A Castle in Brooklyn
Shirley Russak Wachtel
PROLOGUE
Blueprint
There it was. Looking just like a gingerbread house from a fairy tale. Constructed of sturdy wooden beams, studs, crossbeams, and braces, the home was designed to withstand even the most turbulent of winters.
Situated in the heart of Brooklyn, the structure had shingles painted a mint green, windows adorned with stately black shutters, the home’s roof pitched, the color a brick red. The pleasant cross gable with its exposed half-timbers, stone, and brick detailing all added a note of whimsy to the picture. Over the door, right beneath a green arch, a plain lantern cast a single golden ray of light on nights when the sky was moonless.
Once the sun was up, guests, of which there were always plenty, marveled at the soap-scrubbed concrete steps that led to the front of the home, the small, white metal mailbox adjacent to the door, but especially the front lawn. Like court attendants before the queen stood a tiny myrtle tree; shrubs of purple and green; a spray of yellow forsythia; and patches of sprightly pink azaleas, blue geraniums, and lavender. The tallest tree, an oak, could be seen craning its hoary head way beyond the roof, hinting of backyard pleasures.
Those lucky enough to set foot inside were greeted with light-filled rooms, made only more so by the buttery-yellow color of the walls, each stroke painted by Jacob himself. There was hardly a wall without a black-and-white photograph in a gilded frame. An elderly uncle sitting in an armchair, or a wide-eyed child throwing a ball, all greeting the visitor with an air that said, “Welcome. You are welcome here.” No fussy oils of flowers in elegant vases or dancing ballerinas, and certainly not a preposterous family crest. No, Jacob’s home was, beyond all things, a family home where love and acceptance echoed from the braided green-and-yellow rug in the living room to the stout chimney overhead.
The parlor, or as Americans like to call it, the living room, boasted an upholstered sofa decorated with blooming red roses scattered throughout, and of course, a Bakelite tube radio that sat on a small wooden side table with curved legs and dominated the wall between the windows.
The kitchen had all of the newest General Electric appliances, naturally: a range, and not an icebox, but a full standing refrigerator that blasted an icy wind each time Jacob would open the door as he hunted for a leftover drumstick or an extra slice of cake with chocolate frosting. Sometimes as his wife stood on the shiny linoleum with its yellow-and-white checkerboard pattern, he would surprise her. Sneaking up from behind her as she washed the lunch dishes while gazing out at the children—a boy and a girl—playing in the backyard, he would encircle her waist and plant a soft kiss on her cheek. Her gingham cotton apron felt cool to the touch as she turned her head ever so slightly to meet his lips in a kiss.
All in all, it was a sweet little home that was always, it seemed, filled with laughter and warmth and light. Not a big ostentatious home with ornate crystal bowls and fancy engravings, and, in fact, not really very big at all.
But for Jacob, it was everything—a castle. He sighed then, perhaps a bit too loudly, hoping no one would hear. Such a beautiful home with its gabled roof and buttery-yellow walls.
Jacob wished with all his heart that someday he could build it.
PART I
DIRT
ONE
Jacob, 1944
Jacob waited, swallowed hard, and listened to the silence. He thought about the house and how everything both inside and out was always full of light, a light that reflected the happiness of the family within. All too often, he had to admit to himself, his dreams had taken on more substance than his reality. Sadly, it was the only way he knew how to survive.
Before too long, he heard a soft chirping coming from the other end of the hayloft. It could be another cricket or even a mouse in hiding. Often, he would startle to a sudden noise, and fear would overtake him, a feeling that he was about to be strangled by some unknown force. Luckily, the source of the noise turned out to be a stray alley cat that had somehow wandered into the barn or a sudden wind that sliced past the fragile wooden doors. Still, he couldn’t help worrying. And now, as the sound seemed to inch closer, once again, he felt his throat grip, his heartbeat quicken.
It wasn’t until he heard a dull thud several feet away that he realized the source was not a cat or a sudden fluctuation of the wind. This sound was human. His mind raced. Fight or flight? And then, just as he was deciding on the best way to get his hands around the man’s neck, the straw beneath crackled again, and he heard an urgent whisper.
“Hallo!” A child? How does a child suddenly appear here, in this damp pile of straw with walls that reeked of dung and wet fur? And yet Jacob, in the space of two years, had witnessed enough events where the impossible had been made possible.
Jacob placed his finger to his lips as the child edged his way toward him, the pupils of the child’s eyes wide with terror. A shot of moonlight cascaded from a hole in the barn’s roof, illuminating the pale face of the child, frightened, ghostlike. Before the intruder had a chance to ponder his next move, Jacob’s arm reached out, catching the child at the elbow and pulling him forward. He was lighter than he seemed, the effort like lifting a bag of dead leaves.
“Please, I—” squealed the child, but before any other sound could emerge, Jacob clasped his hand over the stranger’s lips. The blue eyes remained open, eyeballs twittering momentarily, until finally Jacob saw the eyebrows relax and the face resume composure. Releasing one breath, he removed his hand from the boy’s face.