Beyond the Shadow of Night(38)

During that same week, while Mama and Papa were out of the house, Rina and Keren cornered Asher and asked him whether Izabella was just a friend. He tried to play his desires down but it was no good. Somehow, they knew; probably because they were women.

“You need to take the initiative,” Keren said. “You like Izabella, so show her that by kissing her.”

“I’m not sure,” he replied.

“What do you mean?” Keren said.

“You don’t know how to do it, do you?” Rina said.

His lack of a reply was all the answer they needed. They laughed. Asher blushed.

“It’s easy,” Keren said. “First of all, hold one hand. Then, if she likes that, hold both hands.”

“And if she likes that,” Rina continued, “pull her toward you—gently, though—so that your face meets hers.”

“Then lean in,” Keren said gleefully, “and touch your lips against hers.”

Asher felt his face reddening. “But . . . how will I know whether she wants me to do that?”

Rina giggled. “You’ll know,” she said. “You’ll know.”



The next meal Izabella shared with the Kogans was a more relaxed occasion, mostly taken up by reminiscing on better times.

Again, Asher accompanied Izabella halfway home. At the corner he held her hand, and she seemed comfortable with that, her hand squeezing his, which he took as a sign of encouragement.

He remembered the coaching Rina and Keren had given him a few days before, repeating their words inside his head. He made Izabella put down her violin case, held both her hands, and now turned to her, that beautiful face filling his view. His eyes roved over the long coal-black hair, her skin—perhaps too dirty to be pure white but still pure to Asher—those eyes, now warmer than ever but just a little sad, and that lovely strawberry pout. He wanted to do exactly as his sisters had suggested, which was to plant a confident but gentle kiss on her lips, but at the final moment his nerve failed him. His kiss was indeed confident and gentle, but landed on her cheek. Still, it was progress. And still, it felt wonderful.

There was a response, but not the one Asher expected. He felt her hands wriggle free from his, then felt one snake under his arm and around his back and the other firmly grasp the back of his head, pulling at his hair just a little.

And then he experienced the most exquisite feeling of his life so far: her warm lips on his, pressing just hard enough that he felt the outline of her teeth, not letting him breathe for some time.

He let out a short gasp as her lips let go, her fingers still tugging at his hair. Then her face—flushed and serious—was once more in front of his. She bit down on her lower lip, her nostrils flaring, then told him he had to go, he just had to leave now. He nodded, taking a few extra moments to move legs which now felt weak and heavy, but he was soon running home, this time with his heart feeling strong and a giant grin on his face. He had to stop before going inside, just to take a few minutes to calm himself down. He didn’t want his sisters to start asking awkward questions.



The meals with Izabella became a regular affair, and Asher would see her most other days, when they would talk of times gone by and increasingly their hopes for the future. It was after the fourth meal, when Asher was walking Izabella home, after she’d kissed him with so much passion that he felt dizzy, that she told him she loved him. He started to reply, but couldn’t get the words out at first, so he gulped, took a long breath to ensure his voice would sound manly, and told her he loved her too, that he always had, ever since he’d seen her at Café Baran.

For Asher, those were weeks of extremes. The horrors, the worries, the arguments—these didn’t go away. But they were also the happiest of his life. He saw Izabella every day. There were days when she would shed tears for her family, tell Asher she was scared, and he would put an arm around her to comfort her and tell her he would take care of her. And they both said they would always love each other. Asher believed that.



For Asher, the second half of 1941 was a carnival hidden within a tempest. Despite the worsening conditions inside the Jewish sector of Warsaw, the joy of time spent with Izabella took him to a better place and made the hardships easier to cope with.

But soon, as the oncoming winter shortened the day, Izabella became less keen on that intimacy, often pulling away when Asher kissed her. Asher accepted this reluctance. Perhaps it was what he’d overheard one of his papa’s friends call “feminine reserve.” So yes, he accepted the reluctance, assuming her reaction to his attentions would improve, given time and patience.

As the end of the year approached, however, Asher was becoming increasingly frustrated. Izabella was indeed his carnival in a wretched world. Starvation and disease permeated his every waking moment—except for the precious time he spent in Izabella’s company, when Izabella smiled, when Izabella talked, when Izabella played the violin. Just to be with her was a relief from the real world around him. So he didn’t ask about her reluctance. But he did tell her he loved her and wanted to be with her as much as possible. Again, her replies echoed his, but, like an echo, they appeared to fade with time.

Eventually the stolen kisses were rejected outright, Izabella pushing him away.

“What is it?” Asher said one chilly day early in 1942. “Don’t you like me?”