Beyond the Shadow of Night(7)

“But I don’t want other friends.”

“Trust me, Mykhail. Be a good Ukrainian boy and be strong. Things will get better from now on. I promise.” His fist playfully nudged his son’s chest. “And when you make more friends you can go fishing with them, yes?”

Mykhail looked down at his feet and nodded slowly.

“Are you crying?”

Mykhail sniffed and shook his head. A moment later, he sensed a rare closeness as his papa put an arm around his shoulder. He smelled the stale earth and sweat, then heard the words, whispered with coarse passion: “Good boy. You’re nearly a man now. Be strong. Strong Ukrainian boys don’t cry.”



For days after the Kogans left the farm both boys felt numb inside, and each had their own way of dealing with the problem.

Asher kept asking his parents about Warsaw—whether they had motor cars there, whether there were rivers to fish in, whether he would have his own room to sleep in, how many people lived in the city—and eventually his mama told him to wait and see, to just enjoy the train journey.

In truth, he really wanted to ask when they would be going back to the farm.

Back on the farm, Mykhail coped with his best friend being taken away from him by going fishing whenever he could. Alone.

It didn’t seem right.

And the fish stayed away.

The boys had lived next to each other on the farm since birth, and had seen each other every day of their lives. They were brothers in all but blood.



Warsaw, Poland, 1936

To Asher, the noisy, bustling city of Warsaw was such a different world that it might as well have been another planet. He hadn’t even visited the big towns and cities of Ukraine, although he’d heard stories and seen photographs of the huge buildings and wide streets. But now he was on a sidewalk in a city that was, according to his papa, bigger than any in Ukraine.

Yes, he’d asked questions on the journey, but now he was too absorbed by the sights and sounds to even speak. When he looked up he saw so many buildings—some taller than the tallest tree he’d ever seen. And the number of people . . . well, there were just so many of them he was almost dancing left and right to avoid them.

Then there was the noise. People were talking and laughing, shoes cracked and scraped against concrete, doors squealed open and slammed shut, musicians played on street corners. The sound of a horn made him jump, and he turned to see a car. Yes, it was a car—a real motor car. Asher had only ever seen one in pictures before, and knew it worked a little like a tractor.

And when they eventually reached their destination the noise didn’t stop; it was always there in the background, as if it would be there forever.

“You’ll get used to it,” his papa said.

The apartment, one floor up, was basic and less roomy than the farmhouse, but felt warmer. The main room had a kitchen area on one side and a table and chairs in the other. There were two small bedrooms, one for the parents and one for the children—although they were hardly children anymore. The window of the main room looked out over a large square. Asher was mesmerized by the view at first; he’d never seen so many people in one place before, all rushing in every direction. Where are they all going, and why? he would ask himself.

Asher’s mama placed a few pictures and ornaments around the apartment, and Aunt Freida came over from the north of the city to welcome the family.

The day after that, Asher was enrolled in a school.

For the first week, his instinct was to run for cover whenever he heard a car approach, and he felt the tall buildings all around closing in on him, squeezing his spirit. He wondered why there were no fields or wide-open meadows, only buildings and concrete.

And he missed the fishing.

But he went to school and learned Polish, mathematics, and some science. The latter turned out to be his favorite subject. Every day he would return home enthused by a new fact about electricity or magnetism or how metals react to changes in temperature.

His mama would usually reply with something like, “That’s very interesting, Asher, but did you make any new friends?”

On the first few occasions Asher simply ignored the question, but then he started replying that of course he’d made friends. A few random names would pass his lips, and that would do the trick; his mama would smile and say she was pleased for him.



A few weeks after their arrival, his papa’s words—that he would get used to living in Warsaw—were starting to come true. Yes, he was getting used to it, but he was getting used to being away from home.

One day, in class, a fellow schoolboy asked him where he was from.

“A farm,” he replied. “In Dyovsta.”

The boy shook his head. “Never heard of it. But I went to a farm once, it was like paradise. You must miss it.”

Asher had to think for a few seconds to remember, but yes, he did miss it. He wondered whether Mykhail had gone fishing that day, and pictured him resting on a riverbank in the Ukrainian countryside with only sweet birdsong and the babbling of water to disturb the peace.

That evening, while his mama was cooking, Asher lingered in the kitchen end of the main room, occasionally glancing at her.

“What is it?” she said. “You want to eat before everyone else?”

“When will we be visiting the farm again, Mama?”

“In time,” she said. “I promise.”