A Castle in Brooklyn(2)

“Juden,” Jacob mouthed, barely above a whisper, pointing to his own chest, then, “Juden?” pointing at the boy.

The child nodded, settling back in the straw.

Jacob felt his body go limp, and for the first time since he had heard the snap in the hay, he allowed the fear to leave him. After a while, the boy began to relax too. The two slept, neither having the strength to quell their curiosity just yet. When they awoke, flashes of sunlight had begun to seep through the hole in the roof.

Jacob eased his body against the wall, and when he spoke, his tongue was dry against his mouth.

“How did you get in here?” he asked, still in Polish. The boy sat back, too, hugging his bony knees against his chest, his eyes never leaving Jacob.

“The door to the barn was open, sir. I lifted the bar and had only to walk through.”

Jacob was relieved that the boy’s Polish was truly as impeccable as his own, nothing fake. He was not a German.

“Please don’t call me sir,” he said, a smile coming, to his surprise, across his face. “I’m only eighteen, and you have to be what, ten?”

“Twelve, sir!” the boy said, catching himself, then, “I mean I’m twelve, nearly the age of bar mitzvah!”

“Well, then, what’s your name, nearly age of bar mitzvah?” Jacob asked, smiling.

“I’m Zalman. That’s my name. Zalman Mendelson.”

“Can’t say that I’ve heard of the family. And how did you end up in this godforsaken place? You scared me. I thought you were one of the goddamn filthy krauts.”

“I’m not that, sir. For sure I’m not that.”

“Jacob—I answer to no other name.”

“Sorry. But to answer your question about how I came here, to tell you the truth, I am not quite sure myself. I ran. Papa always said I was a good runner.”

“So you ran all the way from town?”

“Well, when they came, I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t stay!”

Jacob looked at the boy for a beat, then began to feel dizzy. He put his head between his legs until the feeling passed.

On the surface, Zalman’s story was too much like his own, he thought. But weren’t they all the same, really? And yet he had to make sure there was not a shred of untruth in the tale. These days, even children were not to be trusted.

“Your town, the one that you escaped from? And your parents?”

“Raczki, Poland, sir . . . I mean I’m from Raczki, Poland,” he said, catching himself. Jacob knew it well enough. It was his town too.

“My father? Why, Papa is an architect, and a good one too,” Zalman added.

“A Jewish architect, really?”

The boy remained silent, lowering his head. Suddenly, a strange feeling began to overcome Jacob. It was a feeling something akin to shame. Had he become this boy’s interrogator? After all, had fear such a stranglehold on him that he had become too much like those he detested?

“Zalman,” he said, his voice softening, “you should be proud of your papa.”

But before the child could acknowledge his words, a popping sound—rat-a-tat-tat—could be heard in the distance. Instinctively, the two buried themselves into the straw until, after several minutes, the gunfire ceased.

The most frightening of all was the silence that prevailed for the next twenty minutes. The morning grew late, though neither knew how many minutes or even hours had passed; neither had watches, but the hours were of little importance in times of war. Jacob stood up finally, feeling the muscles in his legs stretch painfully, never allowing his eyes to leave his companion as Zalman did the same.

“Monkey see, monkey do, eh?” said Jacob, and laughed. The boy looked at him curiously, then allowed a hint of a smile to cross his face.

“Well, then,” said Jacob, sitting down again and bringing his knees up against his chin, “can you tell me, what were you running from?”

The boy plucked a piece of straw from the pile and turned it over in his hand.

“Running away? Weren’t we all running away from the same thing? Running away from them?”

Jacob sighed. Until his conversation with the boy had begun, he hadn’t realized how much he wanted, how much he needed, to speak with another person. It wasn’t Mama. It wasn’t Papa, or even Leon, but it was someone.

“Yes, that’s true. What I mean is, before this, before you came here, were you at home with your parents, or were you in hiding?”

“Well, yes and no, and maybe both, because my parents had hidden me after Stefan left. And when the men came finally to our house, I knew just what to do. Did I tell you my father was an architect, and so I knew the place to go, a secret wall in the attic, that he had built when I was about five years old? It was a pirates’ room with toy boats and costumes, even a treasure chest with money and its own lock. Stefan and I would go there on rainy days, but then Stefan had to work, because Papa said the family needed to eat since there were no more jobs in building houses. They—the Nazis—weren’t building new homes or businesses; they were destroying them. So that’s why Stefan had to go to work. I don’t know exactly what he did. Maybe hauling boxes. He had wanted to become an architect like Papa—we both did—but one day Papa told us they had shut the schools, and later Mama sewed on the stars, such as we all have.” Zalman pointed to the spot, continuing, “I tore mine off. You see there? Mama told me to do so as soon as I got to the pirates’ place.” The child shifted, throwing the blade of straw that had been in his hand into the hayloft.