Beyond the Shadow of Night(10)

“Okay, okay,” Asher said. He grabbed the coat his papa was holding out. “I guess I am hungry.”

“Good,” Papa said. “Now, let’s stop playing around and get going. It’s popular and the tables fill up quickly on a Saturday.”



Asher could hear the sound even as they turned the corner of the street, and it was as if he could hear nothing else as the Kogans approached Café Baran. Never mind the café and its cakes; that music was caressing his ears, soothing his soul. He almost stumbled as they all sidled past the people sitting outside the café and soaking up the sunshine. Then he did stumble, because he realized the music was coming from inside the café.

“We’re here,” Papa said. He lifted his hands up to draw attention to the red-and-white-striped awning above them. “This is it. Café Baran.”

Asher looked again at the people sitting outside the café. They were silent, some reading books or newspapers, one or two writing letters, and others simply closing their eyes and turning their faces up to the sun. All were listening and would occasionally sip from cups or use forks to pop morsels of cake into their mouths. But there was no talk and it seemed everyone knew why. The café and its environs were bathed in a calming wave of violin music. It was jaunty and tuneful, provoking feet to tap and heads to dip in time along with the meter, but at the same time calming.

“Come on, Asher,” Papa said. “Let’s see if we can find a free table.”

Inside the café, one or two conversations carried on regardless, although many people simply gazed toward the corner, where a lone girl, her neck contorted to press her chin against her violin as though she cared deeply for it, smiled sweetly as she drew the bow back and forth, back and forth.

Asher gazed too. In Dyovsta there had been no music. This was a language he found hard to understand. There was no meaning, it was of no material use to anyone, but it was mesmerizing. So he, too, gazed, unable to take his attention away from the girl’s face and the way she stroked the strings.

“Asher!” Papa said, as if not for the first time. He was pointing to a table, where the rest of the family were settling down. “You go sit down. I’ll order.”

Asher still couldn’t speak, but nodded his agreement and eased himself slowly into a chair so he could continue watching the violinist. He hardly noticed when Papa sat next to him a few minutes later.

Soon, a large pot of coffee and five small cups were brought to the table, followed by a three-tiered tray of cakes. They were so carefully arranged—and precariously balanced—that for a few moments Asher was distracted before turning away again.

“Face the front,” Mama said to him.

That was easy for her to say. She, Rina, and Keren had chosen the best seats—those facing the violinist—and if he was to face the table he wouldn’t be able to see the girl at all. So he sat with his belly against the table and his neck twisted to one side.

“Don’t these look delicious, Asher?” Mama said, forcing him to face her.

“We didn’t have anything like this in Dyovsta,” Papa said.

The mention of Asher’s birthplace finally broke the spell, and he started perusing the cakes with more interest.

“Look,” Keren said, her finger pointing and moving along the selection as she spoke. “Poppy cake, iced donuts, plum cheesecake, gingerbread, tree cake. And is that coffee cream cake? Is that chocolate wafer cake?”

The dark coffee was poured, the cakes were selected, and the Kogans settled back to eat and to listen. The cakes disappeared five at a time, and soon Keren was asking Asher what he wanted to do now he’d left school, Mama was asking him whether he would keep in touch with the friends he’d made there, and conversation moved on to how work was going for Keren and Rina. Throughout all of that, Asher struggled to pay attention over the beauty of the music.

“Can we come here again?” Asher said to Papa as they were leaving.

Papa puffed his chest out. “Oh . . . ah . . . we can’t afford it too often; it’s only a treat now and then.” He checked himself, narrowing his eyes. “I thought you didn’t want to come here?”

“Well . . . I . . .” Asher struggled for a moment, recovering to say, “It’s better than I thought. Nice cakes.”

Papa glanced over to the girl still effortlessly playing the violin in the corner, then raised one eyebrow at Asher. “Mmm, yes,” he said with a crooked smile.



The Kogans made a point of going to Café Baran on special occasions. That was good of Mama and Papa. Asher didn’t stare at the violinist girl quite as much as he had the first time, but still enjoyed the music. For a boy stuck in a homesick groove, every visit was encouragement—a reminder that there were some good things about Warsaw, some things he would miss if he ever left.

In time, he started work helping Papa at the bakery, and, like Rina and Keren, had to give his pay to Papa. But no sooner had he started work than the working hours for all the family started to reduce, and with them the pay. Asher never understood why, and kept asking Papa when they would go again to Café Baran. Papa said they could no longer afford it, so he asked Mama, who told him to ask his papa.

Instead, Asher resorted to lone walks to the café. He worked out that if he stood across the street, just past Friedman the greengrocer, directly opposite the café, he could make out the slim but shapely figure of the violinist, and also just about hear her music.