Beyond the Shadow of Night

by Ray Kingfisher

  Then he heard shouting, and knew that this was very real.

  “Under the table!” Papa shouted. “Everyone get under the table!”

  They all dropped to the floor and crawled under.

  “So, it’s started,” Mama gasped.

  Papa nodded, his head and arms trembling.

  Mama wept, and Papa held her, kissing the top of her head. Asher saw his papa’s frantic eyes and noticed his hands, grabbing at thin air to pull his family closer to him. Within seconds, all five bodies were entwined.

  Asher shut his eyes, squeezing them tightly, praying for that noise from hell to stop, just praying for it all to go away. The concentration made him dizzy.

  He heard someone shouting above the whistles and the crashes.

  “Asher! Asher!”

  It was his papa.

  “It’s okay, boy. We’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

  Only then did Asher realize he was jabbering, nonsense falling from his mouth with every explosion that rocked the nearby buildings.

  He was sixteen, almost a man in body, but he had to bury his head in his mama’s bosom to keep himself sane.

  The bombing continued for no more than half an hour, after which the droning noises faded to nothing. There were a few minutes of fretful peace, and then Papa and Asher got up and approached the window. An eerie silence lay outside. There were no people rushing by, no children playing, no people chatting on street corners—there were no people at all. All was calm, and yet it was as though Satan himself had paid a visit.

  “Come back,” Mama said from under the table. “It might not be over.”

  “She’s right,” Papa said, and the family gathered under the table again.

  It took a while—a speechless half hour for the Kogans, but then they heard people outside. It was over. Asher got up again and went back to the window. Slowly and fearfully, the people who had scattered like frightened mice were now coming out of their hiding places.

  Asher felt an urge to go out, to see the damage with his own eyes. But he kept it to himself; it would only upset his mama. They checked the apartment for damage. They were lucky. Two cracked plates. That was all.

  The next day, Papa went to a meeting organized by the local authorities. There was talk of “blitzkrieg,” and of setting up warning sirens and shelters as quickly as possible.

  In the meantime, there was clear guidance. Go about your daily business as normal, sleep as normal, but on hearing the siren stay indoors and find shelter, preferably under a table or bed.

  Papa came home and relayed that message to his family, and they laid spare blankets and pillows under the table to save time in case of a raid.

  And the raids did come, causing mayhem whenever the bombs were falling, and leaving a thinly disguised foreboding when they weren’t.

  As with most families, the space underneath the Kogans’ dining table became something of a meeting point, a place where there was, if not safety, then the sense of safety. Even after days of bombing, their apartment was still intact. But there was precious little talk. The raids became so frequent that the family more often than not went to bed under the table, but even when the raids didn’t come, Asher stayed awake in the silent darkness, unable to relax. And he was sure that applied to the rest of his family too. During the daylight hours, the only thing that stopped them succumbing to their tiredness and falling asleep was fear.

  Amid the mayhem, Asher had a secret urge. Even a week after the initial bombing, it was still there, nagging him. He’d tried to dismiss it, to overcome it, but now it had overcome him. After a particularly heavy raid, over a breakfast eaten in a respectful silence, he spoke.

  “I need to go to the café,” he said.

  “Why?” Papa asked.

  “I want to see if it’s been damaged.”

  “No, Asher,” Mama said. “It’s too dangerous. Only go where you need to.”

  “I’ll be careful, Mama. I won’t be long.”

  “Please, Asher.”

  Breakfast was finished in a fraught silence, then Asher stood up from the table, only to pause as he noticed the imploring expression on his mama’s face.

  “I’ll go with him,” Papa said, grabbing their coats. He kissed Mama and said, “It’ll be fine. I promise.” Rina approached him and drew breath. “No,” he said, cutting her off. “Not yet. Only me and Asher. We’ll tell you what we see when we get back.”

  They left, and were hit by the gritty air, a thick dust hanging around that made them cough at first.

  “Hold your handkerchief over your mouth,” Papa said, pulling Asher by the shoulder.

  The buildings they passed had sustained such varying degrees of damage it all seemed so unfair. Some had suffered nothing but a heavy layer of brick dust; many were dotted with deep holes. Some had only windows broken, whereas others mere yards away were little more than rubble.

  There were bodies too. And parts of bodies. Asher stared.

  Papa dragged him away and turned his head to stop him looking. “I know it’s horrible,” he said. “But we must show a little respect to the dead. Let the authorities deal with the victims.”

  They walked on, and soon were standing outside Friedman the greengrocer, opposite Café Baran. At least, they were standing outside what had once been Friedman the greengrocer.

  The Barans had been luckier than many. Every window of their café was blown out, the ground outside a shimmering mass of crystalline fragments that crunched like sugar candy under the feet of passers-by. Even the window frames were dislodged and hanging off. The brickwork directly above the two large downstairs windows was gaping, and it was cracked further on—right up to the gaping holes where other windows used to be.

  “That looks like Mr. Baran,” Papa said, pointing across the street. “Come on.”

  He took a stride forward, and Asher wasn’t far behind. The man turned to meet them.

  “I’m Mr. Kogan and this is Asher, my son. We wanted to offer you our condolences.”

  “Thank you.” Mr. Baran spent a few seconds surveying the damage, then nodded across the street to the greengrocer. “It could have been worse.”

  They looked with him, then Asher’s papa said, “Was anybody hurt?”

  “The Friedmans?” He shook his head sadly.

  Papa took a gulp. “Are they all . . . ?”

  “All five of them. Mr. Friedman survived a few hours, long enough to know what happened to the rest of his family. I cried for him.”

  “That’s terrible.” Papa eyed up the holes in the brickwork. “And where are you staying?”

  “With my wife’s sister. That is, my wife and I, and my oldest, Izabella. My other three . . . we got them out last year, they’re staying with my brother and his wife in the Netherlands. What about you?”

  Papa put an arm around Asher, even though by now they were about the same height. “Lucky. Very lucky. My wife, this one, and my two daughters are all safe.”

  “Good. I’m happy for you. Your property?”

  “We lost two plates, would you believe.”

  Mr. Baran smiled flatly and rubbed his chin, pinching something between stubble and a beard as he spoke. “I don’t think we even have that left in the café.”

  “It must be terrible. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not so bad. Most of our personal possessions upstairs were safe. Izabella was worried that her beloved violin would be damaged. It was near the window, but in its case.”

  “Good, good. Look, I’m sorry to disturb you, we’ll . . . we’ll let you get on.”

  “Thank you. And long may you be lucky.”

  “That’s very kind of you under the circumstances.” Asher and his papa started walking away.

  Asher hadn’t spoken to Mr. Baran, letting his papa take care of all the manly conversation while he’d repeated the name Izabella in his mind over and over again. Now he spoke. “Couldn’t we help in some way?” he said.

  Papa stared at him pensively for a few seco
nds. Then he turned back, calling out Mr. Baran’s name. “What are you going to do?” he asked the café’s owner.

  “Do?” Mr. Baran replied.

  “Do.” Papa waved a hand at the ruined property. “With this.”

  “Well . . . it’s my living. I’m going to wait and see what happens in the next few weeks, whether our forces can fend off further attacks. There’s no point repairing it only for this to happen again.” He pointed at the wreckage across the street. “But when the time is right, I fully intend to repair, refurbish, and reopen. It’s just a question of finding people who can help.”

  Papa nodded. He put his arm around Asher again and pulled him into his side. “Warsaw won’t be Warsaw without your cakes. You’ve just signed up two more strong and willing volunteers.” Asher could feel his papa standing tall and proud, and noticed his grin, wider than it had been for a long time. He felt compelled to join in on both counts.

  Mr. Baran’s frown settled low. He swallowed and firmly shook hands with both Asher and his papa. Asher noticed him wipe a few tears from his eyes. “Thank you. Thank you so much. With your help, Café Baran will be resurrected from the ashes.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “And for the select few, there will be free cakes on the reopening.”

  Papa was impressed. “They’re very good cakes. It’s a deal.”

  Mr. Baran thanked him again. “I’ll be in touch once we know the bombing has stopped.”

  After giving him their address they left, and Asher started repeating the name in his head again: Izabella, Izabella, Izabella. Her face was beautiful, her violin playing was beautiful. And now he knew that even her name was beautiful.

  Chapter 6

  Warsaw, Poland, 1939

  It was the middle of September, and Warsaw was being shown no mercy, still enduring sporadic bombing raids. Those, together with stories of dogfights between the two countries’ air forces, had become an accepted part of daily life. The family had returned to sleeping in their bedrooms, but sleep was often disturbed by the bombings, and once or twice Asher had lain awake thinking of Dyovsta and Mykhail. He knew that the here and now—German advances to the outskirts of Warsaw—was more important, but he couldn’t help wishing he’d never left Dyovsta. And then there were the images and sounds of Izabella that would all too often seep into his dreamlike thoughts of a better life, confusing him even more.

  On one of those sleepless nights, Asher felt thirsty, got out of bed, and tiptoed into the main room, heading for the sink. He stopped when he saw a shape hunched over the dining table.

  “Mama?”

  “Don’t put the light on, Asher.”

  He didn’t need to. A little moonlight beaming through the window caught her as she turned. Asher saw a blanket wrapped around her and a glistening under her eyes.

  “I got it wrong, didn’t I?” she said.

  Asher said nothing, just sat down next to her, their shoulders touching. Then he felt the warmth of the blanket envelop him too. A hand rubbed his back between the shoulder blades.

  “Freida kept telling me how good life was here—the people, the food, the freedoms. Now she apologizes to me, she says it had already started to change—the new regime in thirty-six . . . the new broom to sweep the city clean, so they said. She didn’t tell me all of that at the time because she wanted me to come here and assumed it would only be temporary.”

  “I like living here,” Asher said. “It feels good to be part of the flock.” He drew breath before adding, “Well, it did until September came along.”

  She sniffed and wiped under her eyes with the corner of the blanket. Asher put his arm around her and rocked her from side to side.

  “I’m sixteen now, Mama.”

  “Taller than me.”

  “And much stronger. I can take care of you. And I can fight if I need to.”

  “Please don’t say that, Asher.”

  They stayed silent for a few minutes, then Mama reached out for a cup of hot milk on the table in front of them. “Here,” she said. “I’m guessing you came in for a drink.”

  As he sipped the milk, he heard her say, “I’m sorry.”

  She kept repeating the words.

  Dyovsta, Ukraine, 1939

  News of the events in Poland took a few days to reach the Ukrainian prairies, and finished off any lingering hopes Mykhail had of traveling there.

  He was in Dyovsta village center, listening to the radio—yet another of those newfangled machines his papa didn’t approve of—and ran all the way home as soon as the news bulletin finished.

  He found his parents sitting outside, resting in the last of the year’s afternoon sun.

  “They’ve done it,” he said to them, gasping to catch his breath between words.

  They said nothing, just showed him puzzled expressions.

  “The Germans and Soviets have marched into Poland.”

  “Oh, that.” His papa stood up. “It hardly comes as a surprise.” He slapped the dry dirt from his pants. “Are you going to help me complete this harvest? I’ve been waiting for you to come back from—”

  “Didn’t you hear me? They’ve both invaded Poland. The Germans are bombing Warsaw.”

  “Yes. We heard you.” Papa’s look was piercing, almost threatening.

  “But . . .”

  “Aha.” Papa nodded. “I know what this is about. Our friends, the Kogans. They’re probably still in Warsaw, God bless them. But it’s not the only place being invaded. These things happen. And we can’t do anything about it, can we?”

  Mykhail’s mind raced, thinking of arguments to the contrary. His papa continued before he could put them into words.

  “But we can do something to help ourselves. We must finish this harvest. We’re nearly there, but it could be a harsh winter, so we need to collect every last grain we can find. I’ve made a start, and you can help this afternoon. Yes?”

  All Mykhail could do was nod.

  His papa spoke little more about the invasion of Poland, and Mykhail thought that perhaps his papa was right. Out here, only the weather seemed to matter. Perhaps it was irrelevant after all, and it wasn’t as if they could do anything about the situation. And the crops did need harvesting. Once that was done they could relax.

  A few days later, the three of them walked into the village center. There was talk throughout the marketplace and the streets. Mykhail just listened. There were heated voices, some fearing the Germans, some thinking it good that they and the Soviet Union were on the same side, and some thinking the Germans could hardly be worse than the Russians.

  Someone mentioned the threats by Britain and France to intervene and defend Poland. There was laughter at the idea.

  “Empty threats,” one of them said.

  “They wouldn’t dare,” another said.

  “They don’t have the resources,” a third said. “It’s all a bluff.”

  “It’s better that we stay out of the argument,” Papa said. “We’re Ukrainian, not Russian or Polish. We’ve recovered from our own problems—that famine Mr. Stalin engineered for us. We don’t want more trouble.”

  “That’s a little harsh,” Mama said. “It must be terrible for those poor people.”

  But Papa shook his head. “I tell you, after that mass starvation, the number-one priority of every true Ukrainian is to keep grain production high. That’s much more important to us than some invasion hundreds of miles away. And who cares what other countries do about it?”

  Mykhail nodded as if to agree, although that didn’t feel right.

  Mama bought some cloth and they all went home.

  Warsaw, Poland, 1939

  In Warsaw, in the middle of September, the rate and ferocity of bombings started to increase dramatically, shaking the parts of the city they didn’t pulverize. Sleepless nights and hunger pangs became part of life. But for Asher there were no more tears; every crash made him feel more like an adult. The resistance to the German invasion was brave, the Polish
Warsaw Army dug in deep, and from the relative safety of the apartment Asher would watch them rushing around the streets, thinking there were so many of them that they couldn’t possibly lose. But the aerial bombardments were relentless. News spread that schools, medical facilities, and waterworks had all been bombed, along with the aircraft factory and the army barracks.

  One day, late in September, the bombing stopped. The Kogans asked neighbors what was happening. Rumors started, and soon official notes were distributed.

  Within days, the Polish soldiers who had been stationed on the street corners disappeared from the city, to be replaced with German ones.

  The rumors were correct. Warsaw had fallen.

  The bombing raids stopped; the tension remained. There was peace of a sort, but no less fear. People watched every move of the German troops and slept with one eye open. The message from the officials who had taken over the city was one of business as usual, and that the city would now be made to run more efficiently.

  It was strange for Asher’s papa and sisters to continue to go to work—for everything to be normal. There was little conversation, although once Asher heard a neighbor talk about waiting for a hammer to fall.

  Everybody accepted there was not much else they could do but wait and see.

  Asher thought there was one thing that they could do. It was something he’d never quite forgotten since the bombing started, even though Papa hadn’t mentioned it at all since that day they’d visited the mess that used to be Café Baran.

  “Perhaps Mr. Baran will want to start rebuilding the café now,” he said casually one morning while the family were eating breakfast.

  “Is it worth it?” Mama said, frowning.

  “Of course,” Asher replied. “And Papa and I are going to help.”

  “You’re . . . what?” Mama’s gaze hopped between Asher and Papa, settling on the latter.

  Papa kept his eyes down on his oatmeal, which only signified to everyone around the table that he was aware of his wife’s accusatory stare. He eventually looked over at her and smiled.

  She didn’t smile back.