The dark coffee was poured, the cakes were selected, and the Kogans settled back to eat and to listen. The cakes disappeared five at a time, and soon Keren was asking Asher what he wanted to do now he’d left school, Mama was asking him whether he would keep in touch with the friends he’d made there, and conversation moved on to how work was going for Keren and Rina. Throughout all of that, Asher struggled to pay attention over the beauty of the music.
“Can we come here again?” Asher said to Papa as they were leaving.
Papa puffed his chest out. “Oh . . . ah . . . we can’t afford it too often; it’s only a treat now and then.” He checked himself, narrowing his eyes. “I thought you didn’t want to come here?”
“Well . . . I . . .” Asher struggled for a moment, recovering to say, “It’s better than I thought. Nice cakes.”
Papa glanced over to the girl still effortlessly playing the violin in the corner, then raised one eyebrow at Asher. “Mmm, yes,” he said with a crooked smile.
The Kogans made a point of going to Café Baran on special occasions. That was good of Mama and Papa. Asher didn’t stare at the violinist girl quite as much as he had the first time, but still enjoyed the music. For a boy stuck in a homesick groove, every visit was encouragement—a reminder that there were some good things about Warsaw, some things he would miss if he ever left.
In time, he started work helping Papa at the bakery, and, like Rina and Keren, had to give his pay to Papa. But no sooner had he started work than the working hours for all the family started to reduce, and with them the pay. Asher never understood why, and kept asking Papa when they would go again to Café Baran. Papa said they could no longer afford it, so he asked Mama, who told him to ask his papa.
Instead, Asher resorted to lone walks to the café. He worked out that if he stood across the street, just past Friedman the greengrocer, directly opposite the café, he could make out the slim but shapely figure of the violinist, and also just about hear her music.
The greengrocer would occasionally appear and tell him to move along, which made him run home in embarrassment. He would usually have composed himself by the time he arrived, although if he tried hard enough he could still sense the joy of the music, and picture the girl and her smile.
Dyovsta, Ukraine, 1939
Three years had now passed since Asher left the farm, and, as Mykhail’s papa had predicted, harvests had grown year on year.
“And it’s all down to you and your new tractor machine,” his papa would say.
But Mykhail’s day-to-day life on the farm hadn’t changed much, for the cycle of seasons was a constant, requiring much the same attention every year. The vocation wasn’t exactly dynamic, but there was a never-ending amount of physical work involved. He would help his papa with plowing, sowing, and harvesting, as well as fencing areas off and dealing with pests. It was hard work, but it was also boring.
They rented out the larger farmhouse for money, but did all the work themselves; Papa said it was better to save money rather than pay people to do work the Petrenkos could do themselves. Papa also said that if Mykhail did the work, then he would learn how to run the farm, which was much more useful than anything he could ever learn at “that schooling place.”
By now, schoolwork and farm duties were leaving little time for fishing trips, and besides, it just wasn’t the same on your own. Mykhail would still often think of the day, three years before, when his papa had told him the Kogans were leaving and the Petrenkos were the new owners of the farm. Those three years had been ones where friendships were fluid and loyalties anything but fixed.
During that time, he’d finished attending the government school his papa derided so much, but had kept two best friends from his schooldays. Taras was a studious but humorous sort, whereas bullish Borys reminded Mykhail more of his papa.
One day, while he and Papa were out on the tractor at the far end of the farmland, they stopped to eat the midday meal Mama had packed for them. Mykhail casually mentioned the idea of traveling.
“Traveling?” Papa said between mouthfuls. “Why would you want to travel? Everything you need is on this farm. Well, here or in the village.”
Mykhail didn’t reply to that.
His papa tried again: “So . . . where exactly are you thinking of traveling to?”
“I’m not sure. Probably west.”
“You mean Germany? Austria?”
Mykhail shrugged. “And Poland.”
Papa chewed for a few moments, then said, “You mean Warsaw. You want to see your old friend, Asher, don’t you?”
“I’m just interested to learn what’s become of him. What’s wrong with that?”
“Oh, nothing. But, Warsaw? I mean . . . surely you’ve heard?”
“Heard what?”
“The city has become a cesspit. Too many undesirables in one place.”
“That’s hardly Asher’s fault. He was my best friend. And I’d like to go to other countries too, honestly I would.”
Papa tutted. “Those schoolbooks have given you some strange ideas, Mykhail. What’s wrong with staying here?”
The boy shrugged shoulders that had grown melon-shaped with hard work. “I’m not saying it’s wrong, just perhaps . . .”
“Perhaps what?”
“Perhaps it’s not what I want. Perhaps I have ambition.”
His papa laughed. “Ambition? What’s ambition?”
“Papa, I’m not sure I want to spend my life here on this farm, sowing, plowing, and harvesting—just doing the same thing year in, year out.”
“So, who would do these things, if not you?”
“If not me?” Mykhail said tentatively, leaning his body away from his papa. “Well, if I had any brothers or sisters . . .”
“Well, you don’t. We . . . ah . . . we just have to accept that.”
“I remember asking you a few years ago why I have no brothers or sisters. You just said it was something I shouldn’t worry about.”
“Yes.”
“But I’m a man now, aren’t I?”
Papa looked him up and down. “Perhaps a little more growing to do, some filling out, but a fine figure of a young man nonetheless.”
“So tell me now, Papa. Why am I an only child?”
The breath from his papa’s long sigh swirled in the strong rays of the midday sun. Even after that, it was a while before he answered. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s not worth talking about.”
Mykhail disagreed, and opened his mouth to say so, eventually choosing to take a large bite of stuffed pancake instead.
In August, Mykhail’s plans to travel were thrown into disarray.
He was vaguely aware of events to the west, where Germany had been “assisting” other countries with their social problems, but everyone he spoke to said it was stuff and nonsense that wouldn’t affect Ukraine.
One day, they’d all just sat down at the dinner table when Papa spoke.
“Interesting news today,” he said.
“Interesting good or interesting bad?” Mama said.
Papa pondered for a while and muttered, “I’m not sure anyone can answer that question yet. But you know how we’ve all been worried about Germany lately?”
Mykhail and Mama nodded.
“Well, it seems our Russian masters have made peace with them.”
“But isn’t that a good thing?” Mykhail said.
“I’m not sure. They call it a non-aggression pact.”
“What’s wrong with that? Doesn’t it stop Germany invading us?”
“Who knows?” Papa replied.
“What do you mean?”
Papa wagged a finger at him. “I’ve said it many times: never trust the Russians. Only a few months ago Stalin was talking to the British and the French about guaranteeing Poland’s independence should Germany feel like walking into the country. Now he turns the other way. Ha!”
“Dmytro,” Mama said. “Please. No politics at the dinner table.”
“
Sorry,” Papa said.
Mykhail thought about his travel plans, and how this news made it less likely—or even impossible—that he would travel. He was about to say as much when Mama spoke.
“Who knows the mind of a politician?” she said. “All we can do is wait and see.” She pointed to the steaming bowls of borsch and dumplings. “Wait and see, and eat.”
And so they ate.
Warsaw, Poland, 1939
Asher had now put his farm days firmly behind him and changed—matured, he liked to think. That was probably why he knew something was seriously wrong. Like any family, there had been petty squabbles before, but this was different; he could sense it from the way his parents and sisters spoke. One-word answers to questions. No humor. No cheer. The only joy he got these days was from his secret visits to Café Baran, where the violinist had by now become more a woman than a girl. He’d also noticed the café wasn’t as busy as it used to be. But the music was just as beautiful.
And there were more changes.
Warsaw was itself changing. More accurately, many of the people of Warsaw were changing.
It had been slow and gradual, but many of those who at first had welcomed Asher and his family to the city now crossed the street rather than talk to them. Asher spoke to these people—usually nothing more than a “Good morning” or “Hello”—but the reply was often a perfunctory smile or simply nothing at all. So Asher knew something was wrong, but didn’t want to trouble his parents; at sixteen he was no longer a little boy, so he needed to take care of any problems himself.
But then, one day in August, his papa came home seemingly in a daze, staggering into the apartment.
All the children noticed, but they looked to their mama to voice their concerns.
“What is it, Hirsch?” She stepped over to him as he eased himself into a chair. “Is something wrong? Tell me.”
He stared ahead. “My old friend, Mr. Petrenko, was right all along.”
“Right?” She screwed her eyes up in confusion. “Right about what?”
“He always used to say we should never trust the Russians.”
They all gathered around him as he continued.
“The bakery had a visit today from the police. They told the manager to . . . make plans.”
“Plans?”
“Put his affairs in order for events to come.” He glanced at all their faces before he spoke again. “The Soviet Union and Germany are now allies.”
Mama frowned. “And so?”
“Well, the Germans have done a lot of wandering lately. The hope was that the shadow of Russia would put them off wandering into Poland. Now the two countries are more likely to help each other.” He looked at his children again, and Asher saw creases on his papa’s face that hadn’t been there before.
Then Rina spoke up. “But didn’t you hear the news, Papa? It was on the radio. Britain and France have guaranteed Poland’s independence.”
He snorted a laugh. “I know. That’s the worrying part.”
“I don’t understand,” Mama said.
“Herr Hitler has designs on Poland. At least, that’s what the great and the good of the country think. Why would Britain and France take such action if that threat was unrealistic? No, it means it’s more likely.”
Mama thought for a moment before speaking again. “So, what are the great and the good of the country doing about this threat?”
He shrugged. “Preparing the army to defend us, I guess.”
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”
“Mmm . . . I’m not so confident. Everyone knows we have cavalry and they have tanks. It will be horses’ hooves powered by muscle versus metal tracks powered by ruthlessness.”
That seemed to silence everyone.
Chapter 5
Warsaw, Poland, 1939
News of the pact between Germany and the Soviet Union cast a gray cloud over the Kogan household, leaving little appetite for conversation. By the first day of September, however, the mood was starting to improve.
“Perhaps it won’t happen,” Mama said as they all sat down to breakfast. “You know what these things are like, the big men with their big egos rattling their big sabers at each other.”
“You keep saying that,” Papa replied. “And you shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s tempting fate.”
“But surely if anything was going to happen it would have—”
“Let’s just eat.”
“I’m sorry. Yes. Let’s eat.”
They ate.
“Why not tell us all how you’re doing at work?” Papa asked his daughters.
Before they could answer, there was a knock at the door.
Papa tutted and got up. “At this early hour?” He opened the door, stepped outside, and shut it behind him.
“Let’s just carry on as normal,” Mama said. “How are we all?”
But nobody replied, all the better to hear the voices outside.
“Come on,” Mama said. “It’s rude to listen to other people’s conversations.”
“Is Asher going to start work soon?” Rina asked.
Mama nodded. “Your papa’s trying to get him a job at the bakery. But there’s uncertainty. We don’t know—”
She stopped talking as the door opened, and they all watched Papa come back to the table, shuffling slowly, head bowed, like a man ten years his senior. He sat down, his pale face clear for all to see—until he buried it in the palms of his hands.
“What is it?” Mama asked him.
He spoke in a sluggish, despondent tone. “That was someone I work with. There are rumors.”
“Rumors?”
“More than rumors. A few hours ago, German forces came over the border.”
Mama laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder. She silently tried to usher the children away, but they stayed where they were.
“I’m not moving,” Rina said. “I want to know what’s happening.”
“And I’m almost twenty,” Keren said. “I should know too.”
Asher kept quiet, hoping nobody would argue.
Papa looked at them all in turn. “I’m sorry,” he said, as though dragging the words out. “There isn’t much to know.”
“Surely our forces are fighting them off?” Mama said.
He shook his head. “There are a lot of German soldiers—far too many for the Polish army to cope with. They have tanks and much better ammunition too. I don’t know any more than that.”
“What are we going to do?” Rina asked.
Papa shrugged and shook his head.
“We can wait and see,” Mama said. “It might not be all that bad. You know these politicians. Always full of surprises. Perhaps they could come to some agreement.”
Papa exhaled between tightly clasped teeth. “Now that really would be a surprise.”
“So, what shall we do?” Asher said.
His papa thought for a few seconds. “For now, we carry on as normal. Mama cooks, cleans, and looks after us all, and we go to work as long as we have jobs.” He held his head up. “Other than that, we eat, we talk, and we listen to the radio if we have time. But most of all, we pray.”
Breakfast continued, but coughs, grunts, and the clinking of cutlery on crockery easily outgunned the sound of conversation. Still no words were spoken as Papa, Keren, and Rina went to their rooms to get ready for work. When they left, there were kisses and embraces, but still very few words beyond pleasantries.
Mama cleared the table and washed up in silence, while Asher fetched one of his books to read. Then she sat down next to him with a cup of water. But she said nothing, just stared out of the window. This wasn’t the mama Asher knew.
“How far away is the border?” he said.
There was no answer.
“Mama?”
She shook her thoughts from her head. “I’m sorry, my son. Did you say something?”
“How far away is the border? And how long will it take for t
he Germans to reach Warsaw?”
She gave him a wistful, almost pitying look before replying. “Oh, we should have a few days of peace at the very least.” Her eyes seemed to be sagging a little. Like Papa, she looked older than she had done just the day before. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
“What for?” Asher said with a puzzled frown. “It’s not your fault.”
“Mmm . . .” She grimaced as she tilted her head from side to side.
“Don’t feel bad, Mama.” Asher placed his arm around her shoulders.
That brought a rare smile to her lips. “Oh, I know there’s always hope.” She reached across for her cup. “Let’s not be too pessimistic, there might—”
She stopped talking and stared at Asher, her face bloodless. As the distant drone got louder she looked up at the ceiling. Asher wanted to look up too, but couldn’t drag his eyes away from his mama’s face.
Then there was a whistle. Then another.
For Asher, it all seemed to happen slowly, and then again all in one panicked moment, as the noise washed over him and left a residue of acute awareness.
Mama gasped and dropped the cup. It shattered, but that didn’t matter. They both felt the floor shake, the whole apartment block jolting as if thumped by the fist of the devil. Asher heard Mama scream and felt her holding on to him, squeezing him tightly in wild desperation.
The door opened, the handle cracking carelessly against the wall behind. Asher heard more screaming. Keren and Rina ran in, followed by Papa.
“They told everyone to go back home,” Papa said. “Told us we should prepare for—”
The building shook again. For a second, all five of them stared open-mouthed out of the window, to where pockets of dust flew into the air from building after building. The few people who remained on the streets scattered like frightened mice, and the scene reminded Asher of when Mama used to bake and she dropped raisins into flour, each one exploding in a white puff. What he was witnessing hardly seemed real. No, it couldn’t be real. How could strong, solid buildings be blown apart so easily?
He looked up at the skies, at the flying tractors he’d heard about but never seen, at the machines that sowed destruction rather than seeds.
Beyond the Shadow of Night Page 4
