Chapter One

1996

My father’s father, Mordechai Izrael, was still a stranger to me. This was my chance to know his story. My father was a captive, waiting at his emptied house for the flight from Florida to an assisted living home closer to us in New York. Anticipating our conversation, I had gripped my grandfather’s tattered, dusty handwritten Yiddish memoir the whole plane ride down. My father still had his faculties. He had mellowed over the years, and now there were no distractions. It was the right time for him, and there would never be a better time for me.

I sat down with my father, looked at him slumped in his chair, too weak to sit up, his eyes still bright, reflecting the green from the sunlit golf course outside.

My mouth dry, I took a sip of the iced tea I had made. I pulled out the worn, leather-bound journal.

“Can you read this?” I leaned forward.

“Where did you get this?” he said, grabbing it from me.

He opened it and flipped through the pages, just as I had when I first got it from my cousin Esther. I could read a little Hebrew and could understand simple spoken Yiddish words and phrases, but not this.

My father thumbed the old pages, “I remember seeing him write in this at his desk in his office when I was young. He always stopped when I came into the room and locked it in his desk. I thought it was lost.”

“Cousin Esther gave it to me, just last week when we met for dinner. She found it after her mother died. She said her mother buried the past.”

“Sometimes the past is best left buried,” my father said, lightly touching the pages, then looking up. “You talk to Esther? I haven’t seen her in years. I didn’t want to go to my sister’s funeral. It was too much, all the way from Florida to Montreal.”

“Why do you need to know so much? After all these years, does it matter?”

“I want to know my family history. You told me some things when I was young, but you never told me everything. You just stopped the story.”

“How do you know you don’t know everything? All those big books you have in your bookcases — they did not tell you everything you need to know? I already told you what you need to know,” he paused, staring, angry, still gripping the book. “You can’t know how it was.”

In other times he would not have paused; he would have gone on in an angry, sarcastic tirade. Now it was just a long, quiet pause. I could hear him breathing heavily; I almost heard his heart racing.

We sat on the screened porch at the back of the house, his bandaged foot propped on a cushion. He would have stalked out if he could, but the amputated toe was not healing well, and he needed help. He would not ask for my assistance. He would rather sit there looking at the golf course.

My father had never played golf in his life. He liked the quiet and the huge lawn he did not have to care for. There were minor interruptions to our silence, distant murmurs of occasional golfers or the crack of a hit ball. It was late afternoon, and it was finally cooling down. He looked at the darkening green. “It would hurt you to know. It still hurts me.”

I looked at him. “Not knowing has not been good for me.”

“I didn’t know,” he said. The evening birds had begun their songs. It was not quite sunset. Neither of us had noticed them before this silence. Each bird had a different song as we listened, distracting our heavy breathing until the songs were enough.

He sighed, rubbed his eyes, put on his glasses, and opened the book. He began to read, but he went slowly.

“This is hard,” he said. “It has been over sixty years, and his handwriting is terrible.”

He put the book down, but he did not close it. He looked again, adjusting the position of the book for his eyes and then his glasses and began to read, first slowly, haltingly, then his muscle memory returned and he read more easily, from facility or curiosity, or both.

1905

I had no choice. My sister warned me the emperor’s recruiters were going from town to town, pulling boys my age out of school, Jewish and Christian alike, taking names and addresses, telling them to show up in a week in the town square to be drafted into the army. I would change my last name from Izrael to my mother’s maiden name, Jacobs, as my brother Joseph had. Joseph had sold all he had and gone to America.

I found a scribe, an old woman from Prague, to write a letter in German with my name requesting travel to another town over the border in Hungary. It was illegal for me to leave town if I was drafted. This letter said I needed to go, that my brother was dying of consumption. It had a false name and address in case someone might check. I paid as much for the letter as for the forged passport with my new name, which I got from Rashi Charapsky. Everyone called him, as a joke, Mogen David, the shield of the Jews. He was a confidant of the Rabbi and interceded in any legal matter between the town and the government. That way, the government would not look like it was dealing with the Jewish leaders directly. He would take the letters and transmit them to the proper authorities. No one thought of going directly to those authorities—they were all anti-Semites.

He had a big house with a big fat wife. She answered the door if the servant was not around. I was warned she avoided the clients to make herself more important, more above these distasteful deals. She would call her husband. Introductions would be made on the steps, she inside in her comfortable warm house and the people who needed help on the outside.

Mogen David came to the door as I stood waiting in the cold. He read the letter with the door only half open to keep the heat in. I peeked in and looked around. It was the biggest house I had ever seen. The large foyer led to a big staircase. It looked like it went up to the sky. In the center of this foyer was a huge desk made of solid oak, covered with papers. One red candle burned at the side next to the inkstand, the big pen sticking out like a sword.

Mogen David nodded in approval when he finished reading the letter; he was breaking the same law the scribe did, giving me a new name and identity, but he did not mind since he charged more money.

“Fifty crowns,” he said.

“Are you sure this will be all right?” I asked.

Mogen David smiled and told me there would be no problem, taking my money.

“Come back in two days and the passport will be ready. No one wants to keep the Jews from going to America, especially not the other Jews; they want to share less of nothing,” he said, laughing.

“I need it tomorrow. You know the soldiers will be coming back soon,”

“Everybody wants things in a hurry these days,” he said, irritated.

He knew very well when they were coming. I was not the only one who had visited him.

“Another twenty-five Crowns and you can have it tomorrow, but come after dark,” he said, no longer smiling.

The snow was falling, and it was cold on the doorstep. I was eager to leave. I gave him what he asked for and a few more crowns, as my mother had told me to do. It was money that had been saved for years, ever since my brother left, every little coin saved for such an emergency, now for an adventure and a new life.

I returned home in the dark and looked at the two rooms I had called home all my life, a dirt floor and a huge stove in a fireplace that heated the rooms and was used for cooking for the family. The windows rattled in the cold wind. My sister sat in the corner sewing. She was to marry in the spring. My mother would live all alone, her only company the family pictures lined on the mantelpiece. Her own mother’s bed was still sitting vacant nearby.

My grandmother had lived with us, sleeping in the alcove next to the hearth. Every other day she got up and washed the clothes she wanted to be buried in, and the next day, she ironed and folded them after they had dried outside. Even on the coldest days, she would go out and hang the clothes to dry. Every morning she would wake up, surprised, not pleased, that she was still alive. The rest of the day she would sit in her chair in the corner, waiting for her time to come. One morning, she did not wake up. My grandmother’s clothes were clean and pressed. She was buried in them, as she had prepared. One knew to be prepared for the worst because it always happened, my grandmother had said.

I remembered the day my mother had talked to me about leaving. It was only a few weeks before, but it had already gotten cold outside, just after Yom Kippur. The leaves were falling. The harvest of potatoes, wheat, and rye had all been brought in. The wind whistled down through the bare trees from the peaks of the Carpathians, the warm currents from the south canceled in the oncoming winter. Already I was restless over being cooped up for another long, cold, gray six months. Mother saw how hard it was for me over the past few years after my father had died. She had told me, “I knew the day your brother left I would lose you too, either from no money or the emperor’s army. I understand, and I want you should go. There is nothing for you here,” she said, kissing me on both cheeks and giving me money to pay for the papers so I could leave.

Now, a week later, I was eager to get on my way. My sleep the night before had not been good. Anxious, excited, depressed, afraid, I tossed and turned on my cot in the cold dark room. Once I woke up to hear what I thought was my mother quietly crying, but I was too tired to know if it was part of my fearful dreams or reality. I looked up from my bed to the hearth and on it, the menorah, only taken down on Chanukah, the only thing of value left in the house.

When the light of morning broke and the birds began to sing, I could not sleep anymore. I packed up my things; my prayer book, my warm clothes, and the letter from my brother. It gave the address in Philadelphia where he was living and the place where he worked and told anyone who read it I was his brother and where I was from and that I was a hard worker. I put this on the inside of my coat pocket, next to my money.

I made myself a cold breakfast of bread and milk. I tried to be quiet, but my noise woke everyone. Mother got up to boil some water for tea.

“Don’t worry, Mama, I’ll get you some breakfast,” I said, cutting some more of the bread on the table.

“No, you made enough mess, bring that over already” she snapped at me, looking at the crumbs on the table, shaking her head, just as she had when I was a little boy who couldn’t stay out of trouble.

“I’m not your little boy anymore. I’m tired of this. That’s why I’m leaving.”

I was already sorry I had said it.

“You just eat,” she said, her face tight, holding back her anger. “I’m getting you some sandwiches for the trip.”

She cut up some bread and salami and made a little package for me, her sad eyes looking down as she cut, and maybe a little tear or two falling on the bread.

My sister was up, quietly sewing again.

I finished eating quickly, still red-faced. I washed with cold water. It calmed me down. I gathered up my things, ready to go.

“Here,” my mother said sharply, holding up a small ring. “It is all I can give you. It has been handed down to the last-born son for many generations. Your brother and sister have gotten all that we have, but this is yours. You will find someone someday. When you do, it is hers. Until then, keep it close to yourself. It is your mother’s love,” she said, kissing me.

My sister got up from her sewing and gave me the jacket she had just finished.

“It’s not much, but it will keep you warm,” she said, smiling. “Maybe we will meet again.” Then she hugged me and kissed my cheeks. “Goodbye, brother, G-d be with you, and give Joseph my love.”

I checked around the room once more and closed my eyes quickly. It was hard to keep the image in my memory. My mother and sister didn’t seem to notice a tear fall from my eye as I opened the door and left.

The snow fell again as I walked the mountain road down to the town. It was still muddy from the last thaw. As I walked down the steep incline, I slipped in the mud, my bag spilling open, half my clothes getting wet and filthy. I got up, gathered my clothes, stuffing them in my bag again. I would have to wash them somewhere, but I had to deal with getting somewhere first. As the snow continued to fall, I got colder and colder. The clothes I had on were only warm enough when I was dry. Now they were just freezing up as I walked, the sweat of the inside mixing with the mud from the outside.

I passed a peasant whose cart was stuck in the mud. He was beating his ox and cursing him as the poor animal heaved and heaved to get the small wheels out, buried deep in the mud from the weight of the load.

“Cholera and dog’s blood,” the peasant cursed. “Get moving or you’ll be tonight’s stew,” he said, beating the animal mercilessly until there were big red welts on its back.

“Do you need any help?” I asked.

“Of course, I do, you stupid fool,” the peasant roared. “Push the cart from the back. I’ll pull from the front.”

The peasant gave his ox another hard whack and shouted, “Move!”

As he did, the pained animal lunged forward, almost toppling the man, but the cart was out of the mud. I was pleased that I could help and smiled.

“We did it,” I said.

“What do you mean, we?” asked the peasant.

He said it like he didn’t want to give anything to a Jew, not even a thank you.

“Get out of here, you dirty Yid,” he said, snapping his whip.

I moved on, already tired and cold, more muddy and sweaty than before. I was almost crying now. I was ashamed of how I would look when I got into town.

It was just down in the valley. The road was still muddy, but the cold had made it firmer than before. I walked into the town and got to the house of Mogen David just after sunset.

I knocked on the big door.

“What do you want?” asked the old servant as she peered through a crack in the door.

I knew I would have to pay off the old yenta.

“I want to see Mr. Charapsky,” I said, slipping a coin into her hand.

“It’s cold. Don’t just stand there. Come in,” she said, opening the door just enough to let me in.

The coin had worked.

“Stand there and don’t move,” she said, pointing to the mat I stood on.

I must have looked awful and smelled bad, with all the mud and sweat.

She pulled back the curtain slightly to look out the window. It was never safe to show oneself at night to the drunks wandering outside.

As I looked up at the giant chandelier that lit up the whole room, Charapsky came down the stairs to speak to me. He was still chewing his dinner, his mouth so full he was drooling into his beard. The fat pig, I thought.

“Here you are, young man, the passport to the New World, Die Goldene Medina, the Golden Country. They say the streets are paved with gold, but you need a crowbar to get the stones out,” he said, laughing at his own joke.

I smiled weakly. The yenta had appeared again as soon as Mogen David laughed. The door was opened, and in a second, I was out in the cold again with the passport in my hand. The snow was falling heavier as I walked down the dark and muddy streets to Avram Mandelowitz’s house.

I had been there often in the past; the first time was when my brother came to get a brand-new suit made just for the trip to America. I didn’t have that kind of money but had long conversations with Avram about my brother and how well he was doing in America and how Avram and I would go as soon as we could get enough money. Avram was older and had more experience of the world. We would help and encourage each other on the long journey, especially since Avram had a new wife and baby.

I was already hungry after the long walk to town, but I expected no food at his house. The house seemed smaller than I had remembered. I knocked on the door. It rattled. Avram was not good at fixing things, and he had no money to pay someone. The doors and windows let the wind whistle through, no better than my house. Eva, his wife, opened the door. She had a bright smile. I noticed her light red hair sticking out a bit from her headscarf. Her eyes were fiery with intelligence and life. I hadn’t seen many women, and to me, she was beautiful. She noticed my discomfort but ignored it. I had to pause to remind myself of why I was there.

“I’m Mortchra Izrael,” I said to her.

“Come in, come in, it’s cold outside,” she said, pulling me in.

Avram was sitting by the table, his legs crossed, the light shining on a huge coat that he was sewing. He didn’t look up but continued sewing.

“Sit down,” Avram nodded. “Eva will get you a glass of tea. Are you hungry? There’s a little bread left. You can put a little schmaltz on it, can’t you Eva, or maybe a little bit of lekvar? What would you like, Mordechai?” he said, still not looking up.

Eva had already made the tea and poured it into the glass in front of me. The bread and schmaltz were on the table so quickly that I didn’t have time to say no, and it was a good thing because it was late, and I was hungry.

“I’m sorry I can’t stop to shake your hand, but Mogen David wants this coat tonight. It is the deal he made with me so I could get papers and leave before the draft soldiers come for me too. Imagine, they want an old man with a child to go. They probably want me to work as a tailor in the army. The idiots—it would be cheaper just to pay me a little money to work at home. Still, I must go now, like you. Eva is not happy,” he said, looking to Eva who, indeed, was not smiling.

“I won’t be much longer. Then I will deliver it. He has a big ceremony tomorrow, and he wants to look his best. They are opening the new shul, a grand synagogue with the money that he donated. Nu? They’ll take from anyone!” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Still, I shouldn’t be so proud—this will get me enough to feed us all for the whole trip.”

Avram smiled, looking toward the other side of the room. I hadn’t noticed the little boy sleeping quietly in the corner until then.

“Have you really got everything ready?” I asked.

“Yes,” Avram said, with great calm and certainty, “leave it to me.”

He got up and smoothed out the long coat. It looked splendid with the fur trim at the neck. Avram looked proud of his work.

“I will be back in a few minutes—it’s only a short walk down to Mogen David’s house,” he said, carefully folding the coat so that there would be no wrinkles. “Eva, give him something more to eat. He still looks hungry.” Avram said before he walked out the door.

I felt uncomfortable as I sat there, this woman who couldn’t be much older than me, acting like my mother as she bustled around to find more for me to eat. I was hungry, but I didn’t want to look greedy. I also didn’t want to seem nervous or impolite, so I ate the bowl of mushroom barley soup and bread she quietly served. She sat down at the table with me, with a tired, anxious sigh.

“I’m so glad we will have someone to travel with. It makes me afraid of the long trip away from all we know. I’m not sad to leave here. We have nothing, and my whole family is in Hungary. I have Feivele to look after too,” she said, turning to the baby. “When you become a mother, you have more to worry about.”

She looked down at the toddler who was fast asleep in the crib. He had his father’s nose, but his mother’s mouth, the lips pink but not large. I glanced up at Eva while I was eating, but tried not to look into her eyes, afraid I would blush and also embarrass her.

“So, why weren’t you drafted like all the rest?” she asked.

“I live out of town, and my father had a place for us to hide in the hills if we needed it, but it looks like they won’t stop looking now. They don’t want to work too hard to find us. They already went to the yeshiva and rounded them all up,” I said.

“Didn’t your father make you go to yeshiva?” she asked, surprised at my attitude.

“No—I hated it, so he taught us what we needed. He taught us how to read in Hebrew and German, too,” I said proudly.

“Where is he now?” she asked.

“He died. We don’t know exactly how because he was in Lidice, trying to sell some chickens. But we were told by a person from there that the police beat ‘outside’ Jews to death for selling without a license.”

“And your brother already went to America. How lucky you will be to have someone you know. Avram has a brother in New York. That’s where we will go,” she said, smiling.

It had been some time since Avram left. I hardly noticed. I had never been alone with a strange woman before. I looked into her eyes, and all I could think about was how lucky Avram was and how I wished I could be in a situation like this. The room was small, but the fire was lighting it up and keeping it all warm and cozy. The baby was asleep in his crib, and I just looked at Eva as she spoke and could not take my eyes away from her.

“I wonder what has happened to Avram? He shouldn’t be this long,” she said, looking worried.

We both knew there were always a few hoodlums out there, just poor wandering peasants with nothing better to do, always looking for trouble for the Jews and a few crowns they could steal. No one would bother them since they would share a cut of what they stole with the police.

Just as she walked away to sit down on the chair, there was a weak, quick pounding at the door. She jumped quicker than I did and ran to open the door. There was Avram, bloody and barely able to stand.

“Oy, oy,” she cried, “vos getrofn? What happened?” she asked, already knowing the worst.

I could see it in her eyes.

“They stole the money,” Avram muttered. “They stole all the money. The dogs, the filthy dogs.”

He could barely say those words. Then he fell unconscious.

Eva ran to get some water, cried, “Oy, oy.”

I could do nothing but watch dumbfounded. I didn’t know what to do. Eva wiped Avram’s bloody face with a wet towel, and his eyes fluttered open. He could barely speak. His gums were bloody, and his teeth were loose. A big bruise was forming on his eye. He was in tears.

“They stole all the money,” he whimpered. “They took it all, all the work I put in that coat, all the money for America.”

He could barely move for the pain. Eva took off his coat and shirt. There was blood on his shirt and coat and bruises on his stomach. He was tender wherever she felt. I despaired I could not go to America without Avram’s help.

“It hurts all over. My stomach hurts, my chest hurts,” Avram said as Eva looked him over, tears streaming from her eyes as she murmured, “Oy, oy!”

“You must not give up hope,” he said, turning to me. “We are going tomorrow, no matter what,” he said.

Eva frowned, then moaned, “Why can’t this stop? Why can’t we be left in peace? I don’t want to go. I don’t want all this adventure. I don’t want my baby to have all this excitement. I’m not going. I want to move back to Hungary.”

“No,” said Avram, mustering his strength. “We go tomorrow. I will be better, and we can’t stay in this place. It is too terrible. We must go to America. Hungary would be the same. It doesn’t matter.”

She frowned again as she opened the door and made cold compresses from rags and the snow she gathered from outside. I felt the cold wind as she opened the door and was grateful for the warmth of the hearth.

I kept quiet in this argument. Avram told me he and Eva had argued this way before. Avram had told me she always gave in. He said it more in pride than arrogance. He was glad he had such a woman who could go along with the wisdom of her husband, even when she might have doubts. She was traditional in that way.

Eva forced Avram to drink some of the soup that she had heated for me. The fire was getting low. I put another log on and turned to Eva.

“You’re tired,” I said. “Just rest so I can watch the baby for you.”

Eva gave me a blanket, and she went to sleep in the bed with Avram. She gave a sigh of relief, perhaps resignation.

She needed to sleep, but I could see she was worried. She tossed and turned and looked like she would be awake the whole night in the dark, picking her head up to look at Avram. I was worried too, but I fell asleep anyway.