While We’re Far Apart

by Lynn Austin

  The news stunned Jacob. He couldn’t think what to say. Was the government so unfeeling that they would draft a man with two small children and no wife? But no, Shaffer had said that he had enlisted. That made no sense at all, but Jacob would never say so. It was none of his business what the man did.

  “You cannot sublet, you know. It is written right into the lease that you are not allowed to sublet the apartment.”

  “I’m not subletting, Mr. Mendel. A family friend is coming to look after Esther and Peter for me. The army will send her the money every month so she can pay the rent.”

  Once again, Jacob didn’t know what to say.

  “I’ll be home on leave after I finish basic training,” Shaffer continued. “If things aren’t working out . . . well, you can let me know then and we’ll talk.”

  “Who did you say would be staying here?”

  “Her name is Penny Goodrich. I’ve known her all my life, and she’s very responsible. Doesn’t smoke or drink . . . and she’s not the sort of woman to live a wild life, if you know what I mean. Believe me, I wouldn’t leave my kids with just anyone. Penny’s a-okay.”

  Jacob took the rent money from Shaffer’s hand, nodding as if he understood. But he did not. He did not understand at all. Why would this man leave his family if he didn’t have to? Little children, no less? Jacob was trying to get his son’s family safely home to America. He would never leave his child all alone, not in a million years.

  He thanked Shaffer for the money and had almost closed the door again before he thought to say: “Good luck to you. With the war, I mean. Come home safe.”

  “I will, Mr. Mendel. Thank you.”

  Come home safe. What a stupid thing to say. Such meaningless words. Jacob felt sorry for Shaffer, no question about it. He knew how Shaffer suffered, losing his wife that way. Jacob had lost his Miriam Shoshanna, too, and he was still angry with Hashem for taking her from him, more than a year later. What kind of a Master of the Universe takes a good woman like Miriam Shoshanna, not to mention those poor children’s mother, when there were so many evil people in this world who did not deserve to live? Who runs a universe where automobile brakes can fail and two women can die while buying potatoes for Shabbat dinner?

  He sat down at his desk again to finish writing his letter, feeling every one of his sixty-five years. When he had licked the envelope and stuck a stamp on the corner, he decided to search the refrigerator for something to eat.

  Nothing. Not one thing. On Shabbat, no less. Miriam used to work all day Friday to prepare a feast for Shabbat. She would invite their friends to come celebrate with them, always many friends. Now it was Friday evening and there was nothing to eat.

  Oh, he had invitations, plenty of invitations. But Jacob could not bear to watch another woman light the Shabbat candles and recite the blessing. He could not lift a glass of wine in celebration and wish everyone Shabbat shalom. He could not pray. He would not pray. His friends still prayed to Hashem, but Jacob Mendel did not.

  He closed the refrigerator door and decided to walk to the grocery store and buy a can of soup for his supper. He could drop his letter in the mailbox on the way. He knew the sun had already set and that Shabbat had begun, but he would go shopping anyway. For sixty-five years, Jacob Aaron Mendel had never deliberately broken one of Hashem’s commandments. And what difference had it made? Heh?

  Jacob put on his jacket and hat and locked the apartment door behind him. He crossed the street and walked past the shul where Rebbe Grunfeld and Jacob’s other friends would be saying Kabbalat Shabbat. He continued down the block and walked past the vegetable market where it had all happened, as if daring Hashem to send another car with no brakes careening onto the sidewalk. Let it plow into him this time.

  The market had been restored to normal once again. It had been more than a year, after all, and what did he expect? That they would build a shrine for his Miriam Shoshanna and Rachel Shaffer and the other woman who had died? The owner was a Jew, so the market was closed for Shabbat. That didn’t matter to Jacob. He didn’t shop there anymore. He used to enjoy going there with Miriam every Friday, talking to Chaim the grocer, who was also from Hungary. He enjoyed picking out strawberries or some other treat for his wife. But Jacob had never gone back there to shop after she had died.

  Tonight he went to the shabby Italian grocery store instead, a block away from the market, and bought a can of tomato soup and a box of saltine crackers. The place was crowded, always crowded, and he had to wait a long time just to buy the two items. Afterward, he dropped his letter in the mailbox on the corner, then turned toward home.

  He should have taken the long way home, walking all the way around the block to the alley and going in through his back door. He should not have risked walking past the shul again in case the men were just leaving after prayer. But Jacob was not thinking straight. The news that his tenant was going into the army tomorrow had distracted him. Had Shaffer said tomorrow?

  Prayers must have ended early – or else Jacob’s watch had stopped – because here came all the men, pouring out of the back door of the shul. Jacob whirled around and headed in the opposite direction as fast as he could go, but it was too late. Rebbe Grunfeld spotted him and hurried up the street behind him, calling his name.

  “Yaacov! Yaacov, wait!”

  He had no choice. He had to stop. This would be a conversation that he did not want to have. “Good evening, Rebbe.” Jacob would not wish him Shabbat shalom.

  “Shabbat shalom, Yaacov. We have missed you at prayers these many months. You’re coming back soon, yes?”

  “No.”

  The rebbe stared at him as if he had uttered blasphemy.

  Jacob lost his temper. “Why should I pray? Heh? You tell me why.”

  “We could simply talk. I would listen . . . perhaps Hashem – ”

  “I have nothing to say to you or to Hashem. And certainly nothing to thank Him for.”

  “You don’t mean that, Yaacov.”

  “Yes, I do mean it. I was doing Hashem’s work that day, making plans to dedicate His new Torah scroll. That was why I was late. And if I had been on time that day, I would have been the one to shop at the grocer’s, not my Miriam. Not that young mother from upstairs with two children to raise. She wouldn’t have offered to walk with Miriam if I had been home.”

  “I know, I know. It was a terrible tragedy, but – ”

  “How could Hashem, who knows everything there is to know, not have known that if I was late, my Miriam Shoshanna would die? Heh?” Jacob was shouting, but he didn’t care. “Hashem should have known that Miriam, of all people, would want to finish her shopping before sundown on Erev Shabbat. That she would never break a single one of His commandments.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Yaacov, but if you would only come back to us, maybe we could find the answers together.”

  “Why? What is the use? Hashem has not answered any of my prayers. Nor has He helped me find my son, Avraham. I ask Him questions all the time, and all I ever hear is silence. A silence so loud it is deafening.”

  “There is no need to shout, Yaacov.”

  “I will shout if I want to!” He saw people staring at him, even from across the street. The rebbe’s cheeks flushed pink beneath his white beard. “Tell me, Rebbe – why would Hashem tell my Avraham to go study in His yeshiva if He knew this madman Hitler was coming? Heh? Didn’t He see Adolf Hitler? Were the madman and his plans hidden from Hashem’s sight?”

  “I don’t know, my friend. I don’t know . . . But we miss you. The shul isn’t the same without you. You did such a wonderful job when you were our gabbai, organizing everything for us. Now we are falling apart without you.”

  “I do not care what happens to the shul! The building can crumble into dust for all I care!” Jacob paused to catch his breath and saw the rebbe glance at the paper bag with the soup and crackers. “Yes, Rebbe Grunfeld, I am carrying a burden on Shabbat. Did everyone hear me? Jacob Aaron Mendel went shopping on
Shabbat! Look!” He held the package up high for everyone to see. “This is what happens when Hashem takes a man’s wife and son. Hashem should have known this would happen. He should have known!”

  Jacob turned and strode away – not toward his apartment, where he would have to walk past all his other black-hatted friends, but back up the street, toward the vegetable stand and the Italian grocery store and the mailbox. Jacob walked past all three places and simply kept going, walking and walking and walking.

  Thirty minutes later when his temper had finally cooled, he turned toward home, exhausted and hungry. Everyone would be inside their own houses by now, eating their Shabbat dinners, singing psalms, blessing Hashem. Jacob no longer had to worry about bumping into anyone he knew.

  He was a few yards from the back door of the shul when he noticed the smoke. He halted, staring at the familiar brick building as if unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Billowing black smoke poured from beneath the roof. Bright orange flames danced behind the first-floor windows.

  “No . . .” he whispered. “No!” Jacob turned and ran back to the cigar store he had just passed, open late on a Friday night. He pushed through the door, out of breath. “Call the fire department! The shul is on fire!”

  “The what?”

  “The synagogue! The synagogue down the street, on the corner! Congregation Ohel Moshe. Hurry! I saw smoke! And flames inside!”

  As soon as the man reached for the telephone, Jacob rushed outside again. Maybe he could find a way to throw some water on the flames until the fire department arrived. He had been gone barely a minute, but when he neared the building again he could see that the flames were already too much for him. He could see them on the second floor, flickering behind the window in the women’s section.

  The fire was rapidly spreading out of control.

  It must have started in the beit midrash, and with so many books in that study room there was plenty of fuel to burn. All those books, the sacred books! What a terrible tragedy that holy books containing the word of Hashem should burn! That was what that madman Hitler had been doing – burning books. And synagogues. Jacob glanced around frantically. He should hear sirens by now. What was taking the fire department so long? The Torah scrolls! They were going to burn!

  He must not let that happen.

  Flames already engulfed the rear of the building by the back door, so Jacob hurried around to the main door, in front. It was locked. Of course it would be locked. Evening prayers had finished. Everyone had gone home. He reached into his pocket for the key, given to him when he served as the gabbai, organizing the prayer times and assigning a huzzan to lead them. And there it was, still on the key ring along with his apartment key. A year had passed, and he had never thought to give it back.

  People were starting to gather in the streets, pointing to the smoke and flames. As Jacob unlocked the door with shaking hands, he heard someone shout, “Don’t go in there! Wait for the firemen!”

  He opened the door. A wall of smoke was waiting inside to greet him, rushing out at him. Hot, blinding smoke. He could barely see where he was going, but it didn’t matter. He knew every inch of the shul’s rooms and hallways by heart. The building faced east, toward Jerusalem, and the Aron Ha Kodesh, where the Torah scrolls were kept, was on the easternmost wall.

  “You see, Hashem? You see the mitzvah I am doing for you?” he said as he groped his way toward the sanctuary. “You did not see fit to save my Miriam, but I am still saving your Torah.”

  He paused at one of the basins outside the sanctuary and removed his jacket to soak it with water from the sink. The faucet handles were fiery hot to the touch and they burned his hands, but he held the drenched jacket over his nose and mouth as he pushed his way through the second set of doors. Hungry flames were devouring the women’s section above him. The thick smoke made him gag and cough, even with the jacket over his face. He could feel the heat on his bare arms as he groped his way up the aisle past the bimah. He remembered how proudly his son had stood on that platform to read Torah for the first time. Was Hashem going to allow this shul, and the lifetime of memories it held, to burn to the ground?

  Jacob pushed aside the curtains to open the doors to the Ark. He fingered the soft, velvet covers that shielded the scrolls, barely able to see them through the smoke. Then, working quickly, Jacob draped his wet jacket over his arm and carefully . . . carefully . . . removed the Torah scrolls from the Ark and wrapped his jacket around them to protect them. These were sacred objects, not to be grabbed or handled carelessly. With the bundle securely wrapped, he started back down the aisle. Cinders rained down from above him. The heat felt as intense as a furnace.

  You know everything, Hashem, and you knew I would save your Torah. You knew I could not let it burn – even if I am not speaking to you anymore.

  He tried to hold his breath to keep from inhaling the smoke. It seared his throat, his lungs. His eyes stung so badly he could no longer keep them open to see where he was going. He bumped into the wall where he thought the door should be. He had run out of air, but when he tried to inhale there was no air to breathe.

  Is this your punishment? Heh? That I die here? In the very place that I turned my back on?

  He finally found the door to the vestibule, then dropped to the floor where there might still be a little air, crawling toward the front door on his knees, the scrolls tucked protectively against his chest, close to his heart. He could see pulsing red lights from the fire trucks through the window on the front door, and he pulled himself to his feet to reach for the doorknob. The metal burned his hand, but he threw all his weight against the door and it finally flew open. He fell forward, collapsing to his knees on the sidewalk, one arm outstretched to stop his fall. Pain shot through his kneecaps and his wrist, and he rolled to the side as his arm gave out. He could not allow Hashem’s Torah to touch the ground, even inside its wrappings.

  A black-coated fireman ran toward him, grabbing him beneath his arms and dragging him away from the building. “Get an ambulance!” the fireman yelled. “I need an ambulance over here!”

  Jacob tried to hand the bundle to him. His throat felt as though he had swallowed a flaming sword as he choked out the words: “Give . . . this . . . to Rebbe Grunfeld.”

  He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. There was a mound of bricks on his chest. Then the fireman who was bending over him disappeared behind a curtain of blackness.

  CHAPTER 4

  “WHY CAN’T GRANDMA move in and take care of us while you’re away?” Esther asked. “I don’t want that other lady to come here.” She knew Penny’s name but she pretended not to, emphasizing the fact that Penny was practically a stranger.

  Daddy’s suitcase lay open on his rumpled bed as he packed to leave for boot camp tomorrow. He crisscrossed his narrow bedroom, removing items from his closet, his dresser, his nightstand, checking to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. He was taller than the sloping sections of the ceiling but so familiar with the layout of the room that he never bumped his head.

  “I already explained it a dozen times, Esther. Grandma can’t climb stairs. And you know pets aren’t allowed. Who would take care of Woofer? And her bird?”

  “Penny could take care of them for her.”

  “Everything is arranged, doll.”

  “I don’t want you to go!” Mama used to scold Esther for using a whiny voice, but she didn’t care. She climbed onto Daddy’s bed, causing the lid of his suitcase to fall shut. Her stomach ached from crying so hard during the past several days, but even her tears hadn’t convinced Daddy to stay home. He wasn’t going to change his mind.

  “I’ll only be gone for six or seven weeks. Then I’ll get leave-time after basic training and I’ll come home. Maybe by then Grandma will let you move in with her.”

  “But then you’ll have to go away again?”

  “Just till the war ends.” He reopened the suitcase lid and stuffed in two more pairs of socks. “Look, your friends’ fathers are all
off fighting, aren’t they? And the Hoffmans’ father, next door? I have to do my part, doll.”

  “The other kids still have mothers to take care of them.” Esther regretted her words as soon as she spoke them.

  Daddy closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know, doll, I know. But Penny will do a good job taking care of you – ”

  “I don’t want her, I want you!”

  Daddy sighed and reached out to caress her hair. His hand felt heavy and warm on the top of her head. “I’m sorry, Esther. There’s nothing more I can say.” He turned and walked back to the dresser, removing the framed photograph of Mama that always stood on top of it. “I need to take this,” he said softly. “You mind?”

  Esther shrugged, unsure why he asked for her permission. He blew the dust off the glass and swiped it with his hand before placing the picture frame inside the suitcase and snapping the latches shut. He glanced around the room to see if he had forgotten anything, and as he paused, Esther heard the screen door slam downstairs in the kitchen. A moment later, Peter raced up the steps to the bedroom and burst through the door. He flung himself at their father and clung to his waist, squeezing so hard he wrinkled Daddy’s shirt.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” Daddy asked. “I thought you were playing outside?”

  Peter pressed his face against Daddy’s midsection and didn’t reply. He hadn’t begged or pleaded with their father the way Esther had, or even asked “why?” over and over again. Instead, he had followed Daddy everywhere for the past few days, hanging on to his pant leg or his shirttails or clinging to his waist. Now he began to cry, a thin, muffled sound like an injured kitten.

  “Hey, come on, Peter. Don’t make this any harder than it is, okay?”

  The bedroom window gaped open, and as Peter continued to whimper softly, Esther heard a different kind of wail in the distance, joining his. She recognized it as sirens, coming from the fire station three blocks away. The sound grew louder and louder until it seemed as though the vehicles were stopping right outside their apartment building. Peter let go of Daddy’s waist and put his hands over his ears to drown out the racket. He hated sirens, probably because they reminded him of the ambulances and police cars at the vegetable market on the terrible day that Mama had died. Daddy crossed to the window and jerked out the screen so he could lean outside to look. “Holy cow!” he shouted. “The synagogue is on fire!”