Portraits

by Cynthia Freeman

  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 he
r 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.”