“Didn’t I mention that, Golda? You should have seen the place. The walls are still standing, but everything else is ruined and it’s very dangerous, so we promised to help with the repairs in our spare time.”
“I want to help too,” Rina said.
The others surveyed her slender figure.
“I can do something, I’m sure,” she continued. “I’m stronger than I look, and we have to show the Germans they haven’t completely destroyed us.”
Mama, suddenly and confusingly outnumbered, opened her mouth to speak but said nothing.
“Mr. Baran is going to pay us in cakes,” Papa added.
Mama shrugged her shoulders and mumbled, “As you wish.”
Throughout the winter that followed, Asher, Rina, and their papa worked on the reconstruction and refurbishment of the café two evenings a week and either Saturday or Sunday. There were one or two delays for items to be delivered, which Asher thought his papa welcomed as he looked weary once or twice. For Rina, what she lacked in strength she made up for in determination, always being full of energy and never seeming to tire. And Asher positively enjoyed the work; his papa once commented that his body was at that age when muscles relished hard labor, and as 1939 turned into 1940 his muscles seemed to have swelled due to the work. The only downside was that he never saw Izabella in all that time. Mr. Baran had talked of her, so Asher knew she was in Warsaw, and he was aware of an inner determination to wait for as long as it took to see her.
One dull day in spring, Mr. Baran gathered the handful of workers together and thanked them, declaring that the café was now looking cleaner and more stylish than it had on its opening fifteen years before. He handed out bottles of beer and lemonade, and announced that he had decided on the date of the grand reopening, which would be a dual celebration because it would also be his daughter Izabella’s sixteenth birthday. All workers and their families were invited, and were told not to bring any money.
And so, on the first Saturday in April, the Kogans put on their best clothes and had all the cakes they could eat, washed down with beer for Asher and his papa, and lemonade or coffee for his mama and sisters. Most importantly for Asher, he got to see Izabella once more, and to listen to the music that he’d missed so much, which he felt had a kind of hypnotic hold on him.
Toward the end of the celebrations, Izabella came to each table, personally thanking everyone for their help in rebuilding the café. Seeing her close up for the first time, Asher could do no more than listen to her voice, which was every bit as mesmerizing as her violin playing, and admire . . . well, admire everything else about her. Warm brown eyes sat above a classically strong nose, below which lay petite but full strawberry lips, and coal-black hair draped down either side of the whole ensemble, her pure white skin a canvas to the picture. She was as delicious as any of the cakes the Kogans had just eaten, and everything about her seemed to light up whenever she talked, in turn brightening everything around her as if some magic candlelight were present. Asher could do no more than watch and admire all these things; uttering any words to her was completely out of the question. Not that his shyness bothered him. The important thing was that Café Baran was back in business and Izabella was there.
Finally, Warsaw felt like a proper home to Asher, with people and experiences and opportunities he would miss if the Kogans were ever to return to Dyovsta.
By the summer of 1940, the German authorities had exceeded all expectations where the residents of Warsaw were concerned. Yes, there were restrictions on travel and prayer, and the Kogans had to put on their Star of David armbands whenever they left the house, but the authorities had largely kept to their word when it came to letting “business as usual” prevail, and the hammer that Asher’s neighbor had talked of hadn’t fallen. It seemed too good to be true.
Asher turned seventeen, and his strong, youthful body was now managing to do almost as much work as his papa at the bakery, lugging around sacks of flour and anything else that needed moving. At home, there was more conversation among the Kogan family than ever, as well as smiles—and even laughter.
One evening in October, while they were playing cards at the table, there was a knock on the door.
Papa answered, and Asher saw a council official standing there. Papa went outside and closed the door behind him. They all heard raised voices. This time, Mama didn’t say anything about it being rude to listen. Not that it would have mattered. Nobody spoke or moved, instead just listening to the argument, trying in vain to work out what it was about.
Papa came back in. Slammed the door. Went straight to the bedroom. Slammed that door too.
“Stay here,” Mama said, and followed Papa into the bedroom.
Strained voices came from the other room, and soon their parents returned.
“I have something to tell you all,” Papa said, the gravest of expressions darkening his face.
There was a stolen glance between Mama and Papa, then he said, “We . . . we have to move.”
They all looked at Papa, their mouths open.
“Where to?” Rina said.
“Another part of the city. They’re segregating Warsaw.”
“Segregating?” she replied.
“Creating a Jewish district. We’ve all heard about the walls they’ve been building.”
“But why do we have to go?” Asher said.
Papa rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “I don’t have answers,” he said. “That’s the way it is.”
It was a strange response; Asher had expected more. Exactly what, he didn’t know. But nobody queried it, and within days the Kogans had placed all their belongings onto a cart and pulled it to the center of the city.
They passed guards and ruined buildings, which Asher’s eyes dwelt on, and red-stained concrete, which he tried not to notice. Soon, they lined up at a gap in a large wall. When Asher had first heard about the new walls, he’d assumed perhaps they were being constructed to replace those the bombs had destroyed. But he had ample opportunity to examine this one during the long wait in line, and this was not part of any building: it was a wall and nothing more—a long one, snaking as far as he could see and eventually around a corner. It was about twice his height, with rolls of barbed wire curling along the top. It reminded him of the walls he’d heard about at school—the ones enclosing ancient cities. Those, of course, had been designed to keep people out. Asher could only guess the purpose of these walls, but he dismissed his fears, hoping he’d got it horribly wrong.
Their papers were checked, and once inside the walled area they were given directions to their new living quarters.
When they arrived, Asher felt slightly relieved. It didn’t seem too bad. Okay, so it was a single room this time, but it was a large one. After they’d all looked around, which didn’t take long, Papa gathered them at the table that dominated one end.
It took him some time to start speaking, making two false starts before the first words came out.
“There’s something else I have to tell you,” he said.
“What can be worse than this?” Mama said.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but . . . Asher and I can no longer work at the bakery.” He looked at his two daughters. “You two can’t work at the factory either.”
“Why not?” Rina asked. “Says who?”
Again, he was slow in speaking. “Because that would mean leaving this area—the Jewish sector.” Now he looked up at each of them in turn. “We aren’t allowed through the wall to the rest of the city.”
“What if we need to buy something?” Mama said.
Papa shrugged. “We use what we have within the walled district. Perhaps there’ll be work for one of us here, who knows?”
“We’ll survive,” Keren said. “When we walked here we all saw shops and businesses, didn’t we? They all need workers, surely?”
“We’ll see,” Papa said. “We will see.”
Despite the upheaval, the worried faces of his family, and the uncertainty
of life in the walled sector, something else had been bothering Asher. After a few days in their new home, Asher waited until he was alone with his papa, walking the streets seeking out work, before asking the question.
“Papa?” he said. “What about the Barans? Will they have to wear these armbands and move here too?”
“They’re Jews. I guess so.”
“But what about the café?”
“Asher, I have enough problems worrying about our family.”
“But do you think they’ll open a café here?”
“Enough, Asher.”
“I’m sorry, Papa.”
Asher didn’t ask about the Barans again, and wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer, his mind churning over the possibilities. On the one hand, he wanted the Barans to run the café as before; that would be much better for them than having to start another café from scratch inside this rather rundown walled sector. On the other hand, if that were true, he wouldn’t be seeing Izabella again until the Germans left and the city returned to normal, which pained him even more.
As the months went by without hearing anything of the Barans, he assumed that they had been spared by the German authorities. Yes, that was it. They had been seduced by the delicious cakes and captivated by Izabella’s beautiful music, and had given the Barans some sort of special dispensation to continue running the famous Café Baran.
The thought was bittersweet for Asher, but he slept a little better knowing that they’d been spared. He convinced himself that when the walls came down and the city got back to normal, he would see her and be able to listen to her sweet violin music once more.
Chapter 7
Parking lot, Zone One Police Station, Pittsburgh, August 2001
The door to the police station flew open and Diane Peterson strode out with a feeling of quiet triumph that somehow didn’t seem appropriate.
Detective Durwood was going to do the paperwork and arrange a time for her to meet the man who had—as she’d put it—left a big bullet hole in her father’s head. They were blunt words, she reflected as she headed for Brad’s car, but no more and no less than what was needed to sum up the scene she’d come home to that night.
That night.
A thought rushed through her mind in the length of time it took for a ripple of thunder to threaten more unpleasantness from high above her. The thought made her stop walking.
Okay, so she’d won the battle to meet Father’s killer. But what exactly was she going to say to him? She’d been so preoccupied winning the battle that she hadn’t given much thought to what she wanted to do with the victory.
There was only one question in her mind. She wanted to know why the hell he’d done it. It was only the one question, and there seemed no point engineering 101 different ways of asking it, so she headed for the car again.
“How’d it go?” Brad said as she sat in the passenger seat.
“They’re going to let me speak to him.”
“Good.” He leaned over to kiss her, but drew back at her stiffness.
“Doesn’t mean he’ll speak to me, of course.”
“No, but it’s a first step. Did you need to talk about the Restorative Justice program and your rights?”
“I did. Can we leave please?”
“Sure.” He started the engine and set off.
“And thanks for ferrying me around these past few days.”
“Don’t thank me. We both know you’re not ready to drive again yet.”
“No. I’m only ready for one thing.”
“One thing?”
“Finding out why.”
“Oh, yeah. Of course. I’m sorry.”
They drove on in silence. Diane was, indeed, not ready for driving, and didn’t she know it. As they headed to Brad’s place, her mind was drawn back to that night. She tried to roll her mind onward, so that whatever she did think would fast-forward like those old-fashioned cassette tapes her father used to play. There—even when she was trying not to think of him, she found a roundabout way to think of him.
That night.
“I feel a little nauseous,” she said.
“Open a window?” Brad said. It was intoned as a casual suggestion, not in any way an order. He’d learned the hard way.
Wordlessly, she pressed the button and the glass lowered. The air wasn’t exactly a fresh sea breeze, but it was cool and moist. Then more flash frames of what had happened that night forced themselves into her head. As the car accelerated, the surge of air on her face only served to tip the balance, and she was there, arriving home that evening the previous week.
It had been a very average but nonetheless enjoyable night out. Absolutely nothing special at all. Her and Brad and two old friends out for bowling followed by tacos and talk. The cab had pulled up outside 38 Hartmann Way, the home she still shared with her father. Brad leaned over and they kissed.
“Do you want me to come in?” he asked.
“You have to get up early tomorrow, don’t you?”
“Well . . .”
She laughed warmly. It was the warmth of a long relationship, one fulfilled in all aspects apart from one—they didn’t live together even after all this time. She’d worked with Brad for five years, then been good friends for four, and then been lovers for another six. A lengthy courtship by any standards—longer than many marriages, she often joked to herself.
“Actually, I do,” he said. “It’s an early meeting I just can’t get out of. Would you mind?”
“Ah, that’s okay.” She kissed him again, this time fuller and holding on for longer—a proper goodbye until tomorrow kiss. “I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow.”
“Sure. And thanks.” He nodded to the front door. “I’ll wait here till you’re safely inside, though.”
But his words weren’t necessary. He always waited. That was Brad—one big, soft security blanket.
A few seconds later, she waved to him, watched the cab get to the end of the street, and went inside. She was immediately aware that something wasn’t quite right. After her calls out to her father weren’t returned, the fear multiplied. The lights upstairs were out, but the kitchen light was on, and she could feel cool air on the back of her neck. And once she’d shut the door she could still hear the hum of the traffic from the freeway a hundred yards or so away. That was also not right—not right one bit. Above all, her nostrils twitched at the hideous, metallic edge to that cool air.
A few paces later, she was at the kitchen doorway and her face was on fire.
Her father, sitting at the table but slumped on it, blood everywhere.
The back door swinging nonchalantly in the breeze, as if a careless child had left it in a game of chase.
Her father, who’d carried her up to bed every night for a week when she’d sprained her ankle, his body now slumped over the kitchen table, a shiny pool of blood all around his head.
The door handle, smeared in blood, and above it one panel of glass broken through, more blood dripping from its edges.
Her father, the man who once drove her at breakneck speed to school to make it for the bus for the school ski trip, his form now slumped over the table, blood everywhere on one side of the room.
Blood everywhere.
A gun on the ground in the backyard, just beyond the doorway as if trying to escape, but caught in the light thrown from the kitchen. And next to that a spilled pot of paint, obviously knocked over by someone escaping in a rush.
Her father. Her father. Her father. The man who used to take her to the local park and push her on the swings until she screamed in joyous terror.
Now there was only terror.
This was no longer her father. This was a corpse with a large black hole in the side of its head. Beyond that hole, a spray and splatter of blood had found its way onto every surface and object.
That night had only been five days ago, but Diane still had no recollection of what had happened after she’d discovered the body. She was told that a neighbor had found her
in the street, unable to talk, only able to point, and that the neighbor had gone in to check and subsequently called the police.
Brad drove on. Diane shut the window. Switched the radio on. Listened for a few seconds. Turned the radio off. Said nothing. Brad drove on. Brad said nothing. That was good.
Chapter 8
Dyovsta, Ukraine, 1941
It was now almost two years since the Soviet-German invasion of Poland, and for the Petrenkos, that time had gone by with little fuss.
For those interested, there had been many news bulletins about the events there and in the rest of Europe, but for most, the existence of the non-aggression pact with Germany was all they needed to know about.
And while Mykhail occasionally thought about how the Kogans were managing in Warsaw, he convinced himself he had more pressing issues to deal with. After all, that was his past life; he would probably never see Asher again. At seventeen he’d gotten into the habit of meeting up with friends in the village center to talk about girls and, increasingly, politics. Likewise, his papa had gotten into the habit of groaning every time he went there.
“You think you can change the system,” he would say, “but you’re too young to even understand the system.” Or he might say, “It’s easy to talk a fight.” Or even, “Youngsters, anything to avoid hard work.” There was, however, always a crooked grin and a twinkle in his eye when he said those things, so Mykhail knew there was a grudging respect beneath his words.
By the start of June that year, the invasion of Poland was very old news, and the minds of the youngsters had turned to fighting for Ukraine.
One lazy afternoon, Mykhail, Borys, and Taras were sitting around the village clock tower, talking politics.
Taras was shaking his head. “This Russian collaboration with the Germans is awful for us,” he said. “It means we have to fight two armies for our independence.”
Mykhail raised a finger. “Don’t be so sure. It keeps the Russians occupied. More troops busy keeping the Poles in check means fewer troops available to fight us.”
Beyond the Shadow of Night Page 6