Beyond the Shadow of Night Page 9

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Asher only nodded, unable to put his thoughts into words.

  The music stopped. She removed the violin from under her chin and reached her arms out and back a few times to ease cramps.

  “Don’t I know you?” she said.

  Asher’s throat dried in an instant, as if a gust of wind had thrown a handful of sand into the workings. He tried to gulp, but his muscles wouldn’t obey.

  He turned and fled, only slowing to walking pace when he was a few streets away. By the time he got home he was cursing himself for being so weak. Izabella had talked to him and him alone. The vision of beauty had spoken—not to a group of people, with him somewhere among them, but to him. He’d had the opportunity to talk and had run away.

  “Are you all right, Asher?” his papa asked when he sat down at the table.

  “Fine. Why?”

  “Oh, you seem a little agitated. Nothing happened to you out there today, did it?”

  Asher looked downward and shook his head, too embarrassed to tell the truth.

  “And do you have the coin?”

  “What coin?” was all he could say in reply, his stomach turning with the fear of being found out.

  “When we separated, you had a coin. Where is it?”

  “I . . . I don’t know what you mean, Papa.”

  “But it was there in your cap. I saw it.”

  “Well . . . I think I lost it. The rain got heavier and I had to put my cap back on. I must have dropped it or flung it away. I’m sorry, Papa.”

  His papa took ten seconds or so to react. Asher expected some serious scolding; instead, his papa looked him in the eye and said, “No matter. Money isn’t much use anyway; there’s nothing to buy.”

  Asher sensed his body relaxing at the words; his papa was starting to become indifferent, which was disappointing, but lucky in this instance. Somehow that made Asher stronger, as if he were now gearing up to become the man of the house. And the strength made him vow to see Izabella again the next day. And to speak to her this time.

  The following morning, Asher was out on the streets again with new determination. The begging was secondary; all his effort was aimed at ensuring he got to the far eastern edge of the walled sector at some stage. Three times he suggested to his papa that they should split up; on the third occasion there was agreement, and Asher was off with little more than a goodbye.

  Today was a little brighter, the warmth more in keeping with the summer morning it was, and somehow the music traveled more easily, audible from well before where Asher had first heard it the previous day. He hurried along and found her again, occupying the same spot as before.

  This time Izabella stopped playing as soon as she saw him. “Hello again,” she said, taking the chance to rest her arms.

  Asher gulped, his mind as featureless as the concrete wall beyond Izabella. Her smile, full and sensuous, was like a snake charmer’s music, numbing his mind and body.

  “Last night I remembered where I’d seen you before,” she said. “You came into the café, didn’t you? You helped Papa repair it after the bombing.”

  Asher nodded, then approached her, still not knowing what to say, but at the same time burdened by a head full of questions that seemed too impolite to ask.

  “I need to carry on playing,” she said, bringing the violin up to rest on her shoulder and drawing bow across strings.

  And again, Asher realized the moment God had created for him to speak had come and gone; he couldn’t possibly disturb her while she was playing.

  He listened for thirty seconds or so, secretly cursing himself but also every bit as mesmerized as he’d been the first time he saw her.

  Then the violin squawked and the bow fell down, one end bouncing on the dirt below, coming to rest at Asher’s feet. Izabella doubled up, coughing sharply.

  Asher picked up the bow and placed an arm around her shoulders. “Are you all right?” he said. “I’m sorry. Was it me? Did I put you off?”

  She shook her head, still coughing, a deep, bark-like sound coming from her as she convulsed again.

  “Let me take this,” he said, grabbing the neck of the violin.

  She resisted, holding on tightly even as she fought to breathe.

  Asher held firm too. “Really,” he said. “You can trust me. I’ve been in love with you ever since I first saw you at the café years ago, and your music too. I know exactly how much this violin means to you and I could listen to you playing it all day.”

  She coughed again, this time more lightly, then froze, looking up at him in a way that stirred something mysterious yet potent in him.

  She let go of the violin. “What did you say?” she asked.

  “I . . . I said I remember your music from the café. It’s beautiful. I assumed you were still there.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Because . . . the café . . . the cakes . . . I thought perhaps the Germans might . . .”

  Asher realized his thoughts converted to spoken words were ridiculous.

  “You think I’m less of a Jew than you? Is that it?”

  This was a different side to her. Her friendly smile and warm eyes faded away, leaving a fierceness Asher found puzzling but no less alluring.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know what to think. I was being stupid. I apologize.”

  She relented, the anger on her face subsiding as quickly as it had appeared.

  “But it was only wishful thinking. What’s become of the café if you and your parents are in the walled sector?”

  Izabella stilled herself for a few seconds. Asher could see her breathing in and out deeply and slowly, trying to calm herself or control something within. And then her face stiffened, a hand covered her eyes, and Asher saw wetness on her cheeks. A few seconds later, she’d grabbed the square piece of cloth, her violin and bow, and was scurrying away, wiping tears as she went. Before Asher could think what to say or do, she was out of sight.

  Asher didn’t do much talking that evening. Mama asked him over the family meal what was wrong. He hesitated, and Papa told her he was fine, that begging on the streets was hard work, that she shouldn’t worry.

  The next day, however, just after the two of them had left the house, Papa stopped at the edge of a small park and motioned for Asher to sit on one of the benches.

  “What is it, Asher? What’s wrong? You can tell me.” He left a pause for Asher to speak, but it went unfilled. “I know something happened yesterday. You didn’t say a word all evening.”

  Asher shook his head and said he didn’t know what his papa was talking about.

  Papa’s weary eyes didn’t move from his face. “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me.”

  “There’s nothing wrong. It’s just . . .” Asher let out a long sigh. “You can’t do anything to help, Papa.”

  “So there is something wrong.”

  “I . . . I saw Izabella yesterday.”

  “Oh.”

  A period of silence followed, both men staring straight ahead, watching the people trudging left and right along the street.

  “So you know about the Barans?” Papa said dolefully.

  Asher’s head jerked around. “What?” he snapped, immediately feeling a little fear and sadness. He’d never spoken to his papa with such aggression.

  Papa narrowed his eyes to slits. “What did she say to you?”

  “Nothing about her family. Why? What do you know?”

  “Mmm . . .” He sighed, then looked at Asher as though assessing him. “I didn’t want to tell you, and I haven’t told your mama or the girls. Earlier in the year I overheard a couple of neighbors talking about what happened. I knew one of them from the bakery, so I asked them. It’s not good news, Asher.”

  “Please. Tell me.”

  Papa nodded. “The Barans were told to leave, just like us. But Mrs. Baran said they’d not long ago repaired and reopened the café, that she’d put part of her life into the
place, that her husband had toiled for months to put right the damage German bombs had inflicted. She insisted she was going nowhere.”

  “And?”

  “There were arguments for a short time. Mr. Baran pleaded with her to give in, but she wouldn’t, perhaps thinking the guards would spare her. But one guard tried to drag her away, and she . . . she assaulted him.”

  “Oh, dear God. Did they . . . ?”

  Papa nodded. “It was merciless, but quick and painless, apparently.”

  “So, does Izabella live alone with her papa?”

  “Oh, they both came to the walled sector. But at the start of the year Mr. Baran caught a bad chest infection. I think his heart was already weakened by the stress of seeing his wife shot. He and Izabella slept together for warmth. She awoke one morning to find him dead, his arms still locked around her.”

  Asher stared at him in shock.

  “You understand why I kept it from you, don’t you, Asher? It’s . . . not very good for morale to know these things.”

  Asher nodded. “Yes. I understand. But what about poor Izabella? Where does she live?”

  “I don’t know. Possibly alone, possibly with another family.”

  “Could she live with us?”

  Asher saw pity in his papa’s eyes. “We’re already five living in one room. We . . . we can’t manage that. I’m sorry.”

  Later that evening, as the family gathered around the table to eat, Mama was quiet and reserved, going about the business of preparing the meal as usual but without the usual conversation.

  Everyone started eating—everyone except Mama.

  “Stop,” she said suddenly, her face pained. She glanced around the table, settling on Papa. “You need to tell me what’s happening,” she said. “I know you and Asher are up to something.”

  He shrugged. “Up to something? Up to what? I told you, it’s just been—”

  “Hirsch!” she shouted. “Tell me!”

  Asher exchanged a glance with his papa. He made his mind up to stay quiet, to let his papa decide how much to tell them.

  “Very well,” Papa said eventually, then he told them everything about the Barans that he’d told Asher earlier in the day.

  The news was met with the same shock Asher had experienced. He scanned the faces of his family. If he didn’t know before why his papa had kept the news to himself, he did now. Mama, Keren, and Rina couldn’t eat. It was up to Papa to persuade them to eat even if they didn’t feel like it, to remind them that they could do nothing to help. So, reluctantly, and in silence, they ate.

  “Well done,” Papa said when they’d finished. “I know it’s not easy to carry on, especially when there’s nothing we can do to help. But we have to think of the family unit. We have to put the five of us above all other considerations.”

  “Do we?” Rina said. “Do we really have to put ourselves above anyone else?”

  “We do,” Papa said before anyone else could speak. “Asher even asked whether she could come and live with us.” He glanced at Asher, who remained expressionless. “I had to say no. There’s hardly enough space for the five of us. We’re forever tripping over one another.”

  “We could invite her for a meal,” Rina said.

  Papa shook his head. “We don’t have enough food to go around.”

  “I wouldn’t mind sharing,” Asher said.

  “We can’t,” Papa insisted. “We have to think of ourselves—of our family.”

  “No, we don’t,” Rina said. “And I’ll go further. I pledge to give up a part of my next meal for Izabella. I’ll give up my whole meal for her if nobody else will. We can’t think only of ourselves. We simply can’t.”

  Mama brought the handle of her knife down sharply on the wooden table, making the others jolt in unison. “Stop this,” she said. “There will be no bickering at the dinner table. Asher, please invite Izabella here to break bread with us when you can. Rina, it won’t be necessary for you to give up your meal, we’ll cope somehow. Hirsch, do you have anything to say?”

  Papa kept his mouth shut and shook his head. He didn’t notice Asher struggling to contain his joy.

  Chapter 11

  Interview room 3, Allegheny County Jail, Pittsburgh, August 2001

  Diane took a seat at the bare table in the bare room.

  “Are you okay?” she said softly.

  He shrugged his skinny shoulders. “It’s jail. There are worse places.”

  “But I mean . . . are you keeping well? Is everybody treating you okay—your food and so on?”

  “It’s adequate.”

  “Good.” She nodded, conscious that this wasn’t how she wanted it to be at all. She’d as good as rehearsed what she was going to say—what she was going to demand of him. But now his familiar old face was here in front of her, it was different. “And are you taking care of yourself?” she said.

  He didn’t answer. Just blinked those watery eyes of his a little and looked down.

  “I’m really finding this hard,” Diane said, unveiling the smile she’d promised herself she would hide.

  “I know.” Now he looked straight ahead and at her. He didn’t return the smile. “Diane,” he said. “Please don’t feel under any obligation to be polite to me.”

  Diane’s smile turned to a scowl. Then she screwed her eyes up, trying to keep the tears at bay. A few forced their way through the roadblock and she quickly wiped them with the back of her hand.

  “Okay,” she said, now more firmly. “So tell me, what the hell happened between you and my father?”

  He glanced at the guard standing upright in front of the door like a big A and lowered his voice. “Diane, I never meant to cause you any distress. You do understand that, don’t you?”

  Her eyes took a while to rove over his face, all the way from his shiny head to the white beard. She hesitated, a force of habit, but this was different. The nature of their relationship, as a divorce lawyer might say, had changed significantly. She tried her best to keep her voice unsentimental and hard-edged. “Seeing as you ask,” she said, “no, I don’t understand. I don’t understand one single bit.”

  “I’m sure. I’m guessing you want an explanation.”

  “You and my father are best buddies for years, then you kill him. So yes, please, I think I deserve an explanation.”

  His mouth opened and shut a few times, but eventually the words came. “I’m not sure where to start, but the most important thing you should know is that none of this is your fault.”

  Diane cursed under her breath and ran her hand through her hair roughly.

  “Are you okay, Diane?”

  “No, of course I’m not okay. You killed my father. You killed the man who—” She broke off and gulped, trying to control the tears. She wiped her face again and took a deep breath. “The point is, if we’re not doing politeness, please don’t patronize me.”

  He nodded slowly, the tip of his white beard brushing against his orange jumpsuit. “I’ll try not to.”

  “I need to know why you did this. I mean, what the hell happened between you two? You and Father had been best friends for years, brothers in all but blood was always the joke.” She focused on his eyes, unsure whether age or sorrow was making them watery, but she told herself to ignore his reactions. “You were best buddies, and do you know, I can’t remember a cross word between the two of you. Ever.”

  “That’s true,” he said, sniffling. “There never was one. Not until last week.”

  “I just . . . I don’t understand. I want to, but I don’t. I guess that’s why I’m here. I need you to tell me. I need to understand it for my own benefit. What the hell was it all about? What was so bad that it made you do that to your best friend?”

  “You deserve an explanation, Diane. But I’m not sure how much to tell you.”

  “Jesus Christ,” she hissed. “Everything is the answer. I want to know everything.”

  “If I told you that, I think you might understand, but it would involve tellin
g you things you’d rather not know.”

  “Hey, let me be the judge of that.”

  “And I’m not sure your father would want you to know what we fell out over.”

  “I don’t care. I still want you to tell me everything.”

  “Everything . . . ? It’s a long story. Your father never told you about when we were kids growing up in Ukraine, did he?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Have you ever wondered why?”

  “I guess I’m wondering right now. Father’s gone, and I want to hear everything you have to say about him.”

  “Well . . .” He glanced once again at the guard. “I’ll explain it all to you the best I can. But it has to be you alone, and you must swear never to tell the authorities what I tell you. I’ll deny everything if you do.”

  Diane screwed her eyes up again, this time in confusion. “What the hell does that mean? What does it matter to you what the authorities know? You’re going to prison, and you’re going to . . . to . . .”

  “You can say it. I’m going to die in prison.”

  “Okay. You’re going to die in prison. There. Happy? Because I certainly am. You killed the man I loved. And you’re going to die in prison for it.”

  “It’s nice that you can say that about your father. We both know he wasn’t perfect.”

  “Excuse me?” Diane said.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. All I meant was that . . . Oh, I don’t know.”

  “And while I think of it, what’s all this crap about some sort of bond between you and me?”

  “Oh, you know about that.”

  “What the hell did you mean by it?”

  “Well . . .” He thought for a moment. “It’s hard to put into words. Something in common in our pasts, I guess.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Perhaps I’m being presumptuous.”