was such a hard worker. Sidelined by early-onset Parkinson’s, Lloyd watched the dining-room aide cutting his pancakes for him and Lloyd struggling to keep each bite from falling out of his mouth as she fed him. His bride from back then visited him nearly every day, and all the lucid residents were a little jealous of that.
Next Jakob considered the table of ladies. Guaranteed their prattle would distract him from feeling sorry for himself, as the four of them barely paused to breathe before they were on to their next woe or fracture or dental crisis. Either that or they argued like a brood of barnyard hens pecking at one another. Rose Habiger, cloud-white hair meticulously coiffed each morning, had been the matriarch of a blueberry farm before a massive heart attack and resultant congestive heart failure created a need for oxygen and care so great her wealthy progeny couldn’t deal with it, so they stuffed her away at Lakeside and rarely visited.
Vicky Wilson wasn’t much better off, a lifetime of cigarettes and secondhand smoke from spending decades of office hours in the high school teacher’s lounge crippling her lungs and oxygen-starved heart. She wore her hair in the same snug bun she had when Nel had been her prize English student. And lipstick. The same red lipstick he remembered her wearing at Nel’s “meet-the-teacher” nights. She never left her room without it on.
Helen Tuttle, a former housewife, was in better physical health than the others, but her mind had lost the battle to Alzheimer’s a long time ago. Still, she had enough spunk and wherewithal in her to have managed to avoid the locked memory unit. So there she sat each morning wearing an overstretched, overwashed “I left my heart in Daytona” sweatshirt (complete with emblazoned checkered flags and stock cars) and talking to Rose and Vicky as if they were her daughters and—if he chose to sit there—as if Jakob were her son. Everyone played along. Everyone except Mabel, that is. Parkinson’s had stolen her voice years ago. She could hardly lift her head, but they wheeled her out to the dining room every morning anyway.
“It’ll be good for her,” the staff often said.
Somehow Jakob doubted that. He watched as Mabel lifted her head with heroic effort, looked around, and scowled. She didn’t want to be around anyone anymore. She’d died inside a long time ago, as others had done. Didn’t matter how many times they wheeled her out, she would have none of it.
“The ladies.”
“You got it, Mr. Jake.” Nyesha wheeled him up to the table and across from Mabel. She wore a cameo brooch he hadn’t noticed before. Most folks wore the same thing every day, with an occasional change of top or pants. Residents usually came in with plenty but ended up with only a remnant of their original wardrobes. Staff and visitors stole all the best while the residents slept, then told them they were imagining things when they asked about their stuff gone missing. As if all their brains had quit working. Especially those residents pushing one hundred.
So of course Jakob noticed Mabel’s cameo.
EARLY SUMMER 1904
Tokaj, Austria-Hungary
CHAPTER 20
The woman named Zsófia winked as she set the borscht in front of Peter and Jakob.
“Dyakuyu,”* Peter said for both of them.
“Proshu.”† She smiled and tousled Jakob’s hair.
The farther they traveled, the better Peter had become at finding warm homes of kindly people who agreed to take them in for a night and a meal, and this woman was no exception. Each town they came to, Jakob pressed against his chest the family kiddush cup and the aquamarine wrapped carefully inside. He may have been a coward before, and he may have almost lost it, but he knew if it came down to it, he would forfeit his life before giving that away. Thankfully he hadn’t had to worry about that yet. When Galya needed new shoes, Peter found a blacksmith. When they needed new shoes, he found a cobbler. Plump-waisted babushkas tucked worn but quite usable clothes into the boys’ sacks as they left a home before dawn. There were still many times they rode for two or three days before finding food and a place to stay. But somehow they always found homes where kindhearted babushkas wearing bright scarves like Mama and Luda took them in and fed them warm stew or porridge, sourdough bread, and port, on occasion, to warm them and help them sleep. Many times the people they stayed with insisted Peter and Jakob eat first, before they and their children did.
Eventually, in early summer, the boys made it across the Carpathian Mountains to Tokaj on the eastern edge of Austria-Hungary. The hillsides, emerald with new growth, were covered with rows of emerging grapevines as Peter and Jakob made their way into Tokaj, where Zsófia and her husband, Makár, ran a local stable. Peter had chosen them purposefully, since this is where they would have to sell Galya to buy their first train tickets.
Luckily, Zsófia, head covered in a lavishly embroidered, floral print scarf, knew enough Ukrainian for Peter to communicate their plight to her, and she had enough mercy to feed them. She even gave them new socks and mended their torn clothing as they slept. And Makár was merciful enough to give them exactly the amount of money they needed for Galya, plus a little extra for their train tickets.
The couple escorted them to the train station, where Zsófia gave both Jakob and Peter a pocket-size, three-bar, Orthodox wooden cross. Jakob would not forget Zsófia’s hazel eyes, rimmed in black, wrinkled skin downturned with concern, when she placed the piece in his hands. She searched his eyes for understanding as she explained in broken Ukrainian that Messiah Yeshua was with them in their journey.
Jehovah-Shammah.
Makár promised Peter the two of them would at least be safer in Hungary. He said Budapest was full of Jews, many respected and prosperous, and there they could buy tickets to the Wien Westbahnhof train stop, which would lead them to Rotterdam and the ships to America.
The planks of the station platform creaked as they walked toward the gigantic engine, which snorted, coughed, and steamed as they boarded. It would have been enough to terrify any young boy, but not Jakob. Men, he knew, could do far more harm to humans than any machine. Besides, the small compartment with the hard, wooden seats was a warm comfort, confining the ache in his heart that felt too wild in the wide, open spaces they’d wandered for weeks. And as the train crawled then pushed full throttle through mountains and hills, farms and fields, villages and larger towns of Austria-Hungary, the blur lulled him into a shalom the likes of which he couldn’t remember feeling since before what happened in Chudniv.
When the train stopped in Budapest, Peter and Jakob opted to stay on board even though they could have explored the town for a couple of hours. They’d need to buy another round of tickets, but they didn’t have to switch trains. Still exhausted from their weeks of travel, they watched the many new passengers boarding. Their lightness of step and laughter was an awkward contrast to the devastated countenances of
Peter and Jakob and most everyone else who’d boarded from the east.
“I’ll be right back.” Peter tugged his fur hat tighter over his ears, gave Jakob a pat, and set off to speak with the conductor about payment for passage to Wien Westbahnhof. He was gone a long while, and Jakob began to worry as the train filled to near capacity and grew warmer by the minute. He unfastened his coat and took a moment to peek at the aquamarine tucked deep in the inside pocket. The stone glinted, despite the darkness of the pocket.
“Whatcha got there, boy?” A man with a gold front tooth and two rotting teeth on either side of that leaned over the seat from behind him. His rancid breath overwhelmed Jakob, who couldn’t help but cough in the man’s face.
Jakob did not reply except that he pulled his coat closed tight.
“Sure about that?”
Jakob felt something cold and hard being pressed against the side of his throat, the same place the man in the barn had held a knife against Peter’s neck.
“Get off the boy, Gergo,” another man said from behind him.
“He’s got somethin’ in his pocket we might be interested in, this one does,” Gergo said, not moving what Jakob figured must be a knife.
“He has nothing, and you’ll sit down,” a third voice boomed from behind.
As Gergo pulled the knife away, Jakob sighed with relief. He turned to see a second conductor coming down the aisle, a man who had to be a giant, as tall and enormous as he was.
“Now give me that knife,” the conductor said to Gergo.
“I told you not to be stupid,” Gergo’s companion snorted.
Jehovah-Shammah, Jakob thought.
The conductor knelt beside Jakob’s seat. “Are you all right, little one?”
Jakob nodded.
“Are you traveling alone?”
Jakob shook his head as Peter returned with their tickets.
“Everything okay here?” Peter asked, his face flushed.
The conductor stood and offered Peter his huge hand. “’Tis now. I made sure of that. See to it that you let me know if these two behind you give you any trouble, hear?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Peter handed the conductor their tickets.
Jakob would not remove his hand from over the top of his coat, where the stone lay beneath, warm and safe. He rested his head back against the seat, only to lift it again when Peter explained what took him so long.
“The tickets were very expensive. I had to give him both the ruby and the sapphire.” All they had left to sell for food and passage to America were a few smaller sapphires, a small bag of rough amber, and Mama’s cameo. That might still not be enough for the tickets, Peter explained.
Like all Papa’s work, the cameo was exquisite. The woman, carved into the white layer of agate against a deep-blue background, looked just like Mama—the slope of her nose, the soft curve of her lips, the swirls of hair falling against her neck, and a braid pinned above her ear with a flower. Even the details of a pearl necklace lying against her collarbone were perfectly etched.
Jakob folded his arms tight across his chest and felt his heart beating thin and bird-like against the hard outline of the silver cup and Papa’s aquamarine within. As difficult as selling the piece would be, though, the aquamarine was off-limits. Even if they had to stay in the Netherlands he would never give that up. He and Peter would find work there and forget about America. Forget running.
When the boys finally arrived at the shipyards of Rotterdam, though, Jakob reconsidered. The air of urgency among would-be immigrants created a near panic among the crowds. More than once, Jakob saw mothers and fathers trading young daughters for tickets, yelling over the girls’ petrified shrieks that it was the only way, and promising them they would send for them once they got to America, though Peter and Jakob both knew their fates would be more like Raisa’s—if they were lucky. Jakob’s constant fear of being lost or trampled or held at knifepoint again, along with the stench of unbathed, travel-weary bodies, kept him not more than an inch from Peter’s leg at all times. Peter pulled the cameo out of his pocket, and Jakob knew that meant he needed to sell it.
Jakob hugged Peter’s leg as Peter negotiated for their ship passage. Finally when he set the cameo in the hand of the steamship salesman, Peter received two tickets in return.
“They would’ve wanted us to sell it,” Peter said, resigned, as they turned to push through the crowds again. “Mama and Ilana, Papa and Tova, Zahava and little Faigy—they would’ve wanted us to get these tickets and start a new life.”
Any images of Mama would have to come from memory now.
As Jakob stood on the cold boarding platform in the Netherlands, the Atlantic Ocean felt more like a grave than a way to freedom.
While Peter recited the Shema, all Jakob could do was stare into the salty wind.
* Thank you.
† You’re welcome.
EARLY 1995
South Haven, Michigan
CHAPTER 21
Christmas came and went without much celebration, since, without her mom, Nel couldn’t bring herself to pull out a lifetime of holiday memories packed in boxes. Besides that, Jakob wasn’t able to come home from Lakeview, and Christmas decor can feel desperate, even strangely eerie, without anyone around to enjoy it. So Mattie, David, and Nel had brought Christmas to Jakob as best they could, joining in the celebrations Lakeview offered and bringing Jakob a basket full of home-cooked food, a photo album Nel made of favorite pictures of Catherine over the years, and a new cardigan sweater. Nel had attended church with Mattie and David. She hadn’t minded when David had reached over and held her hand during the candlelight singing of “Silent Night.” And even though the service at her hometown church had changed little over the years, the predictability of the songs, the liturgy, the message filled her with a sense of grounding, even assurance that though she wandered, she wasn’t completely lost.
Nel had rolled the car windows down a smidgen to inhale the scent of spring that sneaks into the air between late-winter snowfalls. She was headed for the local library, where she’d been doing as much research on Ukraine, the Russian Empire, and her father’s genealogy as she could between jewelry orders. She played with the cameo around her neck and felt the fine outline of the sparrow beneath her fingers. She’d forgotten about the piece but found it, along with old journals and trinkets from years spent attending and helping with church summer camps, while she was rummaging through an old drawer in her bedroom. Jakob had made the piece for her when she turned sixteen, and she had watched him work on it many times. He’d shown her the raw, uncut piece of blue agate and explained how the layers formed in holes in the earth, how water bubbled through the rock over the ages, depositing silica, which turned into quartz, which hardened into the variegated layers.
“When you etch away the top layer of the stone, you create a raised image called a relief that contrasts with the different-colored layer of stone beneath,” he’d explained.
Do not fear therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.1 She wasn’t proud of the fact that she couldn’t recall very many scriptures, but because of the necklace, she often remembered that one.
A low-hanging mist hugged the blueberry fields and dips in the landscape on the outskirts of town, and white church steeples rose high above newly barren branches. The last of orange and yellow leaves contrasted with the lustrous sky. In town, storefronts with crisp blue-and-white nautical displays beckoned tourists inside as they made their way toward their obligatory stop at the red lighthouse at the end of the South Haven pier. Bait, tackle, and marine outfitters made it obvious the lake wasn’t far. But the displays would be relatively unnoticed, since it was still several weeks before the start of the tourist season. And the beach would be nearly empty, except for perhaps a woman walking a dog or a gaggle of preschoolers with their moms watching them collect stones to
skip.
Inside the library, Nel caught the scent of new and old book bindings that reminded her of all the times her mom took her there as a child, even as a teen. Growing up she must’ve read every book in the youth and young-adult sections, and then some, and her mom must’ve read every book from the gardening and hobbies collection. Nel took her time wandering up and down the stacks knowing she could search the catalog for what she was looking for but choosing instead to take her time and thumb through titles on her own.
When she reached the 947s section, she pulled out every selection available on Russia and Ukraine. Her pile grew higher when she reached the 973s and pulled out several books on Eastern European immigrants. And when she reached the 739s, she was thrilled to find three books on Russian jewelers and artisans. She’d learned enough about world history to know that the land and people of Ukraine had been in a political tug-of-war for generations, so information about anyone named Maevski could be in nearly any resource that referred to the Russian Empire or Ukraine.
She stacked the references around her at a large study table and dug into the books. She’d had no idea that millions and millions of immigrants, Jewish in particular, had escaped severe persecution and genocide well before World War II, and at precisely the time Peter and Jakob had arrived in New York City. She’d also had no idea what the Pale of Settlement was, and how difficult life had truly been for Jews and non-Jews alike living in shtetls all across the Ukraine region of the Russian Empire. She had to stop reading some accounts of the forms of torture and murder techniques used on innocent women and children, who were hacked open and cut apart and buried alive, and whole villages of people brutalized, then immolated, in endless and unimaginable ways.
As if that wasn’t enough, she read about Babi Yar, when tens of thousands of Jews were slaughtered in Kiev and thrown into a ravine; about waves and waves of immigrants who fought and died trying to escape what seemed to be unending uprisings and genocides from the 1600s through World War II; about forced famines in the 1930s; about Stalin and Lenin … It was too much to take in, the horrors that never seemed to end in that land. If these were some of the things her dad had lived through, particularly the genocide in the Pale of Settlement, then no wonder he didn’t want to speak of it.