A Castle in Brooklyn(44)
Jacob changed in other ways too. The child who was once talkative, curious, became more sullen. Meanwhile, Nazi soldiers began to appear like a swarm of bees positioned on every corner, occupying the few establishments that were left open: the post office, and the brau house where they would gather, lighting their cigarettes, tossing the still-lit butts into the trembling air. They ambled along with a proprietary swagger, as if they owned every inch of sidewalk. Which, of course, they already did.
And, as the years passed, Jacob’s solemn, introspective nature turned to anxiety, and as he kept his feelings beneath the bone of his breast, it only made matters worse. It did not help that his mama was spending more and more time with Herr Reichert, as the business of the Reich, it seemed, was increasing as steadily as the clip of the horses that occupied his stables in the country.
Many years had passed since Jacob accompanied his mama on her work expeditions, for he was soon of an age when he could remain at home without the supervision of an adult. Like Leon, he felt the skin on his forearms ripple as his mama would return home, her red lips a little paler, her hat askew. The mere mention of the colonel’s name would bring the taste of bile into the boy’s throat, so that he even developed an acute aversion to horses. His papa, however, remained unchanged.
Whenever Jacob thought of his papa, it brought to his mind the elm tree down the block, grounded amid a quiet circle of greenery where birds pecked at the soil each summer, and where a gray frost clung against the slowly peeling bark every winter. But the elm remained stoic despite the shedding of its yellow leaves, the ravages of worms and ants. And so it was with Papa. Despite the sluggish demeanor of the few students whose minds were on other things as they slouched in their seats, the low click of the clock as the doors of shops and even apartments closed one last time, the intimidating growl of their German shepherds, the snickering grins of the soldiers, the growing quiet, the eerie silence in the streets, none of it seemed to bother Papa. And while his father’s stoic nature, despite the threats that surely loomed larger than ever before, had once seemed admirable to Jacob, a strength to be envied, now he sensed the facade had begun to crumble so that even the elm, as he passed it each morning on the way to school, appeared silly and useless.
Jacob was smarter than they thought he was. And now that Leon was gone, enlisted in the Polish army, and now that Jacob himself had become a man (fully a bar mitzvah for nearly five years), it was time to speak up. But try as he might, he could not stop loving her. The work “appointments” with Herr Reichert had become more frequent, and now there were the nights, too, when she would slip in the door, birdcage hat no longer tipped stylishly to the corner of her brow, taking off her shoes so as not to waken the others, pretending that all was well, as it should be, in the morning.
It was easy to hate the German, as easy as slipping into his threadbare jacket and leaving while darkness still covered the sidewalks, as his parents slept in their beds. Jacob would wander the streets then, in the chill of dawn, circling the elm, striding purposefully past the school, its doors long chained and barred, past the old synagogue, its red brick still sturdy despite the shards of glass that lay scattered at the threshold. Jacob walked the street, picking up his pace, fueled by his anger, and yet unable to summon the hatred, which always seemed at bay, for his own parents. His mama, his mind told him, was nothing but a shameless whore, a traitor of the worst sort. His papa, once so revered, had become spineless, less than a man. Another leaf scattered in the wind.
His mama was making the coffee when he came home, refreshed somewhat by the brisk early-morning air. But Jacob’s mind seemed just as consumed by his worries as when he left. Sometimes Jacob stayed out for an hour or so, or if the scent of an imminent spring greeted him on his way to work, he would remain outdoors and stay for as many as three hours, long past breakfast. When she saw him, as always, she would greet him with a bright smile, but it had been many months since she’d moved toward him with a mother’s caress. He had rebuked her several times before that. There were lines of exhaustion beneath her eyes, more noticeable now that her face bore no signs of the makeup she so meticulously applied on the days she set out for work. His father, as unperturbed as ever, glanced up at his son, inquired as to the weather, and returned to polishing his sturdy brown work shoes, even though he had no need of them since the Nazis had issued an edict shutting down the few remaining schools in the town. How oblivious he is! thought Jacob as he poured some coffee into the chintz china cup. How ridiculous!
Jacob’s mama settled into another kitchen chair and opened one of her old movie magazines. “Clark Gable is such a handsome man!” she exclaimed, half to them and half to herself. Jacob had a vague recollection of her using those very words to describe the movie icon yesterday and the day before that as well. She had only a couple of the magazines that she recycled for reading each day, and there was only one Clark Gable, after all.
His papa hummed an old Polish tune to himself as he sat intently carving the edge of a small object. This time it was a fruit bowl; there were many such objets d’art scattered about the apartment: a replica of a shoe, a large stirring spoon, a wide pot for the sad rubber plant in the corner of the living room. Now that he was out of work, his hands seemed eternally busy with new projects. Jacob decided that he’d had enough self-reflection for the day and was just reaching under the bed for his stamp collection when he heard a sharp knock at the door.
Unlike most of their neighbors, the family did not jump at such disruptions. Because of Mama’s job, their refrigerator was always well stocked with meats, cheeses, and even the occasional bar of German chocolate. So they weren’t frightened when Papa casually wiped the wooden splinters from his hands and opened the door—that is, until they saw the face that waited on the other side.