While We’re Far Apart

by Lynn Austin

  CHAPTER 34

  JACOB SAT AT HIS DESK late one afternoon, composing a fund-raising letter for the War Refugee Board, when he heard a knock on his door. He opened it to find Peter holding up his little slate with a message on it: Can I use your radio?

  “My radio? Is something wrong with yours?”

  He shook his head as he erased the words and wrote, Esther likes the news and I don’t.

  “Ah. I see. Yes, certainly, come in. Which program did you want to hear?” Peter held an imaginary bat in his hands and pantomimed hitting a baseball. “The baseball game. Of course, I should have guessed. Well, there is my radio. Help yourself to it.”

  Jacob returned to his work while Peter twirled the tuning dial, eventually finding the baseball game. He flopped down on his stomach on Jacob’s rug, his chin propped on his fists. Several times in the past few weeks, Peter had complained to him about how often Esther listened to the news. Jacob knew she was worried about their father. The children still hadn’t received a letter from him since the D-Day invasion, and to make matters worse, the Nazis had begun to fire their new, deadly V-1 missiles at military bases and civilian targets in England – where Ed Shaffer was stationed.

  “Either way, Daddy is in danger,” Esther had told Jacob, “whether he’s fighting on the mainland or staying behind in England.”

  “If your father is in England,” Jacob had told her, “I am sure he will find safety inside a bomb shelter when the V-1 missiles strike.” His assurances hadn’t helped. Esther continued her obsession with the news, which was why Peter came to his apartment every day.

  Jacob could no longer concentrate on his letter. He laid down his pen and turned to Peter. “Have you ever watched your team play at the ball park?”

  Peter nodded, then sat up and wrote, Daddy used to take me.

  “I see. And is it different to watch a game in person?”

  He nodded again and wrote, Much better! I want to catch a fly ball. Peter pointed to Jacob, silently asking if Jacob had ever seen a game.

  “No, I have never been to a ball game. It is not something I would think to do.”

  The telephone rang and Jacob reached to answer it, recognizing Rebbe Grunfeld’s voice greeting him. “I have good news, for you, Yaacov. I believe we have found David and Esther Fischer.” Jacob stopped breathing. “They belong to a congregation in Crown Heights – Reform, not Orthodox. They’re not observant. Their rebbe said they have two sons and a daughter named Rachel, who died. Does this sound like the people you are searching for?”

  “Yes! Yes, it does!” Jacob couldn’t stay seated. He paced in a small circle, as far as the telephone cord would reach.

  “David Fischer is a medical doctor,” the rebbe continued. “His wife does charity work, primarily with fine arts organizations.”

  “Is there a way I can contact them?” Jacob nearly dropped the telephone receiver as he shifted it to his other ear, searching his desktop for his pen and a blank piece of paper. “Did you get an address for me or . . . or a telephone number?”

  Rebbe Grunfeld gave him both. By the time Jacob thanked him and hung up, he could have danced a little jig. He saw Peter sitting cross-legged, looking up at him, and he realized his voice had been raised in excitement.

  “Sorry, Peter. Sorry. I did not mean to interrupt your game.” Jacob longed to tell him the good news but knew that he’d better wait until after he’d met these grandparents. Penny Goodrich had been right to suggest caution in order to avoid hurting the children.

  But Jacob could no longer concentrate on the work he’d been doing. Instead, he listened to the announcer’s droning voice as he narrated the game, talking about RBIs and batting averages and something called a “full count.” This baseball game was in an entirely new language. Avraham had shown some interest in baseball, playing back-lot games with his friends after school. But when Avi had been Peter’s age, Jacob’s work and all his meetings at the shul had kept him much too busy to attend a sporting event.

  “Peter?” he asked suddenly. “Would you like to go to the ball field sometime and watch your team play?”

  Peter scrambled to his feet, grinning and nodding his head so hard it looked as though it might come loose. Jacob rested his hand on his hair. “After school is out in a few weeks, I will purchase tickets for us. Perhaps Esther would like to come with us. And Penny, too.” Peter wrapped his arms around Jacob in a fervent hug.

  Jacob hugged him in return. He had found the children’s family. A grandfather and grandmother. A miracle. David and Esther Fischer had two sons – two new uncles for the children. He felt so excited it was as if the Fischers were his own family. But now what to do? How should he approach them? Should he telephone first?

  Jacob thought about it for the rest of the day before deciding that he would pay them a visit in person, unannounced. He would bring information to them about the War Refugee Board and begin by talking about the need for funds. The prospect made him too excited and nervous to sit still.

  On a warm June afternoon, Jacob took a bus to Crown Heights and got off within walking distance of the Fischers’ apartment – a stately limestone building on a quiet, tree-lined street. He had planned to go directly to their door and ring the bell, but a uniformed doorman stopped him in the spacious lobby. “May I help you, sir?”

  Jacob hadn’t counted on a doorman. He cleared his throat. “I am here to see David and Esther Fischer in apartment 612.”

  “Are they expecting you, sir?” Jacob shook his head. The doorman picked up a telephone receiver. “May I tell them your name, please?”

  “Jacob Mendel. I work with the War Refugee Board.” He held his breath as the doorman talked on the telephone for a moment. When the man hung up, he nodded and led Jacob to the elevator.

  “Turn left on the sixth floor.”

  Esther Fischer was waiting for Jacob with her apartment door open. “Mr. Mendel? Hello, I’m Esther Fischer.” She was an attractive woman in her late fifties with dark glossy hair and manicured nails. Jacob remembered how lovely Rachel Shaffer had been, as well. “Come in, please.”

  “Thank you.” He touched the mezuzah on the doorpost before going inside.

  “My sister and I were just having coffee in the living room. Would you care to join us?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Mrs. Fischer summoned her maid. “Kindly fetch another cup and some more coffee for my guest,” she said, then led Jacob into a spacious living room with a fireplace and several seating areas. A baby grand piano filled one corner of the room and stunning artwork covered the walls. He glimpsed the East River in the distance through a set of tall windows.

  “Mr. Mendel, this is my sister, Dinah Goldman.” She gestured to an elegantly dressed woman seated on the sofa. “We know all about President Roosevelt’s War Refugee Board and the work they are doing. It is a very worthy cause, and my husband has contributed generously.”

  “Yes . . . good, good.” He felt tongue-tied and a bit guilty for coming here with hidden motives. He sat down in an armchair, and when the maid appeared with his cup of coffee, he took his time adding cream and sugar from a sterling silver tray on the table. “I see you have sons in the service?” he said, nodding to the flag in the window with two stars.

  “Yes. One is an army surgeon stationed in England, and the other is with the Army Corps of Engineers in the Pacific. He rebuilds roads and bridges after they’ve been destroyed in the war. It seems like such a waste, don’t you think? Blowing things up and then building them all over again?”

  “Yes. War is a great tragedy for everyone.” He spent a few minutes talking about his work and the need for more money for displaced refugees, then asked, “Have you heard about the president’s plan to create an emergency refugee shelter here in the United States? It has just been approved, and I believe that plans are under way for the first shelter to be built in upstate New York, in a town called Oswego. The first Jewish refugees will come from areas that have already been liber
ated, such as southern Italy.”

  Mrs. Fischer set down her cup, shaking her head. “The president is going to encounter a great deal of opposition to any plan that allows more Jews into this country.”

  “I understand he had to promise that they would all leave the country again after the war. But at least they will be safe, for now.”

  “I don’t understand such prejudice and hatred,” Mrs. Goldman said. “Do you, Mr. Mendel?”

  “No. But I have seen it firsthand. I left Hungary as a young man, thinking I would be free from it here in America. But hatred is everywhere, I believe.” He paused while the maid poured more coffee into his cup, then he nervously cleared his throat. “Mrs. Fischer, I hope you will forgive me. I do raise funds for the War Refugee Board, but that is not the only reason that I came to see you. I-I knew your daughter, Rachel.”

  Her posture stiffened as she looked away. “I don’t wish to talk about her,” she said in a tight voice. “My daughter is dead.”

  “I know. I know she is. Rachel lived in the apartment upstairs from me. She was with my wife, Miriam Shoshanna, when the car went out of control. They died together.”

  Mrs. Fischer remained tight-lipped, struggling to stay in control. She stared into the distance, not at him. Mrs. Goldman slid closer to her sister and took her hand.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” Mrs. Goldman said. “But surely you can understand why my sister doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  Jacob set down his cup and continued talking. “For a long time I felt that the accident was my fault. It was my habit to shop at the market for Miriam on the eve of Shabbat. But I was too busy to go that day. And so your Rachel went with her instead.”

  “She is not my Rachel,” Mrs. Fischer said softly. “My husband says she is no longer our daughter. She died to us several years before the accident.”

  “I understand. In the past I would have felt the same way as your husband does if my child had married a gentile. But not anymore. Not since this war began.” Mrs. Fischer finally looked at him, waiting for him to explain. “I have only one child, Mrs. Fischer – a son named Avraham. Before the war, he went overseas to Hungary to study Torah. He got married and had a little daughter, Fredeleh. I have not heard from him in two and a half years.”

  Mrs. Fischer’s expression softened. “Please accept my sympathies – for the loss of your wife and for your missing son.”

  “I would give everything I have – my own life, even – if I could bring Miriam back, or bring Avi and his family home. I have never met little Fredeleh, my only granddaughter. But I have met your grandchildren, Mrs. Fischer. They live upstairs from me. And I have grown to love them very much.”

  A tear slipped down Mrs. Fischer’s cheek. He couldn’t know why. She drew her sweater tightly around her body and crossed her arms as if she felt a chill. But she didn’t reply.

  “You do know that Rachel had two children, yes? And that she named her daughter after you?”

  She closed her eyes. “Please stop,” she whispered.

  But Jacob would not. “Esther just turned thirteen. She plays the piano beautifully – ”

  Mrs. Fischer sprang to her feet, bumping the coffee table, spilling the coffee from Jacob’s cup onto the saucer. “You need to leave now. I’m sorry.”

  He braced his hands on the armrests and slowly stood. “The children asked if I would help them find their grandparents. I did not tell them that I had found you – or that you are Jewish. They are wondering why you want nothing to do with them.”

  “My daughter converted and became a Christian. A Christian, Mr. Mendel! My husband did everything he could think of to discourage her and bring her back to us. He offered to send her to the finest music conservatory or let her take a trip abroad – anything she wanted. We have never been religious people, but . . . but this was unacceptable to us. David thought that if we disowned her, pronounced her dead to us, that she would change her mind and come home. Instead, she fell in love. She met a Christian man and married him.”

  “Yes, Edward Shaffer. And your daughter has two beautiful children. Did I tell you about Peter?”

  “I don’t want to hear – ”

  “Peter’s hair is the same color that his mother’s was – and as yours is. He recently turned ten, and he is a very smart little boy. He loves baseball, the Brooklyn Dodgers. I have promised to take him to a game this summer because he has no one else to take him. His father is stationed overseas in England. He has been away for ten months now.”

  Mrs. Fischer covered her face. Her shoulders shook as she wept. Her sister rose to comfort her. Jacob talked louder, faster, aware that he might never have a chance to speak to her again.

  “The day the children’s father went away to war, Peter stopped talking. It was not a conscious choice on his part, but a result of the trauma of losing his mother and then his father. He needs the love of a family to help him heal. He needs you, Mrs. Fischer.”

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Do you read the newspapers? Are you aware of what Hitler is doing to the Jewish population of Europe? So many, many people have already lost their families, myself included. Our loved ones have been taken from us by force, and we had no choice in the matter. But you do have a choice, Mrs. Fischer. You still have a family. They live in the apartment upstairs from me. And they need you.”

  “My husband will never allow it.”

  “You may lay the blame on him if that helps ease your conscience. But it seems to me that it is your decision as much as his. No matter where those children worship or who their father is, they are still Jewish by birth, through your daughter. You did not lose these beautiful grandchildren of yours. They are found.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to say to them.”

  “If you would like, you may come to my home and meet them. I will not tell them who you are unless you give me permission.”

  “My husband would never allow it,” she said again.

  “Would you like me to talk to him?”

  “I-I don’t know . . . I need some time . . .”

  “It seems to me that too much time already has been lost. I would give everything I have for more time with my wife, my son.” Jacob pulled a note from his pocket and gave it to her. “Here is my address and telephone number. Please call me when you decide.”

  One week later, after Jacob had given up all hope that he would hear from her, Mrs. Fischer called. They arranged for her to come to Jacob’s apartment that afternoon, just before the children arrived home from school. “They always visit me as soon as they get home,” he assured her.

  Mrs. Fischer brought along her sister, and as the time approached, the two women sat on Jacob’s sofa as if it were stuffed with rocks. He feared that Mrs. Fischer might change her mind at any moment and leap up to run from the apartment.

  At last he heard children’s footsteps tromping up the porch steps. The lid to the mailbox squeaked as they checked for letters. Esther’s key rattled in the front door lock. The children knocked on his door as soon as they came inside. Jacob hurried to open it, as nervous as Mrs. Fischer was.

  “Hi, Mr. Mendel. Guess what happened in school today – ” Esther stopped short when she saw the two women. Peter nearly bumped into her as he walked into the apartment behind her. “Oh, you have company. I’m sorry.”

  “No, no. Come in, please. Have a piece of cake with my friends and me.” It felt awkward not to introduce the two women by name, but Jacob had no choice. “Ladies, these are my friends, Esther and Peter Shaffer. They live in the apartment upstairs from me.”

  The children sat on the floor in front of the coffee table to eat the cake he’d sliced for them while Jacob nervously tried to make conversation. “So . . . only three more days of school, yes? Then summer vacation?”

  “Yes. F inally! I can’t wait for school to get out.” For the next few minutes, Esther filled in all the awkward spaces with small talk, describing the last few days of her school y
ear. When Mrs. Fischer finally joined in, her voice sounded hoarse.

  “What grade are you in, Esther?”

  “I’m finishing seventh and Peter is in fourth.”

  “Do you have a favorite subject?”

  “Mine is music. I play the piano. Peter likes science, right?” He nodded shyly. Esther paused to finish eating her cake, then said, “Our father is stationed over in England. Yesterday we finally got a letter from him, the first one since the D-Day landing. I was getting so worried about him, but he’s safe.”

  “I have a son serving in the army over in England. He is a doctor. I haven’t heard from him since D-Day, either, but I know he’s probably very busy, taking care of all the wounded soldiers.”

  “Hey! Maybe he knows our father. Daddy sometimes repairs ambulances when they break down.”

  They talked until the cake was gone and the conversation began to lag. Esther rose to her feet, pulling Peter to his feet, too. “Come on, Peter. We should go. I’m sure Mr. Mendel wants to visit with his guests now. Besides, I need to practice. I have a piano lesson tomorrow – the last one before summer starts. I wish I didn’t have to stop lessons, but my teacher is going away on vacation. Thanks for the cake, Mr. Mendel. And it was very nice meeting you.”

  “It was nice meeting you, too.”

  Jacob walked the children to the door and said good-bye. When he turned back to face their grandmother and great aunt, the women had stood, preparing to leave. Mrs. Fischer’s hand trembled as she held it over her mouth. Tears filled her eyes.

  “You’re right,” she said. “The children are lovely. . . . We need to go now.”

  “No, wait a moment longer please,” Jacob said. “I would like you to hear something.” They all stood in awkward silence for a few moments until Esther began to practice the piano upstairs, starting with the exercises she always played to limber up her fingers.

  Her grandmother covered her face and wept.