Beyond the Shadow of Night(14)

He looked up at the skies, at the flying tractors he’d heard about but never seen, at the machines that sowed destruction rather than seeds.

Then he heard shouting, and knew that this was very real.

“Under the table!” Papa shouted. “Everyone get under the table!”

They all dropped to the floor and crawled under.

“So, it’s started,” Mama gasped.

Papa nodded, his head and arms trembling.

Mama wept, and Papa held her, kissing the top of her head. Asher saw his papa’s frantic eyes and noticed his hands, grabbing at thin air to pull his family closer to him. Within seconds, all five bodies were entwined.

Asher shut his eyes, squeezing them tightly, praying for that noise from hell to stop, just praying for it all to go away. The concentration made him dizzy.

He heard someone shouting above the whistles and the crashes.

“Asher! Asher!”

It was his papa.

“It’s okay, boy. We’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

Only then did Asher realize he was jabbering, nonsense falling from his mouth with every explosion that rocked the nearby buildings.

He was sixteen, almost a man in body, but he had to bury his head in his mama’s bosom to keep himself sane.

The bombing continued for no more than half an hour, after which the droning noises faded to nothing. There were a few minutes of fretful peace, and then Papa and Asher got up and approached the window. An eerie silence lay outside. There were no people rushing by, no children playing, no people chatting on street corners—there were no people at all. All was calm, and yet it was as though Satan himself had paid a visit.

“Come back,” Mama said from under the table. “It might not be over.”

“She’s right,” Papa said, and the family gathered under the table again.

It took a while—a speechless half hour for the Kogans, but then they heard people outside. It was over. Asher got up again and went back to the window. Slowly and fearfully, the people who had scattered like frightened mice were now coming out of their hiding places.

Asher felt an urge to go out, to see the damage with his own eyes. But he kept it to himself; it would only upset his mama. They checked the apartment for damage. They were lucky. Two cracked plates. That was all.



The next day, Papa went to a meeting organized by the local authorities. There was talk of “blitzkrieg,” and of setting up warning sirens and shelters as quickly as possible.

In the meantime, there was clear guidance. Go about your daily business as normal, sleep as normal, but on hearing the siren stay indoors and find shelter, preferably under a table or bed.

Papa came home and relayed that message to his family, and they laid spare blankets and pillows under the table to save time in case of a raid.

And the raids did come, causing mayhem whenever the bombs were falling, and leaving a thinly disguised foreboding when they weren’t.

As with most families, the space underneath the Kogans’ dining table became something of a meeting point, a place where there was, if not safety, then the sense of safety. Even after days of bombing, their apartment was still intact. But there was precious little talk. The raids became so frequent that the family more often than not went to bed under the table, but even when the raids didn’t come, Asher stayed awake in the silent darkness, unable to relax. And he was sure that applied to the rest of his family too. During the daylight hours, the only thing that stopped them succumbing to their tiredness and falling asleep was fear.

Amid the mayhem, Asher had a secret urge. Even a week after the initial bombing, it was still there, nagging him. He’d tried to dismiss it, to overcome it, but now it had overcome him. After a particularly heavy raid, over a breakfast eaten in a respectful silence, he spoke.

“I need to go to the café,” he said.

“Why?” Papa asked.

“I want to see if it’s been damaged.”

“No, Asher,” Mama said. “It’s too dangerous. Only go where you need to.”

“I’ll be careful, Mama. I won’t be long.”

“Please, Asher.”

Breakfast was finished in a fraught silence, then Asher stood up from the table, only to pause as he noticed the imploring expression on his mama’s face.

“I’ll go with him,” Papa said, grabbing their coats. He kissed Mama and said, “It’ll be fine. I promise.” Rina approached him and drew breath. “No,” he said, cutting her off. “Not yet. Only me and Asher. We’ll tell you what we see when we get back.”

They left, and were hit by the gritty air, a thick dust hanging around that made them cough at first.

“Hold your handkerchief over your mouth,” Papa said, pulling Asher by the shoulder.

The buildings they passed had sustained such varying degrees of damage it all seemed so unfair. Some had suffered nothing but a heavy layer of brick dust; many were dotted with deep holes. Some had only windows broken, whereas others mere yards away were little more than rubble.

There were bodies too. And parts of bodies. Asher stared.

Papa dragged him away and turned his head to stop him looking. “I know it’s horrible,” he said. “But we must show a little respect to the dead. Let the authorities deal with the victims.”

They walked on, and soon were standing outside Friedman the greengrocer, opposite Café Baran. At least, they were standing outside what had once been Friedman the greengrocer.