In truth, he really wanted to ask when they would be going back to the farm.
Back on the farm, Mykhail coped with his best friend being taken away from him by going fishing whenever he could. Alone.
It didn’t seem right.
And the fish stayed away.
The boys had lived next to each other on the farm since birth, and had seen each other every day of their lives. They were brothers in all but blood.
Warsaw, Poland, 1936
To Asher, the noisy, bustling city of Warsaw was such a different world that it might as well have been another planet. He hadn’t even visited the big towns and cities of Ukraine, although he’d heard stories and seen photographs of the huge buildings and wide streets. But now he was on a sidewalk in a city that was, according to his papa, bigger than any in Ukraine.
Yes, he’d asked questions on the journey, but now he was too absorbed by the sights and sounds to even speak. When he looked up he saw so many buildings—some taller than the tallest tree he’d ever seen. And the number of people . . . well, there were just so many of them he was almost dancing left and right to avoid them.
Then there was the noise. People were talking and laughing, shoes cracked and scraped against concrete, doors squealed open and slammed shut, musicians played on street corners. The sound of a horn made him jump, and he turned to see a car. Yes, it was a car—a real motor car. Asher had only ever seen one in pictures before, and knew it worked a little like a tractor.
And when they eventually reached their destination the noise didn’t stop; it was always there in the background, as if it would be there forever.
“You’ll get used to it,” his papa said.
The apartment, one floor up, was basic and less roomy than the farmhouse, but felt warmer. The main room had a kitchen area on one side and a table and chairs in the other. There were two small bedrooms, one for the parents and one for the children—although they were hardly children anymore. The window of the main room looked out over a large square. Asher was mesmerized by the view at first; he’d never seen so many people in one place before, all rushing in every direction. Where are they all going, and why? he would ask himself.
Asher’s mama placed a few pictures and ornaments around the apartment, and Aunt Freida came over from the north of the city to welcome the family.
The day after that, Asher was enrolled in a school.
For the first week, his instinct was to run for cover whenever he heard a car approach, and he felt the tall buildings all around closing in on him, squeezing his spirit. He wondered why there were no fields or wide-open meadows, only buildings and concrete.
And he missed the fishing.
But he went to school and learned Polish, mathematics, and some science. The latter turned out to be his favorite subject. Every day he would return home enthused by a new fact about electricity or magnetism or how metals react to changes in temperature.
His mama would usually reply with something like, “That’s very interesting, Asher, but did you make any new friends?”
On the first few occasions Asher simply ignored the question, but then he started replying that of course he’d made friends. A few random names would pass his lips, and that would do the trick; his mama would smile and say she was pleased for him.
A few weeks after their arrival, his papa’s words—that he would get used to living in Warsaw—were starting to come true. Yes, he was getting used to it, but he was getting used to being away from home.
One day, in class, a fellow schoolboy asked him where he was from.
“A farm,” he replied. “In Dyovsta.”
The boy shook his head. “Never heard of it. But I went to a farm once, it was like paradise. You must miss it.”
Asher had to think for a few seconds to remember, but yes, he did miss it. He wondered whether Mykhail had gone fishing that day, and pictured him resting on a riverbank in the Ukrainian countryside with only sweet birdsong and the babbling of water to disturb the peace.
That evening, while his mama was cooking, Asher lingered in the kitchen end of the main room, occasionally glancing at her.
“What is it?” she said. “You want to eat before everyone else?”
“When will we be visiting the farm again, Mama?”
“In time,” she said. “I promise.”
“Can Mykhail come visit us?”
She wiped her hands and pulled a chair out from the table. “Why don’t you write and ask him?”
“Write?”
“We can buy paper and envelopes. You can tell him what this place is like, and ask him to write back and tell you what’s happening on the farm.”
Asher thought for a moment, his mouth twitching into a nervous smile. “I’d like that.”
“Good boy.” She hugged him, and held him close for longer than he really expected.
Asher wrote many letters in the months that followed, but also kept asking his parents when they would be returning to the farm.
He never got the answer he wanted, and eventually stopped asking.
He also gave up asking his mama whether there were any letters for him. Perhaps Mykhail didn’t miss him. Yes, that was it. He’d probably made new friends in Dyovsta.
So Asher stopped writing, and, in time, strangers became friends, the apartment became a home of sorts, and the noise, bustle, and traffic of Warsaw belonged to Asher as much as anyone else. His papa got a job hauling flour around on a cart for the local bakery, Keren and Rina got jobs in factories, and Asher got on with his schooling.
Also, there was money. Paying for anything—but especially food—felt strange to young Asher, but his parents kept saying that even after paying for food, there was still money left over. And with that came visits to the theater, books, occasionally a toy—even a soccer ball for Asher and his new friends to play with.
Perhaps he had found a new home after all.
Chapter 3
Interview room 2, Zone One Police Station, Pittsburgh, August 2001
Diane Peterson tried to summon up a little fury to inject into her voice. It wasn’t something she was accustomed to doing, but this wasn’t a normal situation. She’d asked Detective Durwood twice already, and although he hadn’t reacted negatively to her request, he hadn’t really reacted positively either. She was used to these obfuscating, delaying, and damned irritating tactics from her father—by God she was used to that. But that would no longer happen, which was the point. So she leaned forward across the table, took a wavering breath, and put the words out there with a deliberate emphasis on every syllable.
“I need to see him,” she said.
Detective Durwood looked up from his folder of notes and flicked his eyes across to the clock on the wall, an action that made Diane say, “Well?”
He sighed. “We’re going around in circles. Like I told you before, I can understand your reaction, I really can. It’s pretty common.”
“You’re right, we are going around in circles. So let’s stop right now. Just arrange it, okay? Just let me know when I can see him.”
“What exactly do you expect to get out of it?”
“Only the truth.”
“Well, Diane, we—”
“Less of the Diane. To you, it’s ma’am—or better still, Ms. Peterson.”
“All right. I’m sorry. But we already know the truth.”
“Do you really? Do you know the complete truth? I knew them both, remember, and from where I stand I’d say no, you only think you do.”
The detective glanced down at his notes again. “With respect, we got a whole bunch of evidence and we got a confession, and—”
“You know the what. That’s not all the truth. I need to know the why. Look, I didn’t want to spring this on you, but I know it’s part of my rights. I think it’s called the Restorative Justice program. Isn’t that correct?”
He whipped off his glasses and peered at her. “Well, of course there is that, but you have to remember that the primary
aim of Restorative Justice in this state isn’t so much to satisfy families of victims. It’s to facilitate the rehabilitation of offenders by showing them the consequences of their actions.”
“And so?”
A smirk—perhaps unconscious, Diane thought—appeared on his face. “The guy’s seventy-eight. At that age, there will be no rehabilitation.” The last five words were spoken with an air of finality.
“Detective, you don’t know me, and you didn’t know my father. So let me explain something. I’m forty-eight. I’ve lived with him since forever, apart from a few months when I lived with my mother. Sure, there were times when I wanted to leave him to his own devices—to go off and marry and have a family of my own. But I didn’t. He was just going to be a lonely old man without me, and I enjoyed the precious time I had with him. I loved my father.”
“Like I said, it’s understandable for you to feel bad about what happened to him. It’s normal.”
“I don’t give a damn about normal, and that’s not the point I’m making here. And if you think I’m normal, you couldn’t be more wrong. Oh, I enjoyed the time I had with him, but I didn’t exactly grow up into an average, well-adjusted adult. My father took care of everything he could so that I didn’t have to trouble myself with the mundane things in life. But there was a price, and that price is that I’ve spent most of my adult life like a . . . almost like a mouse, not arguing my case and standing up for myself.”
He nodded, clearly trying to be solemn in the face of her anger. He’d probably been trained for it.
Diane continued. “But I just can’t be the person I was anymore—the person my father wanted me to be. And that’s because you’ve got his corpse lying on a slab. Now, I want to know why it’s on that slab and not in his easy chair listening to the damned music he loved so much. I want to know exactly what happened that night and why—or as much as I can find out from that man you have in the cell. And if I have to go over your head and take legal action to get my rights, I can promise you I will. I won’t give up, Detective Durwood.”
“All right.” The detective nodded slowly. “Okay. I was only trying to prevent you from upsetting yourself further, but if that’s the way you feel . . .”
“It most certainly is.”
“In that case, legal action won’t be necessary. As you say, it’s your right, and I think you’d win if we contested the case. I honestly can’t see what you stand to gain from a situation like this, but if that’s what you want, we’ll arrange it.”
Diane exhaled a calming breath. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”
He grimaced, raising an eyebrow suggestively.
“What?” she said. “Is there something else?”
“Actually . . . Well, he seemed delirious, sort of gabbing away about how you two have some sort of bond.”
“Bond?”
“Something in common. Do you know anything about that?”
Diane was taken aback for a moment. “Uh, nothing. We have nothing at all in common, except that he knew my father. He stayed over at the house plenty of times, almost like he was my uncle. But I can promise you, other than that we have absolutely nothing in common.”
“Is he . . . going senile?”
“God, no. He’s sharp, believe me.”
“I have to admit, that’s what our guys say too. Anyhow . . . we’ll be in touch, although it might take a couple days.”
“Not a problem. I can wait.”
They exchanged polite smiles and got to their feet.
“And I’m sorry,” Diane said. “I didn’t mean to be forceful.”
“Oh, of course not.”
“No, really. I didn’t. I’m sure you’d be just the same if it happened to you. I just need to meet and talk with the man who left a big bullet hole in my father’s head.”
Chapter 4
Warsaw, Poland, 1937
The months flew by, but a part of Asher still longed for the wide-open spaces of the farm, the toil that seemed to give such satisfaction, and the lazy afternoons fishing with Mykhail. Yes, he told his parents that he was looking forward to leaving school and perhaps getting a job working with his papa, but although Warsaw was a home of sorts, it didn’t feel like home, and he still wasn’t sure whether the friends he’d made at school were anything more than acquaintances.
One Saturday afternoon, late in the summer of 1937, when a hazy sun was doing its utmost to brighten up the dust-lined streets, Papa told everyone to put their coats on.
Asher looked at him closely. Papa had a broad smile and his shoulders were high and proud as he handed the coats out.
“It’s been a good week,” he said. “Today we’re having a treat.”
Asher was the only one not to get out of his seat.
“Come on,” Papa said to him. “We’re going to Baran’s.”
“Baran’s?” Keren said, her face almost alight with joy. “Really?”
“I don’t want to go,” Asher said.
“You know what Baran’s is, don’t you?” Papa replied.
“No, but I don’t want to go.”
“You don’t know what it is, but you don’t want to go? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Leave the boy alone, Hirsch,” Mama said.
While Papa sucked air through his teeth and shook his head, Mama handed Asher his coat.
“Asher, please,” she said. “Café Baran is one of the best cake shops in all Warsaw. They have delicious food there—food we haven’t even heard of.”
“What sort of food?”
“Well, like . . .”
“She doesn’t know,” Rina chipped in. “She hasn’t heard of it.”
A few subdued laughs filled the room, and Rina took Asher’s hand, pulling him up and out of his chair.
“Come on,” she said. “I’ve heard things about this place, and you’re not going to stop me going.”
“It’s a treat,” Papa said to him. “They have cakes and desserts to make your mouth sing with joy—so I hear. And I won’t be taking you there often, so make the most of it.”
Mama pulled Asher close and kissed him full on the temple, leaving a wet mark. He pushed her away, both of them giggling.
“Ah, my baby’s growing up. He doesn’t want his mama’s attentions.”
Then Keren closed in. “Or his sister’s either.” She, too, went to kiss him, exaggerating her pout.
He was now fending off both of them, as well as his own laughter, which was coming loose and loud. He could also see Rina, waiting at the door, her coat already on, tutting at the scene, although she afforded herself a barely hidden smile.
“More kisses unless you agree to come,” Keren said.
“Okay, okay,” Asher said. He grabbed the coat his papa was holding out. “I guess I am hungry.”
“Good,” Papa said. “Now, let’s stop playing around and get going. It’s popular and the tables fill up quickly on a Saturday.”
Asher could hear the sound even as they turned the corner of the street, and it was as if he could hear nothing else as the Kogans approached Café Baran. Never mind the café and its cakes; that music was caressing his ears, soothing his soul. He almost stumbled as they all sidled past the people sitting outside the café and soaking up the sunshine. Then he did stumble, because he realized the music was coming from inside the café.
“We’re here,” Papa said. He lifted his hands up to draw attention to the red-and-white-striped awning above them. “This is it. Café Baran.”
Asher looked again at the people sitting outside the café. They were silent, some reading books or newspapers, one or two writing letters, and others simply closing their eyes and turning their faces up to the sun. All were listening and would occasionally sip from cups or use forks to pop morsels of cake into their mouths. But there was no talk and it seemed everyone knew why. The café and its environs were bathed in a calming wave of violin music. It was jaunty and tuneful, provoking feet to tap and heads to dip in time along with the meter, but at t
he same time calming.
“Come on, Asher,” Papa said. “Let’s see if we can find a free table.”
Inside the café, one or two conversations carried on regardless, although many people simply gazed toward the corner, where a lone girl, her neck contorted to press her chin against her violin as though she cared deeply for it, smiled sweetly as she drew the bow back and forth, back and forth.
Asher gazed too. In Dyovsta there had been no music. This was a language he found hard to understand. There was no meaning, it was of no material use to anyone, but it was mesmerizing. So he, too, gazed, unable to take his attention away from the girl’s face and the way she stroked the strings.
“Asher!” Papa said, as if not for the first time. He was pointing to a table, where the rest of the family were settling down. “You go sit down. I’ll order.”
Asher still couldn’t speak, but nodded his agreement and eased himself slowly into a chair so he could continue watching the violinist. He hardly noticed when Papa sat next to him a few minutes later.
Soon, a large pot of coffee and five small cups were brought to the table, followed by a three-tiered tray of cakes. They were so carefully arranged—and precariously balanced—that for a few moments Asher was distracted before turning away again.
“Face the front,” Mama said to him.
That was easy for her to say. She, Rina, and Keren had chosen the best seats—those facing the violinist—and if he was to face the table he wouldn’t be able to see the girl at all. So he sat with his belly against the table and his neck twisted to one side.
“Don’t these look delicious, Asher?” Mama said, forcing him to face her.
“We didn’t have anything like this in Dyovsta,” Papa said.
The mention of Asher’s birthplace finally broke the spell, and he started perusing the cakes with more interest.
“Look,” Keren said, her finger pointing and moving along the selection as she spoke. “Poppy cake, iced donuts, plum cheesecake, gingerbread, tree cake. And is that coffee cream cake? Is that chocolate wafer cake?”
Beyond the Shadow of Night Page 3
