He's done it! He's gone too far, Erich thought. "Let's go to my room, Sol," he whispered, embarrassed for his father. "You, too, Recha, if you like."
"Recha?" Sol asked.
Erich saw the worried look on Sol's face. True, Erich hardly ever voluntarily included Recha in anything--not that he didn't like her, but she was only seven.
"Come, Friedrich!" Jacob Freund said, his voice firm. "You don't really mean any of that. We are friends, all of us. Old friends." He put out his hand. "Let us put an end to this at once. For all of our sakes."
"Papa, please--"
Erich was cut short by a knock at the front door.
"The beadle." Frau Freund looked flustered. "I forgot. I invited him for a glass of schnapps. I didn't think you would mind--"
"Well, I do mind!" Friedrich Weisser jammed the cork into the bottle. "And so does my good wife!"
"Sol." Erich tugged at Sol's arm, pulling him toward his bedroom. "I have something for you."
"Bring it out here."
"No. It's private. Come now, before--"
There was a second knock at the door, louder this time.
"Do I let him in?" Ella Freund asked quietly. Sol's father gave her an it's not our home look.
"Please, Papa, he's a nice man. Let him come in," Erich said. He could feel that his face had turned red.
"Go on, go on!" His papa waved his hand. "Open the door. But only one drink--"
As graciously as if she had sent him a gilt-edged invitation, Frau Weisser ushered Beadle Cohen into her home. He was a short, rotund man with thinning hair and a limp that got better or worse depending on the weather. His built-in barometer, he called it, impressing the boys no end with the accuracy of his predictions. He spent all of his time around the synagogue, where he was a glorified janitor, or surrounded by musty books which he foisted upon the mostly unwilling boys who attended the Hebrew School attached to the shul.
Sol was one of the exceptions--not only willing but anxious to get his hands on as many books as he could. He loved to read. Most of all he loved to discuss what he had read with the beadle, who made no bones about either his poverty or his intellect. He had a particular fondness for Sol and, strangely enough, for Erich, who was not much of a reader--certainly not of Jewish literature. Often, when Erich was through with sports, he would walk past the Hebrew school and wait for Sol so they could walk home together. Sometimes the beadle would walk with them. He made a point of talking about things like astronomy, which interested Erich as well as Sol.
"Happy Chanukah." The beadle accepted a glass of schnapps and an invitation to be seated. "And a merry Christmas, too." He sipped at the drink with obvious enjoyment. "So kind of you to include me. Most kind."
"We have potato pancakes left over, if you're hungry," Sol's mother said.
"Hungry? One needs to be hungry to eat latkes, especially Ella Freund's latkes?" The beadle glanced down at his stomach and laughed. "But I can't stay long. I have other stops to make."
Erich saw a look of relief on his friend's face. He felt the same way; he wanted the beadle to stay, but who knew how long Papa would control himself?
"I have no gifts for the adults," the beadle said, "but I was able to manage a little something for each of the children. Recha!" He dug in his pocket and pulled out an old sepia photograph. "Because you love to dance, I brought you a photograph of Anna Pavlova. This was taken when she was just your age. Now she's the most famous ballerina in the whole world."
Recha took the photograph and stared at it, her dark eyes sparkling.
"Say thank you to Beadle Cohen." Ella Freund smiled at her daughter.
"Thank you, Beadle Cohen." Recha performed a little curtsy.
"I'd prefer a kiss, right here." Pretending great seriousness, the beadle pointed at his cheek.
Recha obliged.
"Would it be too much to ask for one on the other cheek, too?" The beadle was enjoying himself.
Recha shook her head and, instead, kissed the photograph.
"Well, I suppose that will have to do," the beadle said, with mock sadness. "Erich! I believe today is also your birthday. Happy birthday, my boy."
Erich saw his papa's expression harden. Hurry up, beadle, he thought. There's not much time left.
"One day you will get that dog you want so badly," the beadle said, "and you will have to know how to look after him. I talked to a man I know who knows everything about dogs. He gave me this for you." He pulled a worn leather leash out of his pocket and held it out to Erich.
"This is foolishness," Herr Weisser said. "I have told the boy he cannot have a dog. He nags me about it enough, now he will double his efforts. We cannot have that. The way he embarrasses me, telling people he knows what dogs are thinking--!"
"But Papa--"
"No!"
The beadle stood up. Stuffing the leash into his pocket, he gave the boys a broad wink. "Perhaps I can find a temporary use for it," he said. "Thank you for your hospitality."
"Your latkes, beadle." Ella Freund emerged from the kitchen with a plate in her hands.
"Perhaps you will be kind enough to repeat the offer some other time."
The beadle seemed calm enough, but Erich knew he was upset. Why else would he have forgotten to give Sol his present? Papa always spoiled everything, and he had to make excuses!
"Look, I'm sorry, Sol," Erich said, as soon as they were in his room. "My father, he..."
"Not your fault." Sol sounded close to tears.
"Here!" Erich handed Sol the dog collar he had kept hidden under the bed. "I made this for you--for us--in leather craft at school. We'll have a puppy soon. It'll be just ours, yours and mine, and no one else will even be allowed to pet him...'cept maybe Recha, sometimes."
"Boys, come out of the bedroom. Everything is all right," Jacob Freund called from the hallway. "We're all friends again."
"We'd better go--" Sol began.
"Don't you like it?"
"It's great, Erich. But--"
"I don't know when or how, but we'll do it, Sol," Erich said. "If we stick together, we can get whatever we want. We're blood brothers, right?" Remembering something he had seen in a film, he held up his arm, wrist toward Sol, who touched his wrist to Erich's and reached for the collar with his other hand.
"Wait!" Erich placed the collar carefully around their arms and closed it tightly. "Nothing can separate us now!"
"Ow! You made it too tight!"
"Okay, pull! One, two, three."
Laughing, the boys tugged in opposite directions and the collar dropped to the floor. Sol picked it up, examined it briefly, and stuffed it into his pocket. "Thanks."
"Solll!" Recha wailed outside the door. "Sol!"
Patting his pocket, Sol opened the door to a tearful Recha.
"You always leave me out. Always."
Sol crouched and gave his sister a hug. She was okay--for a girl, Erich thought. "What happened in there, Recha?" he asked.
Recha handed her brother a book bound in soft black leather. "Beadle Cohen went away. He left this for you."
Sol took the book and read the title out loud. "Toledot ha-Ari. Life of the Ari...the Lion. Look, Erich, it's the biography of Isaac ben Solomon Luria!"
Erich had no idea who that was but he could see that his friend was pleased.
Sol's mother came walking down the hallway toward them. "He said to tell you he was given this very book when he was your age," she told Sol. "He wants you to have it. Your papa said you were much too young to understand anything about the Kabbalah, but our beadle is a stubborn man. The Lurianic Kabbalah must be part of your education, he says, and to understand the philosophy you must first understand the man."
The book was small enough to fit in Sol's pocket with the dog collar. Erich saw him slip it inside and pat his pants. "I tried reading this once," Sol said. "It's about a man who saw things inside his head that other people couldn't see. He was a mystic, whatever that is."
"Ask your papa," Erich said.
"I did. He said, 'leave the study of mysticism to the
Hasids--'" Sol looked at Erich and laughed. "They're very religious," he explained, "like the Pope and the Cardinals--"
"Beadle Cohen says that when you are ready, the understanding will come." His mother took Recha's hand and led the little girl back into the living room. Sol started to follow but Erich stopped him.
"When we get the dog, we'll keep it in the sewer," he whispered. "We'll take turns going down to feed him and--"
"Boys!" his papa called out pleasantly. "We've decided to start opening the presents early."
Erich looked at Sol, raised his wrist one more time, and grinned. "Brothers," he said again. "Forever and ever."
CHAPTER THREE
"Liebknecht and Luxemburg! Both killed!" Jacob Freund removed his glasses and dangled them from his fingers over the newspaper headlines. "What is Germany coming to?"
Though this was one of those rare times that all the members of the Freund and Weisser families were in the shop together, Sol knew from his papa's tone that he was thinking aloud and did not expect an answer to his question.
"How did they die, Papa?" he asked from the back of the shop. Since the table was occupied, he and Erich were playing chess on the linoleum floor.
"What does it matter how," Friedrich Weisser said. "Dead is dead! Things will quiet down and we can get back to business."
"Ella, more and more I think you and the children should go to your sister. You'll be safer in Amsterdam with Herta." Jacob Freund sounded agitated.
"Look here, Recha." Ella Freund pointedly ignored her husband and gestured at the newspaper. "It says here this pretty little girl loves to dance, just like you." She leaned closer to the paper. "Miriam Rathenau, granddaughter of industrialist Emil Rathenau, is being sent to the United States to study the new modern forms of dance that have become so popular over there," she read aloud. "Poor thing. Her parents were killed in an automobile accident."
"Such a poor little thing I should like to be," Frau Weisser said. "They say her father left her a fortune in art in Switzerland, and it's just waiting for her to be old enough to collect it."
"Is money all you can think of, Inge? The child's an orphan--"
Sol stopped listening. Not that he didn't feel sorry for the girl, but right now he felt sorrier for himself. He was tired of staring out of his window and of reading about Isaac ben Solomon Luria. He was even more tired of listening to the four adults bicker about things that seemed entirely unimportant, or talk endlessly of danger and revolution. Already it was past the middle of January and there was no end in sight. He would probably never see the inside of a classroom again--
Erich sat up so abruptly that he knocked over his king's rook. He did not seem to notice it, though he usually went to great lengths not to lose his castles, even sacrificing knights and bishops. His face was turned toward the door, his head cocked like that of a bird. The adults went on talking; Erich gestured, palms close to the floor, as though wishing he could will the conversation to stop. It was interrupting his concentration--whatever it was he was listening to.
"Erich?" Sol asked in a low breath.
Erich shook his head and went on listening.
Then he leaned conspiratorially across the chessboard. His blue eyes shone with excitement. "We need to go. Now. Make up some excuse."
"Why! Go where!" Sol whispered.
Again Erich shook his head.
"You make up the excuse," Sol said.
But Erich was back to listening to something outside. Besides, Sol knew why he would have to be the one to ask. Herr Weisser inevitably denied any request Erich made, no matter how innocent or rational. It was a matter of course. Oddly, despite his obvious feelings concerning anything Jewish, the father always responded to Sol's opinions and requests, as though the boy were an extension of the man to whom, like it or not, Herr Weisser was indebted. He respects intelligence, Sol's mother had said once of the shop's co-owner.
He's stupid, Erich had insisted when Sol relayed his mother's remark. Sol argued that no one should say such a thing about one's papa, but Erich would not be deterred. Stupid and...and selfish, Erich added.
"Do something." Erich poked Sol's forearm.
"I need to go...for extra lessons." Sol stood and held up his Luria book.
"You're going to the Grünewald? Now?" Sol's mother asked, wiping her hands on her apron as though ridding herself of imaginary dough.
"Yes. Me too," Erich piped in, rising so quickly that he bumped over more chess pieces. "Beadle Cohen promised to explain more about Mister Einstein's ideas."
"That damn beadle...teaching my boy," Herr Weisser muttered. "...Jewish science."
"You want instruction outside of school," Inge Weisser said, "you should go see Father...," she looked at her husband as if for confirmation about the name, "Father Dahns."
"Fast as he is, the boy should be looking for someone to teach him track-and-field," Herr Weisser said. "Not thinking about stars and psychics and God knows what else."
"Physics," Erich said, then added as if in afterthought: "Papa."
Herr Weisser's features clouded as he looked at his son, yet Sol could see light in the man's eyes. It's true what Mama said, he thought. He does admire intelligence--just doesn't want to admit it. Particularly in Erich's case.
"I'm going," Erich said stiffly.
"You be careful on the trolley," Sol's mother said to the boys.
"Of course, Mama." Sol leaned forward to peck her cheek, a motion guaranteed, he knew, to get him almost anything.
Erich hurried outside. Sol put the chessmen away, avoiding the adults' eyes for fear they might change their minds, and backed through the door, smiling a simpering smile.
"I hate lying," Sol said as they hustled down the sidewalk, dodging passers-by. "Especially where Luria is concerned." He patted the book in his pocket to assure himself it was still there.
"Some things are more important than lying." Erich trotted across the street at a diagonal, Sol beside him. They rounded a corner and Erich gestured for Sol to follow him down an alley, a look of fear and anticipation apparent in Erich's face. He stopped behind a pyramid of garbage cans.
"There." He pointed down toward where the alley ended in a brick wall. "You see?"
Tied beneath a lattice of small filthy windows was a bull terrier, whimpering. Beside him stood a stack of crates crammed with chickens, clucking uproariously. A calico cat lay on the top crate, asleep in the slant of sunlight, seemingly oblivious to the birds below.
"The pup called to me," Erich said.
"Sure he did. Three blocks away. Next you'll be telling me that the Kaiser sends you mental messages from Holland."
Erich eyed him sternly. "Don't mock me, Solomon. Just because you can't--"
A barrel-chested man in a bloodstained apron emerged from the building. He carried a cleaver. A cigarette dangled from his lip as if it were glued there. He opened a cage and gripped a chicken by the neck. While it hung flapping he chopped the twine that had kept the cat tied against the crate, and lifted the animal by its collar. It dangled forlornly, as though surrendered to its fate. Holding both animals, the man went inside, kicking the door closed with his heel.
"Butcher," Erich said.
"I know that. I'm not stupid," Sol said.
"Not stupid. Just not smart." Erich sat down, his back against a garbage can. "Not smart here. In your heart." He tapped his chest with his forefinger. "Peer between the cans. Watch the pup. I'll show you what I can do. I won't even look at him."
Erich closed his eyes; his face tightened. Sol could tell he was thinking hard.
As if it had received some kind of message, the pup began mewling, straining so much against its rope that the forepaws scrabbled ineffectually against the pavement.
"His name's Bull," Erich said.
"I suppose he told you that."
"He's telling me...a lot of things."
"Like what."
/> "Private things," Erich said. "If I told you, he wouldn't trust me."
"He smells us, is all."
"All he can smell is death, right now." Erich stood and crept around the garbage cans, keeping close to the wall.
"If you can speak to him so easily," Sol said, "teach him to untie the rope himself."
Erich waved him off and continued on. Sol went around the cans but feared going further. "That butcher comes out and finds you with his dog, he'll chop you up instead," he whispered.
"You want me just to let Bull be someone's dinner?"
The comment caught Solomon so off guard that he consciously closed his mouth. He hadn't thought about the reality. Maybe Erich's right, he thought. Maybe I am smart yet stupid.
He ran to help his friend.
"Hurry up!" he whispered, as Erich fumbled with the knot. Erich bundled the dog into his arms and raced back toward the street. Sol looked at the thin rope...at the chicken cages.
He tied one end of the rope to the shop door and the other to the crates, which he unlatched but did not open. When the butcher opened the shop door, he would free the chickens himself. Life--and death--must go on, but perhaps having to chase after his chickens would make him think twice about stuffing so many into a cage.
Besides, Sol thought, why should only the dog go free?
CHAPTER FOUR
"This is crazy," Sol said, looking at the puppy Erich held wrapped in a piece of old blanket they had found in another alley. "We'll get...caught."
He had started to say scolded, but knew it would spark Erich's always-sarcastic laughter. What did a scolding matter, when a puppy was at stake?
His back against the tobacco shop, Erich craned his neck and peered in through the door's window. "Your papa's busy with a customer. I can't see anyone else inside," he whispered.
"What if they're in the cellar?"
"They're probably over at the apartment. Go on, now. Do what we planned."
"What you planned," Sol said morosely, but opened the door. The bell jangled. Smiling deferentially to his father, he stepped inside. He did his best to block the view between the door and the curtain that led to the cellar stairs. Jacob Freund was busy showing a derby-hatted man a silver cigar-guillotine. He did not look toward the boys as Erich stole in behind Sol and disappeared behind the curtain.
Child of the Light Page 2
