Portraits: A Novel

Portraits

A Novel

Cynthia Freeman

I dedicate this to my daughter, Nini,

and my son, Shelly,

from whom I drew the inspiration.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

CHAPTER SEVENTY

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Preview: Seasons of the Heart

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

JACOB WAS BORN IN a village which is no longer on the map. History and war have changed that. But at the time, it was on the border between Poland and Germany. His father died when Jacob was three, leaving his mother, Esther, with two small children—a five-year-old daughter, Gittel, and little Jacob. But Esther was a woman of enormous strength and little time for sentimentality. After she buried the dead, dried the tears, she knew there was only one thing for a widow to do, and that was to get married. After a year of mourning, Esther Dubin Sandsonitsky met Yankel Greenberg at the house of Tante Chava. There they were married. What did love have to do with it? He provided a roof over her head and she provided him with a wife who cooked, cleaned and worked from morning to night.

She soon found that her marriage was not a happy solution, nor even an acceptable one to a woman of her pride and independence. Soon after the nuptials, Esther found herself not only pregnant, but a slave to Yankel and his three sons, who were uncouth, lazy and demanding. As Esther scrubbed away, she planned that as soon as the child she carried inside her was born, she would pick up and leave. A roof and a bed hardly warranted the kind of abuse she and her children took from Yankel and his sons. True, she didn’t have a profession, but one thing she could do was cook. She’d make a living and survive without the benevolence of Mr. Greenberg.

After the nine months passed, a son lay in her arms. When the circumcision was healed, she packed whatever belongings she had, stole the money Yankel hoarded under his mattress, took her three children and without a word she left. Logic made the decisions for Esther.

She deposited four-year-old Jacob with the family of a distant relative who lived in a small village in Poland. They were hardly overjoyed at having another mouth to feed, but as Esther handed them a few of Yankel’s zlotys their resistance seemed to soften. She assured them they need not worry, that Jacob’s board would be taken care of.

That night a bewildered Jacob cried as he lay on the thin blanket covering the floor in the corner, which was to be his for the next few years.

With Gittel and baby Shlomo, Esther boarded the train for Germany. Logic, however, did not replace her longings and regrets, and she sat up for two nights and days thinking about Jacob. But what could she do? What? It wasn’t easy being a woman in the first place. How could she take care of three children and work? She shoved aside the guilt, realizing there were no alternatives.

When they arrived in Frankfurt, they went directly to the small hut, on the edge of the city, where Esther’s parents lived. Fatigued and weary, she knocked at the door. The house seemed even smaller than she had remembered when she married Avrum Sandsonitsky and had gone to live in Poland.

After a few days of rest and reunion, Esther left Gittel with her family, knowing the little girl would be loved. It was different for a girl. Somehow Jacob would adjust. He was a boy and boys didn’t require the same attention or affection. Besides, her mother was too old and sick to take care of two small children. Amid a tearful good-by, once again Esther boarded the train, this time to Berlin.

For the first time in a long time, Esther began to think maybe God loved her a little, that He’d not forgotten she existed, for soon after her arrival she found a clean room with a kitchenette and, added to this windfall, the landlady fell in love with the baby. How lucky could Esther get? The landlady said she’d be overjoyed to care for the little one while Esther worked. In return for any kinder gelt, Esther could clean on her day off. She assured Esther the work wouldn’t be too difficult—the basement, windows, woodwork, kindling the furnace, a few more chores as they arose. The deal consummated, Esther immediately weaned baby Shlomo away from her breast. Heaven looked down on her once more, for within a week she found a job cooking in a kosher restaurant not too far from where she lived. Again, Esther had a plan.

The next year was dedicated to one thing—saving enough money so that she could go to America. She would go first with Shlomo, open a small restaurant, establish a home and send for her other children. Her frugality with her hardearned wages and the money she had stolen from Yankel finally brought about the moment of departure, and without a moment of indecision she quit her job, left Berlin, and returned to Frankfurt to see her family before setting off for America.

As Esther stood before her parents’ house, she felt a nervous quiver at the pit of her stomach. This would be the last time she would see her parents, of that she was more than sure, but this final, painful severing would mean a new and, Esther hoped, a better life for herself and her children. There were beginnings and endings. That’s what life was made up of.

CHAPTER TWO

ESTHER BECAME A PART of the multitude of rejected humanity that waited in droves at Ellis Island. If the great American watchword was Give me your poor, then her dream had been realized. The disenfranchised of the old world stood on the threshold of the new, waiting to be embraced. They were weary, dirty, tired, bewildered people who had traveled a long distance from the lands of their birth. This promised land seemed as unprepared for them as they for it They were herded from one place to another and separated into different ethnic groups—Poles, Irish, Russians, Jews. It was little different from the cattle boat from which they had just disembarked.

The immigrations officer looked at Esther’s name tag pinned to her coat. Boy, this was a tough one. Sands-o-nit-sky? To hell with it. The name was stamped Esther Sanders.

What Esther found in America the Beautiful was a dark, rat-infested room on the fifth floor of a five-story building on Rivington Street. Poverty anywhere was ugly, but here it seemed unrelievedly so. At least in the village she’d left in Poland there was a tree, a little garden, a little space, a patch of blue sky, a shul. And Berlin had been heaven compared to this promised land. And for this she had dreamed, yearned, never spending a cent that wasn’t a matter of life or death. The heat, the stench, the crush of humanity seemed worse than in the ghettos of Europe. Here, everyone screamed at the fruit vendor for a penny, at the fish peddler for a pound and the butcher would steal you blind if you didn’t watch the scales every moment.

So this was the goldeneh medina. This was the place where the streets were lined in gold?

With Shlomo in her arms, she started to look for a store she could turn into a restaurant, but it seemed that half of the East Side was made up of restaurants. What they didn’t need was another one. Besides, when she found out what it cost to buy a stove and equipment, she knew it was out of the question. She couldn’t put her money into something so uncertain; if things didn’t work out she’d be penniless. No, she’d have to do something else to live on in the meantime. And so Esther went to work for Kreach’s Restaurant, where she all but collapsed during the summer standing over the steaming pots and worrying about her future. Things were not working out as she’d dreamed, and for once Esther’s hopes and plans were faltering. But at least Shlomo, thank God, was taken care of. In the same building where she lived, Esther became acquainted with a Mrs. Rubinstein, who had seven children. For five dollars a month, taking care of another one was no problem.

Esther had been working at Kreach’s for some months when she came through the back door at six o’clock one morning and heard wails of sorrow from Mrs. Kreach. Alarmed, Esther ran to Mrs. Kreach and looked down at the floor where Herman Kreach’s lifeless body lay. His eyes, still open, had a look of surprise. Esther unthinkingly took charge that day, helping Malka Kreach with the most immediate arrangements until the widow’s family finally came and took over.

When an exhausted Esther left at the end of the day, she knew it was only a matter of time before Mrs. Kreach closed the restaurant and Esther would have to search for another job. Or was it? Another plan began to take form in her mind, and with it, new hope that she might yet reunite her family.

After the mourning period was over, Esther approached Mrs. Kreach.

Now that Herman’s gone, how are you going to run the restaurant alone?

Malka winced at the mention of Herman’s name, then sighed deeply.

With tears she answered, To tell the truth, I don’t know. In the meantime, maybe you should look for another job. I don’t feel well myself. To tell the truth, I’m lost without Herman.

You want to sell the restaurant? Esther asked without preamble.

Bewildered by the suggestion, Malka simply stared. Sell, sell Herman’s sweat? Sell what Herman worked so hard for? Never took a day off except Shabbes? But she was too sick now to manage the restaurant, and besides, she knew little about handling money. Herman had taken care of everything, from the moment they had married, when she was fifteen and he seventeen. When they had set out to make their fortune in the land of opportunity, the opportunities they found had amounted to ten years of drudgery. With the untimely death of Herman, she was left without a penny in the bank, for they had only managed to live from day to day on the restaurant’s earnings. The future looked bleak. They had not been blessed with children who could have taken care of her in her old age. Malka sighed. Maybe a dollar in the hand was better than…

Malka was suddenly brought back from her reverie. Vaguely she asked, What did you say, Esther?

That no one knows more than me what it means to be a widow, but in time you’ll get over it. You’re a young woman.

Malka blew her nose on her apron, wiped the tears and shook her head. Sure, a young woman. I’m twenty-six.

"You’re still not exactly an old yenta, and in time you’ll get married."

Malka looked at her in horror. Never, after Herman.

That’s what I said when my first husband died. I was younger than you and I was left with two small children. It could be worse, Malka. I didn’t have a business I could sell.

You were luckier than me. At least you had the children. Malka started to cry again.

Esther took her hand and said, "Very lucky, sure, mazel tov. I had to be both mother and father and make a living so my children should have to eat. Malka, the restaurant is the answer for you. You can’t run it and I’m willing to buy it."

Malka knew she was right, but she also knew the restaurant was the answer for Esther. Poor Esther, Malka thought, it’s not easy being a woman alone, with two children in Europe to bring over. How painful it must be parted from your flesh and blood.

Malka sighed deeply and shook her head. All right, I’ll sell.

Esther stopped shaking inside. Evenly, she asked, How much do you want?

Want? Why were the decisions of life so difficult. How much was it worth? How much do you want to pay?

Five hundred dollars, Esther answered quickly and with a tone of finality.

Ten years of Herman’s life was worth only five hundred dollars? Malka sighed, remembering the day she and Herman had first stood outside and seen the sign, KREACH’S KOSHER RESTAURANT. They had thought they owned the world then.

All right, I’ll sell, she said again. I hope you make a living for your children.

Esther was beside herself, but she managed to contain her excitement and replied calmly, I’ll give you two hundred and fifty dollars today, and the rest I’ll pay out in six months.

Malka wanted to protest that she wanted it all now, but something about Esther’s manner stopped her, so she merely nodded her head.

The place was filthy. Esther bought a gallon of yellow paint and a large brush, and for three nights in a row she painted. Then she changed the oilcloth on the tables, varnished the chairs, took down the Kreaches’ sign and put up her own. Finally, Esther was in business.

Three months after Esther had become an entrepreneur, she sent for Gittel. When she saw her child come through the gates of Ellis Island, her heart began to pound. Gittel wasn’t a little girl anymore; she was ten years old. Unbelievable—she had grown so that Esther could scarcely believe her eyes. Why were memories so unrealistic? Somehow, she could only remember a small child of eight, waving good-by, and here was a self-possessed little girl coming toward her.

Soon they were holding each other, their tears and words overlapping, and suddenly the worry and the loneliness of the past few years was dispelled. They were together now. Esther composed herself, wiped the tears and held the little girl at arm’s length, observing the whole of her. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she said, Come, Gittel, we’ll go home.

CHAPTER THREE

JACOB WASN’T SURE IF he was seven or eight years old, but one thing he was certain of: no one loved him. In all the years he’d lived with his relatives, there had never been a word of endearment, never a kiss or a hug. No one wiped away the tears or consoled him or held him through the nights of despair. The money his mother sent for his keep and the brief letters did nothing to alleviate the pain of feeling he was neither needed nor wanted. Why had she sent for Gittel but not for him? Was he that unimportant to her? Well, as far as he was concerned, he was motherless, fatherless and penniless. So he was going to have to be a man and stand on his own.

Whatever Jacob’s age, he was bigger and stronger than any of the other little boys in his village, and the thick curly head of blond hair and the deep blue eyes certainly made him the most handsome. If anyone had bothered to observe the boy in the last few weeks, they would have seen a change in him. There was still the haunting look in his eyes that made him seem older than any child had a right to, but his manner had taken on a calm resolve. For some time now, he had thought carefully about his life, and if there were many uncertainties that remained, one thing he was not uncertain about and that was what he now had to do.

One night, after everyone was asleep, he quietly got up, went to the meager larder, broke off a large piece of black bread and stuffed it into a small sack. He climbed through the rear window and, once outside, he put on his shoes and ran across the field until he reached the huge tree where he’d hidden the sharp knife in a hollow. Quickly opening the sack, he stuck the knife into the bread. His journey had just begun, but he never once looked back.

He walked for three days, resting only when he was too exhausted to go on. But the urgency to escape compelled him to continue almost beyond his endurance. He slept for only a few hours each night, in a hayloft, a meadow, a forest, wherever he happened to be. He kept alive by stealing a few eggs, which he cracked and swallowed whole. At first he almost gagged, but he forced himself to hold it down, and the rumbling in his stomach subsided. When he came to a stream, he would bend down, cup his hands in the cold water and drink until his belly bulged. Once he was even lucky enough to spear a trout with his knife, though he had to eat the fish raw.

Finally, he felt a little less apprehensive, having put many miles between himself and his captors. But Jacob needn’t have been so concerned. It was several days before anyone even realized he was missing and the worry he caused was not because anyone fretted that perhaps he had met with danger, but because he had the chutzpah to steal the bread from his benefactors, who chose to forget that he had not lived on their charity but on Esther’s hard-earned money. However, their anger was assuaged when a ticket and a little money arrived, shortly after Jacob’s departure, to take him to America. Unfortunately, Jacob would not be the recipient. How could he be? So they chose their Mottel, to carry the torch of freedom to the golden shores of America.

If Mottel and his family were jubilant about his imminent departure, it was no more than Jacob felt at this moment. He had finally arrived at the train station. It really didn’t matter how long it had taken or what he had gone through; he was here and the last leg of his journey to freedom was at hand.

He waited in the shadows until the train was about to move out, then he jumped aboard and darted, unseen, to the first row of unoccupied seats. He crouched beneath it in the corner, praying he would not be detected. From that position all he saw were feet and all he heard was the sound of the giant wheels grinding along the railroad tracks.

For hours he remained immobile, then something terrible happened. He had to urinate. Unable to hold back, he wet his pants. He spent the night feeling cold and uncomfortable, but he consoled himself with the thought that as the night wore on it brought him closer to his destination.

The next morning, when he awoke from the screech of brakes, he was in Frankfurt. He had scarcely changed his position all night and he felt too stiff to move. But with sheer animal determination, he willed himself to stretch his legs, and with the same instinct, he sensed when it was safe to crawl out. When the last of the feet were seen, walking slowly down the aisle, he peered out cautiously, got up and walked rather closely next to a young couple, as if they were his parents. At last he stood on the platform, watching people coming and going, embracing and kissing, and he felt a surge of happiness, as if he belonged among them. He knew he was free at last.

After many inquiries, Jacob found himself in front of his grandparents’ house. His pulse racing, his breathing staccato, he knocked on the door and waited expectantly. At last he had come home to love and be loved. He had dreamed of this moment for so long. Grandparents were…so special. He had never met them, only seen them in the faded photograph he carried, but still the feeling within him was overwhelming. He waited, knocked again, still no answer. This time he pounded.

He looked at the door for a long moment. For some reason he could not fathom, his hand shook as he turned the knob and opened the door.

All the furnishings had been removed. Frantically, he walked from room to room, opening closets, praying there would be some clue as to what had happened to his grandparents. But the house offered no answers. Slowly, he walked back to the front room and stood in the middle, trembling. Then he noticed that there were some old papers and letters in the fireplace. Quickly, he retrieved them. Sitting down on the bare floor, his pulse raced as he picked out the first one. It was a letter written by his mother, but since he could scarcely read, he was only able to make out a few of the words and the date, January 7, 1899.

Suddenly he became aware that he was not alone. He looked up and saw an old man framed in the doorway. Frightened, Jacob got up, putting his hand on the hidden knife, and asked, Who are you?

I live in the house next door and saw the door open. What are you doing here, young man?

Jacob looked at the old man, whose face wore a thousand folds and creases.

I’m looking for my grandparents, he replied, his voice quavering.

The old eyes softened. Quietly he answered. From the looks of you, you must have come a long way.

Jacob nodded. Yes, a very long way.

The old man shook his head sadly. He took so long in answering that Jacob finally whispered, Where are they?

Without looking at the boy, he said, Dead…I’m sorry. He could not stand the agony in Jacob’s eyes. He was too old, too old, and he had no more grief to share. Feebly, he turned and left, shutting the door behind him.

They’re dead? Jacob mumbled uncomprehendingly to himself. Then he looked down at the letter in his hand. Quickly he ran to the door and called after the old man. Wait…please, please would you read this for me?

The old man looked down at the small boy, took the letter and read it in a low voice.

My dearest mama and papa,

My heart broke when I left, knowing I would never be able to see your sweet faces again, for I will never be able to save enough to send for you. New York is a jungle, and I doubt I will ever be able to get used to it, but at least I know Gittel is taken care of and loved. I find great comfort in that, and in knowing I have been blessed with good parents. I was fortunate in one thing—I found a job working in a restaurant. And Shlomo is well. I receive little word from Poland about Jacob, but all must be well since I have had no complaints.

May God be good and keep you for many years to come. Please write often. Your letters are my greatest joy. The address is…

Jacob wasn’t listening anymore. All he could hear, reverberating in his ears, was her love and concern for Gittel and Shlomo. But for him? Nothing.

He thanked the old man for his kindness, took the letter, put it in his pocket and walked back to his bubbe’s house. Knowing where his mother was brought him small comfort; she neither loved him, nor wanted him.

In frustration and anger, Jacob took the knife and stabbed it into the wall, then sat on the floor and cried himself into exhaustion.

For the next two weeks, Jacob spent his days roaming the Jewish district of Frankfurt like an alley cat, staying alive with whatever food he could steal.

At night he would return to sleep on the floor of his grandparents’ house. His dreams were nightmares, and he awoke from them shaking, drenching in perspiration.

Death was something Jacob had become acquainted with very early. His father had died when Jacob was only three, but the terror of it had remained with him, and was now intensified in his dreams. He remembered the still body of his father, stretched out on a wooden slab. There were coins covering the closed eyes. His face had been the color of yellow wax and his lips purple. Jacob had witnessed the ancient Jewish burial rite. His father had been put into the ground, covered with only a shroud. Then handfuls of earth were thrown into the pit until it was covered over. Jacob’s dreams revived the memory of the traditional minyon of ten men assembled in a very small room, sitting on the floor. Their lapels were cut in the traditional gesture of mourning, and they wore no shoes. He heard the mournful chanting of the Kaddish, glorifying God’s name. The sound had been so eerie he had hidden in a closet, but there was no escape from the distorted, dizzying chanting of his dreams. Those were Jacob’s most vivid childhood memories, and the images were indelibly imprinted. And now, with the death of his beloved grandparents, he relived the haunting knowledge that no matter how much he longed for them, they would never return to give him what he so badly yearned for…to be loved. He was still a little boy, and yet already too old for his age.

The days stretched into weeks, and one day a man and woman entered the house unexpectedly. Jacob’s heart pounded as he stood rigid against the wall, his hand poised on the ever present knife in his pocket. What do you want? What are you doing? he demanded.

The man looked at the piercing, defiant blue eyes. "Me, you’re asking? What are you doing here?"

This is my house. Get out.

A tough little dybbuk. This one will wind up in jail. Your house? Why, you bought it? He laughed coldly.

No, but it’s mine.

Oh, I see. He looked at Jacob, who stood like a trapped little animal. You ran away from home, yes?

Jacob stared back without answering.

God will punish you for bringing so much worry to your parents.

Jacob answered, I have no parents. They’re dead.

There was no compassion in the voice that replied, So, you’re an orphan. You found this house vacant and you moved in. You could go to jail for that.

Jacob swallowed his fear. This is my house. It belonged to my grandparents.

The man narrowed his eyes. To your grandparents? You have papers to show they gave it to you? You little liar, I just bought it. I’m going to take you to the—

Before the man could say more, Jacob ran from the house down the streets, into the alleys, as fast as his sturdy legs could take him.

For the rest of the day he hid in a deserted basement. They had taken his house away from him. It was his legacy. He loved that house because it held the memories of his bubeleh and zayde. One day, he promised himself, if he did nothing else, he would come back and redeem what belonged to him. His house. Yes, at least that…

CHAPTER FOUR

THE NEXT FEW YEARS found Jacob sleeping in alleys and doorways and supporting himself at odd jobs. He delivered meat for a butcher and always managed to cut a chunk of salami and hide it in his shirt. For the tailor, he delivered a suit minus the vest—and by the time the customer had a chance to complain, Jacob was miles away, working in a fish store.

His first real job came to him miraculously when he was thirteen. If there were anything to be grateful for in this world, it was the day he saw a sign in Mendlebaum’s window, advertising for an apprentice.

Mr. Mendlebaum was a small man with a sparse head of gray hair upon which he wore a skull cap. On his wire-rimmed eyeglasses were specks of ivory from the umbrella handles he carved. The decorations of Mr. Mendlebaum’s masterpieces fascinated Jacob.

At first Jacob worked in wood. Carefully and slowly, Jacob began to copy Mr. Mendlebaum’s designs. He worked far into the night, trying to master the technique of his mentor, whom Jacob thought was the only kind human being in the world. Jacob was afraid to like him too much, because liking and loving always seemed to end in disappointment, disillusion and pain. But in spite of himself, he found he was unable to hold back the flood of affection for both Mr. Mendlebaum and his wife. In turn, they soon came to regard him as a favored grandchild. He was frequently invited to dinner.

The best days was Shabbes. His mouth watered on Fridays as he whittled away contentedly. The aroma of gefilte fish, chicken soup and fresh baked challah found its way from the back of the store where the Mendlebaums had their rooms.

At three o’clock, the blinds were drawn and Mr. Mendlebaum would rest and prepare for the Sabbath. Jacob would go to the boarding house where he lived in an attic room, take his weekly bath, and change into the one decent suit he owned. At sundown, he and Mr. Mendlebaum would go to shul. How proud he was to stand beside Mr. Mendlebaum, who had bought him a tallis and yarmulkah. As Jacob touched the fringes of the tallis with reverence, he would glance from time to time at the man beside him. He was the zayde returned to him. Jacob willed himself to believe that Mr. Mendlebaum was in fact his grandfather.

When the service was over, Jacob’s new zayde would put his arm around the boy and wish him Shabbat shalom. It was difficult for Jacob to hold back the tears. Then the two would return to Shabbes dinner. Life had become good for Jacob.

One morning, Jacob arrived to find Mr. Mendlebaum was not at his worktable. For a moment he was filled with apprehension, but his fears were quickly dispelled when he heard Mrs. Mendlebaum calling from the back of the store.

Jacob, I want you to meet someone.

Quickly, he went to the sittingroom.

Jacob, I want you should meet Lotte. With pride she continued, looking at the young girl, This is our granddaughter. She came last night from Berlin.

Jacob stood mute, looking at the beautiful creature. He was wise in the way of many worldly things, but thus far he had never thought of passion. All his sexual drives were tunneled into the business of survival, leaving him little time to dwell upon his physical fulfillment. This was the first time Jacob felt the stirring of desire. The sensation both disturbed and embarrassed him.

Lotte was fifteen and yet she looked younger than Jacob, who, though a few months her junior, stood a head taller and looked years older. She was round and soft. Her burnished brown hair fell demurely below her shoulders. When their eyes met, he felt dizzy from the stirring in his loins. When she smiled and acknowledged the introduction he mumbled something under his breath, quickly looking down at the floral carpet.

All morning he worked furiously at the ivory carvings. Today he did not join the Mendlebaums at the noonday meal. Against Mrs. Mendlebaum’s gentle urgings, he refused the meal, saying he wasn’t hungry while feeling guilty that perhaps he’d hurt her.

That afternoon was the first time the sharp instruments slipped, cutting his thumb deeply. He was angry at himself because his mind had been in the back of the store rather than on his work. He took out the white rag he used as a handkerchief and bound the wound tightly.

By four o’clock the pain was almost excruciating. Jacob had never been talkative, but today his silence had been so complete Mr. Mendlebaum was more than concerned.

The finger bothers you? Here, let me see it.

It’s nothing.

Jacob, don’t be so stubborn, so brave. Go back and soak it in hot water.

It isn’t that painful. Jacob shrugged.

The look on your face tells me different. You can hardly hold the tool.

I’m sorry. I…I got clumsy.

Oh, Jacob, Jacob, what am I going to do with you? It’s no sin to be human. If it hurts, it hurts.

When Jacob continued to work, Mr. Mendlebaum sighed and said, All right, that’s enough for today. The ivory will be here tomorrow. Now, go inside and eat something.

Thank you very much, but I’m not hungry.

Then go home.

Jacob looked at Mr. Mendlebaum. Was he angry? No. The eyes were kind.

Are you sure it’s all right? Jacob asked.

It’s all right. Mr. Mendlebaum shook his head and smiled. If I get a rush order, I’ll send for you. On the way out he called to Jacob, And don’t forget to soak the thumb. A nine-fingered carver I don’t need.

The night passed miserably for Jacob. He got out of bed a dozen times, and paced back and forth. His feelings were terribly confused and the heat of the attic so oppressive there was little to relieve his depression. He put on his shoes, fumbling painfully with the button hook. It had to be his right thumb, couldn’t have been the left. To hell with it. He slammed the door as he left, then bounded down the four flights of stairs, two at a time.

Once in the street, he ran for blocks. Finally winded, he sat on a bench under a gas lamp until the panting stopped.

For how long he sat staring out into space, he did not know. When he was more composed he got up and walked with his hands in his pockets. As he passed the stores he saw his image reflected in the windows. Stopping in front of Frankel’s Bakery, he took a closer look at his silhouette. It was as though he were seeing himself for the first time. He was a man! Much too large and much too tall for his age.

What had happened to him today was frightening because he’d come face to face with his manhood. He had known the awakening of suppressed desire the very first moment he had seen Lotte. The sensation of wanting a woman had jolted him. He now knew a different kind of love; not just the love and longing of the heart alone, but the love of someone with whom he desperately needed to share his physical self. But with his revelation came the self-discipline. He would never touch Lotte, never. She was the grandchild of his beloved benefactor.

The change in Jacob greatly disturbed Mr. and Mrs. Mendlebaum. Politely but firmly, he refused their invitations to dinner. He no longer attended shul on the Sabbath. Of all his avowed disciplines, this was one of the most painful.

When Lotte wandered into the store, he was polite but reserved. The conversation she tried to engage him in brought no response and left her in utter frustration. She was terribly smitten with him and unable to understand his dislike of her. At night she cried bitterly, because of his rejection.

For days she avoided coming through the front of the store. But the more he ostracized her, the more she wanted to see him.

Finally, one day, she sat across from him and watched as he worked.

It was almost impossible to keep working with her so close, but Jacob did not look up.

Trying to keep her voice even, she asked, Jacob, I want to be your friend. Why do you hate me?

His eyes on the carving tool, How can I hate you? I don’t even know you.

You act like you do, like you resent me.

That’s your imagination. I’m only an employee. How should I act?

Like a person, a pleasant person. Besides, you’re not just an employee. My grandparents love you.

Jacob swallowed as though something were caught in his throat. If only she would go away and leave him in peace. God, he wanted her so.

Well, they do, she continued.

I don’t know why they should.

Neither do I. I think you’re the most miserable person I ever met. With that she got up and ran from the store, leaving Jacob in a pool of perspiration. After this encounter, Lotte resolutely stayed away, though the separation was an agony to her. Jacob, for his part, continued to keep his distance from the Mendlebaums and their granddaughter, though he felt extremely guilty about his seeming ingratitude to the Mendlebaums.

One day, two weeks later, Mr. Mendlebaum cleared his throat as he whittled away at the lion’s head. Jacob.

Yes?

Jacob, why have you been avoiding us lately?

How could he lie to this man? This was one of the most difficult things he’d been called upon to do. I’m sorry if it seems like that, but I’ve made friends with a few boys and I’m seeing a girl.

Oh? You’re seeing a girl?

Yes.

What kind of a girl?

A nice girl, a very nice girl.

Do I know the family?

I don’t think so. She lives on the other side of town.

You like her?

She’s a nice girl.

I know, you said that a number of times. But do you like her?

There was a long pause. I…I…guess so.

You guess so?

Yes.

Well, then, since you’re not in love with her, I wouldn’t ask you to bring her to the picnic.

What picnic?

My lodge is having a picnic this Sunday and I think you would enjoy it. There will be other boys and girls. You’ll see, you’ll enjoy it.

I’ll die, Jacob thought.

CHAPTER FIVE

NO MATTER HOW HARD Jacob tried to make time stand still, Sunday came. He had been up since dawn, watching the sun rise. It held the promise of a glorious summer day. He washed his hair and shaved. The blond stubble had become more abundant in the last few weeks. After combing his hair, he held the comb up to his lip and looked at himself in a piece of broken mirror he had found in the rubble out in the backyard. With a mustache he could pass for eighteen, even nineteen. Maybe he should grow one. It would give him an air of distinction. Should he wear his suit? Was it right? He’d never been to a picnic. He decided to take the chance. If he was careful, nothing would happen to it.

At nine o’clock sharp, he knocked on the Mendlebaums’ back door.

It was opened by Lotte. Without a word, she turned and walked away.

Awkwardly, Jacob went into the sittingroom and stood with his cap in his hand.

Good morning, Jacob, you look so handsome! Sit, sit. I have a few last-minute things to put in the basket, Mrs. Mendlebaum said as she made her way to the kitchen.

Soon there was another greeting.

Good morning, Jacob, it’s a lovely day for a picnic, Mr. Mendlebaum said cheerfully. You wouldn’t be too warm in that jacket?

I don’t know. Shouldn’t I wear it?

A sweater would be better. Wait, I’ll go get mine.

Mr. Mendlebaum was at least three sizes smaller than Jacob was, but he’d wear it if it killed him. Soon Mr. Mendlebaum handed the sweater to Jacob, and he struggled into it.

Mr. Mendlebaum smiled. Take it off, I thought it would fit. It happens to be a sweater my son sent to me for Chanukah, and it’s too big. I seem to shrink.

You didn’t shrink, only Aaron seemed to think you are the same size you were when he had to look up to you. You must have looked very tall, Mrs. Mendlebaum laughed. Here, take one of the baskets and Jacob can take the other.

No, Mrs. Mendlebaum, I can take both.

Then you, Max, take the blankets and the pillows.

Pillows we don’t need.

Pillows we need. What if someone wants to take a nap?

Pillows we need. He nodded.

They’re here, Lotte called out excitedly from the back porch.

Within seconds they were climbing aboard the large horse-drawn wagon. The greetings were profuse. When Jacob was introduced he was embarrassed by the knowing smiles. Ah, Max Mendlebaum had made a shiddach, a match. This handsome young boychik had been embraced for his carving ability alone? Nonsense. Then the ladies’ heads turned to Lotte, who sat to the right of her grandmother as Jacob sat at the other end next to Mr. Mendlebaum.

Soon the notions of romance were forgotten, and more pressing conversations of news and gossip began as the wagon bounded along the country road.

Jacob sat rigidly, all too aware of Lotte, but the constant conversation distracted him and made time rush by so rapidly that before he knew it they had arrived at the campsite. The wagon came to a halt and everyone disembarked.

Jacob had never seen anything quite so magnificent as the wooded area. He looked up and saw the trees silhouetted against the sheer blue sky. White clouds floated by. He accompanied the others to the clearing surrounded by a meadow and, putting down the baskets, he walked to the edge to look out into the distance. With a feeling of reverence he stood in the peace and tranquillity. Never had he known such a moment, but it ended all too quickly when he heard Lotte saying suddenly, "Bubeleh wants you to come and eat." Without another word, she turned and walked away. He followed her.

The excitement was thick in the air as everyone sat down at the long wooden benches. The tables were laden with food of all kinds. It was evident the women had been preparing for days, and each was more proud of her contribution than the next. There was an endless exchange of platters: chicken, corned beef, thin-sliced brisket, hard-boiled eggs, salads, bread, pickled beets, cucumbers, tomatoes, kosher dills, fresh fruit, a compote of dried apricots and pears, raisins, beer. Then the array of cakes: sponge cake, cookies, strudel, honey cakes, mandelbrot. The joy of eating, the sheer sensuous joy.

Jacob had never seen such happiness and affection. It was as though they were all one big family. He could no longer resist acknowledging that there were mothers who loved their children, fathers who provided for their families, children who weren’t abandoned and left to survive on their own almost from the cradle. Suddenly, Jacob was seized with a feeling of loneliness and pain. Had he been so unworthy? His own mother had never loved him. If only his father had lived, maybe his life would have been…God, why was he thinking about that now? This was a picnic where everyone was so happy. But he wasn’t like the others. They belonged to someone, and he didn’t belong to anyone or anything. He was a stranger in their world.

So why aren’t you eating? Mr. Mendlebaum asked.

Jacob looked into the old man’s eyes, so kind, so trusting. Why couldn’t you have been mine, Jacob wanted to say to him.

What, you don’t like the food? Why aren’t you eating? Mr. Mendlebaum repeated.

I’m full.

"From what are you full? You hardly ate anything. Here, drink some beer. L’chayim," Mr. Mendlebaum said, lifting the glass.

L’chayim, Jacob answered.

You’re having a good time?

Oh, yes, a very good time.

"You see? I told you there’s nothing like a picnic. L’chayim, drink, it’s good beer. My friend Mr. Finkel makes it."

Jacob took a large swallow and soon he felt lightheaded, giddy.

"To you, Mr. Mendlebaum. L’chayim," he said, lifting the glass.

"Thank you very much, mazel tov, but don’t drink too much. You won’t be able to play ball."

As the women were clearing the tables and putting the leftover food away, some of the men began to play pinochle. The little children played hide-and-seek. Couples strolled arm in arm into the woods. The big boys chose up sides for soccer. Jacob was asked to be goalie because he was the biggest. But being the biggest wasn’t the best. He had never played soccer, much less seen it played. At first he refused, then he was prodded by Mr. Mendlebaum.

You’ll play, you’ll learn. There’s nothing to it. Irving, explain to Jacob how simple it is.

After the rudiments and rules were explained, Jacob tried keeping up with the others. He got kicked in the shins. The ball landed on his head, staggering him for a long moment. But he would stay if it killed him; he wouldn’t let Mr. Mendlebaum down.

After a half hour of grueling defeats, he began to get the hang of it. And suddenly he felt a rush of power. God, he loved it! He slam-banged the ball around, never letting anyone get the edge on him. He’d had no idea how marvelous the feeling of competition and winning was; he felt like a giant. When the game was finished he wanted to go on. The boys congratulated him. Would he join their team? Sure, why not? This was turning out to be a good day after all. He was making friends and, besides, when he played soccer he hadn’t thought of Lotte once. He loved the camaraderie of the boys as they all walked down to the lake to take a swim and wash off the perspiration. They jumped in with their underwear on. After the swim, they lay basking in the sun to dry off. Jacob lay looking up at the sky. From that position, the world looked quite beautiful.

Now the dwindling afternoon was beginning to leave its rendezvous in this meadow and move on to another place. Soon everyone was seated once again at the long wooden tables, and the platters of cheese, assorted smoked fish, herring and sour cream, the rolls and breads were being passed around. Mrs. Findelstein, with the pink cheeks and the perpetual smile, was pouring apple cider into the large mugs.

This time, Jacob needed no prodding. He ate with relish and drank his cider. L’chayim, he said to Mr. Mendlebaum.

Mr. Mendlebaum shook his head and winked. L’chayim.

Now the festivities began in earnest. There were songs everyone knew except Jacob, but he clapped along. Then the boys and girls formed a circle and the folk dancing began to the accompaniment of a concertina. Jacob had never danced, but then he’d never played soccer before and he had never known what true laughter was, so he did what the others did. He bowed, the girl curtseyed. There were no partners and Jacob was very happy until he had to circle around Lotte. When she extended her hand, he refused to touch it. Angrily, she thought, this is really too much. It was rude, arrogant, infuriating. Why her grandparents liked him, she’d never know. She wanted to cry. Throwing back her hair, she moved on, glaring back at him.

He wanted to die. He could no longer be this close to her, this aware of her. All day he’d tried not thinking about her, but now it was impossible. He left the dancing and walked to the lake. As Lotte saw him leave, her anger increased.

She excused herself and went after him. Catching up, she called out, I want to talk to you. He stopped walking, but he couldn’t turn to face her. Angrily, she continued, You’re the rudest, the most arrogant, ungrateful boy I have ever met. I want to know why you hate me so much. I never hurt you. In the beginning I tried being your friend. You humiliated me in front of the others by refusing my hand in a simple dance. Am I that dreadful? He did not answer. Lotte insisted, Well, am I? Say it.

He swung around and faced her. In the lengthening shadows she looked so beautiful and small and vulnerable. It took every bit of discipline not to grab her and hold her close, to make her almost a part of his own body. He swallowed hard and the muscles in his jaw tightened. His eyes became cold and his breathing labored. Leave me alone. Do you hear what I say? I don’t want to have anything to do with you.

Shocked, she lifted her arm in a reflexive motion and started to slap Jacob in the face, but he caught her wrist and held it, glaring at her.

You’re hurting me, she said finally, with tears in her eyes. "You’re a brute and a bully and I hate you. I hate you."

I love you, you stupid girl, I love you. He hadn’t meant to say it, but it had been said and now there was nothing that would change it. He released her wrist as she stood looking at him in utter disbelief and confusion. At last, she whispered, You what?

I love you. I didn’t want to, but I do.

Then why have you been so mean to me?

Because it was the only way I could stay away from you.

I don’t understand you, Jacob. If you love me, why do you want to stay away from me?

Because I thought wicked things.

What wicked things? It’s not wicked to love someone, to want to kiss someone.

It’s more than that. I want more than to kiss you. That’s how it is with men when they love.

Lotte had only a vague idea of what men and women actually did. But what she was feeling for Jacob was something she’d never felt before, so strong she wanted to be held tightly, to feel his arms encircle her, to have their mouths touch. Standing on her toes, she reached up and kissed Jacob. There was a moment of innocent embrace as Lotte’s lips met Jacob’s. Overpowering desire washed away his reluctance, and suddenly his responses were hungry and eager. He put his hand inside her blouse and felt the soft round breast, the small distended nipple. In spite of his building passion something down deep jolted him back from the brink from which there would be no return. My God, he had touched her, known her softness. He had violated a trust. This was Mr. Mendlebaum’s grandchild. With great difficulty, Jacob released Lotte. Looking into her eyes he said, Come, Lotte, it’s wrong for us to be here together.

You do love me, Jacob?

Yes, but I’m ashamed of what I did. I hope you forgive me. I had promised myself I would never—

She put her finger up to his lips. I’m not ashamed. I love you, Jacob. …

That night brought Jacob a great many decisions to be made. He wanted to marry Lotte but how could he? How could he provide a living, a home? He scarcely earned enough to provide for his own needs. If only his legacy hadn’t been taken away from him, his property, then he could have carried Lotte over the threshold of his zayde’s house, rightfully his house. But redeeming his property was as far beyond his reach as marrying Lotte was at this moment.

By dawn, all the debates had come to an end. Now, he was compelled to deal with the realities of life. If he stayed and continued to see Lotte, he would not indefinitely be able to steel himself as he had done today. Tomorrow, the next day, the next week, eventually it would happen. He was only human, made of flesh and blood, and there was a limit. He knew the answer…there was only one alternative. He had to leave and go to America. It was the only place on earth that held the promise of his future hopes. Only in America.

Quickly, he packed his meager belongings in a sack and left the attic. It had been his home, a place of contentment, but he was compelled to move on. It was the only way he could eventually give Lotte what he felt she was worthy of.

Softly, he knocked at her window. She got up from her bed and quickly slipped into her robe. Quietly, she walked past the closed door of her sleeping grandparents and met Jacob on the back porch. He did not attempt to kiss her. She started to reach up to him, but he held her hand gently. What is it, Jacob?

Lotte, I’ve been awake all night.

Why, Jacob? You seem so upset. You do love me, don’t you?

Oh, yes, Lotte—

Well, then?

I want to marry you, Lotte, but I have to go away and I want to know if you love me enough to wait.

Wait, Jacob? she said, confused. You mean because of our ages? When my parents meet you and see what a wonderful young man you are, they’ll consent.

It has nothing to do with my age, but with your future. I can’t make a living here, I have nothing to give you. So I must go to America, I can make money there—

Oh, no, please don’t go, Jacob. Please come to Berlin. You’ll find a job, I know you will.

No, Lotte. Listen to me carefully. There is no future here in Europe for a person who has no trade. I’ll be a poor man all my life. It’s only in America that I can succeed—

"Jacob, don’t go, please don’t go." And she began to cry.

How much do you love me? he asked, taking her face in his hands.

With all my heart, Jacob.

Do you love me enough to wait? It may take some time.

Yes…but I beg you, don’t go, Jacob.

I must, Lotte, it’s our only chance. The time will go fast, and before you know it I’ll send for you.

Oh, Jacob, I will miss you so.

And I’ll count the days, but there’s no other way. He took out a letter and handed it to her. Will you give this to your grandparents? I love them more than my words can say. I will write you every day. They clung to each other fiercely, then Jacob gently put her from him and turned to go. Lotte watched as he flung the sack over his shoulder and walked down the street until he was lost from sight.

CHAPTER SIX

IT WAS DECEMBER OF 1907, and the old vessel turned and twisted like a toy in the midst of the mighty Atlantic. The ocean seemed angry and hostile today, as the giant waves shot up like white fangs, then cascaded down in an icy torrent across the bow.

Below the decks, hoards of immigrants were being tossed about in the stormy seas. Some writhed in pain from hunger, holding their swollen bellies. Others, too weak to cry out, lay oblivious to the misery around them. Some wished that death would overtake them, and others prayed to survive.

Deep in the bowels of the ship, Jacob shoveled the coal into the furnace. Its appetite seemed insatiable. As soon as the monster was fed, he slammed the iron door shut. Breathlessly, he wiped the perspiration from his forehead with his blackened arm. When the shift was over he would hold onto the rail with his raw hands and ascend the catwalk and then, unsteadily, inch his way along the narrow corridor until he reached his quarters. Too exhausted to wash, he would all but collapse in his hammock and fall into a deep sleep.

During the two weeks since he had signed on at Hamburg, Jacob had not seen daylight. When the storm lessened he would go up and breathe in the crisp night air. Standing at the rail, he dreamed of Lotte. She was what sustained him during this ordeal; the very thought of her fortified him. Yes, he would conquer the world for her, no matter how difficult the times that lay ahead of him.

The long journey had at last come to an end as the old vessel weighed anchor in New York harbor. It began to move in slowly while the torrential rain pounded against the portholes. The wind howled mournfully.

Weak and bedraggled women, men and children, families who until now had been faceless, formless creatures, began to emerge from below. Many cried with relief from the agonies they had endured. Some, too bewildered by the reality, that they had survived, stood mute on the deck almost unaware of the downpour and the cold. Others, too weak to stand alone, clung to one another for support.

For a brief time Jacob observed the human fodder, of which he was a part, and in that moment he was filled with a special feeling for them. But he also admonished himself. Life hadn’t treated him with any special privileges. He’d known deprivation, hunger and the fight for survival, and he had endured them all alone. Remember that, he told himself…

Quickly, he picked up his duffel bag, swung it over his shoulder and walked down the gangplank. He went to the shipping office and waited in line to receive his wages. He looked at the money being placed in his callused hand. A dollar a day, the stingy bastards. He stuffed the twenty-one dollars into his pocket.

He found a room in a flophouse on the Bowery for twenty-five cents a night. Shedding his wet clothes, he collapsed on the iron cot.

In the morning, when he opened his eyes to the bleak winter day, his mouth was dry and his stomach empty, but he could not find the energy to get up. He looked around at the human debris that lay as listlessly as he. For some, he suspected, this was their natural habitat. Suddenly, the oppressive sight gave him the energy to get up, to get on with his new life.

Getting out of bed, he began to dress. As he put on his trousers he instinctively felt for the small wad of money, but it was no longer in his pocket. Frantically, he looked under the iron cot and found that his duffel bag had been stolen. In a rage he screamed out, You goddamn bastards, who stole my money! The men barely lifted their heads. I’ll kill you if you don’t give me back my money. No one responded. He looked at the man next to him, then grabbed him by the throat. I’ll kill you! You stole my money. The frightened man mumbled something in intoxicated incoherence. For the first time, Jacob realized he spoke in a language no one seemed to understand. Breathing hard in fury, he let the man drop. Thank God they hadn’t stolen his coat. Putting it on, he bolted from the room.

The streets were covered with a white blanket of snow and ice so slick it was