A Castle in Brooklyn(42)

But soon his mama’s arms were around him, and he fell against her bosom, inhaling the familiar scent of her soap.

“And have you made friends with big Klaus?” she asked him in Yiddish, pushing back the child’s sandy-color locks with her fingers.

“Yes, Mama,” he answered as the memory of his time with the horse sent a smile flooding across his face.

“And so, I suppose you should say a thank-you to Herr Reichert for letting you pet him, no?”

“Yes, Mama.” He turned toward the tall man, but his eyes only fell in line with the glittering medals.

“Thank you, Herr Reichert.”

The man reached down to pat the child’s head but, thinking better of it, dug his fingers instead into his pockets as he bounced on his feet. Jacob took note that the smile on his face now matched his mother’s. A few words in German flew from Herr Reichert’s mouth—sharp, staccato. He tried to catch their meaning, but he had only just begun learning the language of the Fatherland in school. Before he could sort it out in his head, his mama spoke again.

“Herr Reichert says you are welcome to spend time with Klaus anytime you want. You may even ride him if you like.”

Jacob nodded. He couldn’t quite imagine how wonderful it would be to sit snugly in a leather saddle atop the great horse, his head nearly touching the tips of the clouds!

His mother was curving her mouth into the red-lipped smile again, a smile that, he could see now, was meant only for the tall man with the medals.

“Mama, can we go home now?” Jacob asked, willing her to glance back in his direction.

“Soon, very soon, Yankel,” she answered, using his pet name. But much to his dismay, it wasn’t so soon. As Jacob sat in the dirt next to a wooden fence, he picked up handfuls of the small, ubiquitous rocks and began to arrange them in neat rows. Meanwhile, his mother and the man had led the horse to the barn, where they remained until Jacob had finished three rows of twenty. Jacob felt lonely as he tried to preoccupy himself with the counting and arranging. Business, he thought. Mama and the man had so much business to talk about. But then he felt her slender fingers on his shoulder. It was time to go. The tall man with the shiny medals was nowhere to be seen.

As the two sat in the car, the ride was silent. Mama didn’t talk; she didn’t even smile. Her red lipstick sat on her lips, faded and pink. Jacob’s papa was already in the kitchen, slicing potatoes when the two walked in the door. It was not that he particularly enjoyed domestic duties that were usually the domain of women. Nevertheless, as a mathematics teacher at a nearby yeshiva, his hours weren’t quite as long as his wife’s, who had worked for Herr Reichert as a secretary for the past two years. Jacob, being only eight, did not quite understand why his mother, a Jew, could work for the German government under the Nazis, who were openly dismissive, even contemptuous, of the large Jewish populace. Nor could he understand why his mama’s work seemed more important than his papa’s. All he knew was that he enjoyed these occasional outings to the country, where he could pet goats and now even a horse at the stables Herr Reichert owned. Even though—and he wasn’t sure why—he didn’t much care for Herr Reichert himself.

Seeing the two enter the small apartment, Shmuel, his father, put down the knife and wiped his hands, which were stained brown from the peelings, on a kitchen towel. He embraced Jacob’s mama, his mouth pressing against hers, further lightening the lipstick, until only a pinkish smudge was left. Before he could acknowledge his young son, though, Jacob slipped into the room he shared with his brother.

The older brother barely noticed Jacob since Leon, as usual, had his nose buried in a slim book, this time The Metamorphosis, as he lay on his stomach on the bed wedged against the wall and small bureau.

“I’m back,” announced Jacob as he sat on the bed across from his brother’s and began to unbuckle his shoe.

“Did you have fun?” Leon asked, his attention still inside the Kafka tale.

“I suppose,” answered Jacob as he placed the shoes carefully under the bed next to his album of stamps and the old book of fairy stories. He knew better than to divulge any of the details to Leon, who openly advocated against their mother working for Herr Reichert or anyone involved in the Reich, for that matter. At first, Jacob took his brother’s reticence for jealousy, because only the younger child was asked to accompany Mama on these excursions to the country. The reason was simple, since with Papa at work, and Leon in school or at the library, Jacob was too young to be left alone in the apartment, as thieves in the town had been growing increasingly bold, and besides, who knew what the vandals might do to such an innocent mop-headed Jew?

So even though Jacob’s mouth itched to tell Leon all about Klaus, the touch of the silky dark hair, his liquid-brown eyes, he resisted. He could not bear another argument between Leon and his mama, which the mention of Herr Reichert’s name would surely arouse. Papa, meanwhile, would remain quiet at these times, at most gently admonishing his oldest child, “Please leave your mama alone. You can see how hard she works for us all. Besides, shouldn’t you be returning to your bar mitzvah studies?”

Leon didn’t particularly like learning haftorah, but since he didn’t want to further anger his papa, he would reluctantly return to his room. Jacob, meanwhile, would pretend to busy himself on the floor with his wooden cars.

As Leon continued to stare into the book, an unusual feeling overcame Jacob, one of being overwhelmed by something that felt far greater than his eight-year-old self, or even Leon or Papa or Mama. It was like an enormous unstoppable wave, and lost in the center, young Jacob felt more alone than ever. It was not the first time he had experienced the feeling. The first time was when school had been dismissed early due to an electrical fire in the library, and he had found himself alone in the apartment, waiting for the rest of his family to come home. As Jacob had busied himself, removing the tin of biscuits from the pantry shelf, sharpening pencils for the subtraction exercises in his workbook, the mundane sounds so often taken for granted had become magnified. The wind had banged ferociously again at the flimsy windowpanes, the mice in the walls had scraped their feet menacingly near, and the sirens outdoors, omnipresent now, had shattered the still October air. Jacob had felt his heart beat so fast that he feared it might penetrate right through the wall of his chest. And now there was the feeling again. Something ominous was coming. Something awful.