Beyond the Shadow of Night(28)

Asher sensed his body relaxing at the words; his papa was starting to become indifferent, which was disappointing, but lucky in this instance. Somehow that made Asher stronger, as if he were now gearing up to become the man of the house. And the strength made him vow to see Izabella again the next day. And to speak to her this time.



The following morning, Asher was out on the streets again with new determination. The begging was secondary; all his effort was aimed at ensuring he got to the far eastern edge of the walled sector at some stage. Three times he suggested to his papa that they should split up; on the third occasion there was agreement, and Asher was off with little more than a goodbye.

Today was a little brighter, the warmth more in keeping with the summer morning it was, and somehow the music traveled more easily, audible from well before where Asher had first heard it the previous day. He hurried along and found her again, occupying the same spot as before.

This time Izabella stopped playing as soon as she saw him. “Hello again,” she said, taking the chance to rest her arms.

Asher gulped, his mind as featureless as the concrete wall beyond Izabella. Her smile, full and sensuous, was like a snake charmer’s music, numbing his mind and body.

“Last night I remembered where I’d seen you before,” she said. “You came into the café, didn’t you? You helped Papa repair it after the bombing.”

Asher nodded, then approached her, still not knowing what to say, but at the same time burdened by a head full of questions that seemed too impolite to ask.

“I need to carry on playing,” she said, bringing the violin up to rest on her shoulder and drawing bow across strings.

And again, Asher realized the moment God had created for him to speak had come and gone; he couldn’t possibly disturb her while she was playing.

He listened for thirty seconds or so, secretly cursing himself but also every bit as mesmerized as he’d been the first time he saw her.

Then the violin squawked and the bow fell down, one end bouncing on the dirt below, coming to rest at Asher’s feet. Izabella doubled up, coughing sharply.

Asher picked up the bow and placed an arm around her shoulders. “Are you all right?” he said. “I’m sorry. Was it me? Did I put you off?”

She shook her head, still coughing, a deep, bark-like sound coming from her as she convulsed again.

“Let me take this,” he said, grabbing the neck of the violin.

She resisted, holding on tightly even as she fought to breathe.

Asher held firm too. “Really,” he said. “You can trust me. I’ve been in love with you ever since I first saw you at the café years ago, and your music too. I know exactly how much this violin means to you and I could listen to you playing it all day.”

She coughed again, this time more lightly, then froze, looking up at him in a way that stirred something mysterious yet potent in him.

She let go of the violin. “What did you say?” she asked.

“I . . . I said I remember your music from the café. It’s beautiful. I assumed you were still there.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because . . . the café . . . the cakes . . . I thought perhaps the Germans might . . .”

Asher realized his thoughts converted to spoken words were ridiculous.

“You think I’m less of a Jew than you? Is that it?”

This was a different side to her. Her friendly smile and warm eyes faded away, leaving a fierceness Asher found puzzling but no less alluring.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know what to think. I was being stupid. I apologize.”

She relented, the anger on her face subsiding as quickly as it had appeared.

“But it was only wishful thinking. What’s become of the café if you and your parents are in the walled sector?”

Izabella stilled herself for a few seconds. Asher could see her breathing in and out deeply and slowly, trying to calm herself or control something within. And then her face stiffened, a hand covered her eyes, and Asher saw wetness on her cheeks. A few seconds later, she’d grabbed the square piece of cloth, her violin and bow, and was scurrying away, wiping tears as she went. Before Asher could think what to say or do, she was out of sight.



Asher didn’t do much talking that evening. Mama asked him over the family meal what was wrong. He hesitated, and Papa told her he was fine, that begging on the streets was hard work, that she shouldn’t worry.

The next day, however, just after the two of them had left the house, Papa stopped at the edge of a small park and motioned for Asher to sit on one of the benches.

“What is it, Asher? What’s wrong? You can tell me.” He left a pause for Asher to speak, but it went unfilled. “I know something happened yesterday. You didn’t say a word all evening.”

Asher shook his head and said he didn’t know what his papa was talking about.

Papa’s weary eyes didn’t move from his face. “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me.”

“There’s nothing wrong. It’s just . . .” Asher let out a long sigh. “You can’t do anything to help, Papa.”

“So there is something wrong.”

“I . . . I saw Izabella yesterday.”

“Oh.”

A period of silence followed, both men staring straight ahead, watching the people trudging left and right along the street.