Beyond the Shadow of Night(15)

The Barans had been luckier than many. Every window of their café was blown out, the ground outside a shimmering mass of crystalline fragments that crunched like sugar candy under the feet of passers-by. Even the window frames were dislodged and hanging off. The brickwork directly above the two large downstairs windows was gaping, and it was cracked further on—right up to the gaping holes where other windows used to be.

“That looks like Mr. Baran,” Papa said, pointing across the street. “Come on.”

He took a stride forward, and Asher wasn’t far behind. The man turned to meet them.

“I’m Mr. Kogan and this is Asher, my son. We wanted to offer you our condolences.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Baran spent a few seconds surveying the damage, then nodded across the street to the greengrocer. “It could have been worse.”

They looked with him, then Asher’s papa said, “Was anybody hurt?”

“The Friedmans?” He shook his head sadly.

Papa took a gulp. “Are they all . . . ?”

“All five of them. Mr. Friedman survived a few hours, long enough to know what happened to the rest of his family. I cried for him.”

“That’s terrible.” Papa eyed up the holes in the brickwork. “And where are you staying?”

“With my wife’s sister. That is, my wife and I, and my oldest, Izabella. My other three . . . we got them out last year, they’re staying with my brother and his wife in the Netherlands. What about you?”

Papa put an arm around Asher, even though by now they were about the same height. “Lucky. Very lucky. My wife, this one, and my two daughters are all safe.”

“Good. I’m happy for you. Your property?”

“We lost two plates, would you believe.”

Mr. Baran smiled flatly and rubbed his chin, pinching something between stubble and a beard as he spoke. “I don’t think we even have that left in the café.”

“It must be terrible. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not so bad. Most of our personal possessions upstairs were safe. Izabella was worried that her beloved violin would be damaged. It was near the window, but in its case.”

“Good, good. Look, I’m sorry to disturb you, we’ll . . . we’ll let you get on.”

“Thank you. And long may you be lucky.”

“That’s very kind of you under the circumstances.” Asher and his papa started walking away.

Asher hadn’t spoken to Mr. Baran, letting his papa take care of all the manly conversation while he’d repeated the name Izabella in his mind over and over again. Now he spoke. “Couldn’t we help in some way?” he said.

Papa stared at him pensively for a few seconds. Then he turned back, calling out Mr. Baran’s name. “What are you going to do?” he asked the café’s owner.

“Do?” Mr. Baran replied.

“Do.” Papa waved a hand at the ruined property. “With this.”

“Well . . . it’s my living. I’m going to wait and see what happens in the next few weeks, whether our forces can fend off further attacks. There’s no point repairing it only for this to happen again.” He pointed at the wreckage across the street. “But when the time is right, I fully intend to repair, refurbish, and reopen. It’s just a question of finding people who can help.”

Papa nodded. He put his arm around Asher again and pulled him into his side. “Warsaw won’t be Warsaw without your cakes. You’ve just signed up two more strong and willing volunteers.” Asher could feel his papa standing tall and proud, and noticed his grin, wider than it had been for a long time. He felt compelled to join in on both counts.

Mr. Baran’s frown settled low. He swallowed and firmly shook hands with both Asher and his papa. Asher noticed him wipe a few tears from his eyes. “Thank you. Thank you so much. With your help, Café Baran will be resurrected from the ashes.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“And for the select few, there will be free cakes on the reopening.”

Papa was impressed. “They’re very good cakes. It’s a deal.”

Mr. Baran thanked him again. “I’ll be in touch once we know the bombing has stopped.”

After giving him their address they left, and Asher started repeating the name in his head again: Izabella, Izabella, Izabella. Her face was beautiful, her violin playing was beautiful. And now he knew that even her name was beautiful.





Chapter 6

Warsaw, Poland, 1939

It was the middle of September, and Warsaw was being shown no mercy, still enduring sporadic bombing raids. Those, together with stories of dogfights between the two countries’ air forces, had become an accepted part of daily life. The family had returned to sleeping in their bedrooms, but sleep was often disturbed by the bombings, and once or twice Asher had lain awake thinking of Dyovsta and Mykhail. He knew that the here and now—German advances to the outskirts of Warsaw—was more important, but he couldn’t help wishing he’d never left Dyovsta. And then there were the images and sounds of Izabella that would all too often seep into his dreamlike thoughts of a better life, confusing him even more.

On one of those sleepless nights, Asher felt thirsty, got out of bed, and tiptoed into the main room, heading for the sink. He stopped when he saw a shape hunched over the dining table.