I know that I came here to study, and I am working very diligently at that. But I have never met a woman who has captivated me the way that Sarah Rivkah has. . . .
The doorbell rang, interrupting Jacob’s reading. He shuffled to the door, then out to the foyer, and finally managed to fumble open the outside lock. A gray-haired man in an odd-looking uniform stood on his doorstep. Experience in the old country had given Jacob an instinctive distrust of men in uniform. He opened the door a mere crack. “Yes?”
“Jacob Mendel?” the man asked. He looked too old to be in military service, and besides, the uniform was not the right color for any of the usual branches.
“Who is asking, please?”
“I’m Inspector Dalton from the fire marshal’s office.” He produced an identification badge and held it up to the crack. “I’m conducting the investigation into the fire at the synagogue across the street. I’m told that you went inside the building to rescue some scrolls, and I wondered if you would be willing to answer a few questions for me.”
“Yes, I suppose.” Jacob widened the crack a few more inches, letting in a swirl of cool night air. He would not invite the man to come inside. He wanted to be left alone.
“Could you tell me what you remember from last night – in your own words?”
Jacob frowned. Whose words would he use, if not his own? “I went for a walk – ”
“Do you recall what time you left home?”
“No, but it was after sunset. On my way back – ”
“How long were you gone?”
“I don’t know. I paid no attention to the time.”
“Okay, go on.”
“On my way back I saw smoke and flames in the rear of the shul, in the beit midrash and – ”
“Excuse me, I’m not familiar with those words.”
“The shul. You would call it the synagogue. And the beit midrash is the room in the back where we study. Where all the books are kept.”
“Thank you. Go on, please.”
“I was walking down the street, approaching the shul from the rear when I noticed the fire. I had just passed a cigar store a little ways back, and so I ran in there and told the clerk to call the fire department.”
Jacob paused. The man was writing everything down in a little notebook, and Jacob worried that he was talking too fast. But the inspector nodded without looking up and said, “Yes, continue please.”
“I looked around to see if there was a way I could throw water on the fire while I waited for the trucks to arrive, but there was nothing I could do. It was spreading too quickly. Then I realized the sacred Torah scrolls were going to burn and I could not allow that to happen. So I ran around to the front door – ”
“Why did you go to the front?”
“Why? Because the fire looked worse in the back, and besides, it is easier to get to the Aron Ha Kodesh – the place where the scrolls are kept – from the front door.”
“Weren’t you concerned for your own safety, entering a burning building?”
“I did not think; I simply reacted. It had to be done.”
“I understand that you were able to save the scrolls, Mr. Mendel. But you were injured in the process?”
“Yes.” He opened the door a scant inch wider and lifted his broken arm. “Some burns on my hands, I inhaled smoke, and I broke my arm when I fell.”
“How did you burn your hands?”
“How? . . . I don’t know how, exactly,” he said with a shrug. “I must have touched something hot. Everything happened very quickly.”
“I see. Is there anything else you can tell me about the fire? Anything else that you recall?”
Jacob shook his head. “No. That is all I know.” He wanted the man to leave. He didn’t want to remember the fire or think about the devastation to the shul he had once loved.
“Well, if you think of anything else, Mr. Mendel, please contact the fire marshal’s office.”
“Do they know how the fire began?”
“I couldn’t say. It’s still under investigation.”
Jacob pondered the inspector’s answer as he closed the door. Did it mean that they still weren’t sure or that he wasn’t allowed to tell? What if the fire had been deliberate, as his friend Meir seemed to think? Everyone knew that the Nazis had set fire to synagogues and Jewish businesses in Germany. And his son had described the hatred he’d experienced in Hungary – before his letters had stopped coming, that is. And while Jacob knew there were anti-Semites in America, surely they wouldn’t burn down a synagogue in Brooklyn or make every Jew wear a yellow star, would they?
He didn’t know the answers to these questions. Nor did he know how to push away his disquieting thoughts.
CHAPTER 7
ESTHER DIDN’T HEAR a word that the Sunday school teacher said. She used to love answering Mrs. Nevin’s questions and would be the first person with her hand in the air, but none of it seemed important anymore. Who cared what a bunch of people who lived a long time ago in a faraway land did and said? The stories had nothing to do with Esther. They couldn’t explain why everything in her life was swerving out of control like the car that had killed her mother. And as far as Esther could see, nothing in the Bible could tell her how to get her old life back again.
One week had passed since Daddy went away. It seemed like a year. They had skipped church last Sunday because it was the day after he’d left. During the week, Esther and Peter had stayed in their room every evening after school, avoiding Penny Goodrich. Esther hadn’t wanted to get dressed and come to church this week, either, but Penny had insisted.
“I promised your daddy that I would take you to church . . . and I know you don’t want to disappoint your daddy, do you? And besides, your grandma is expecting you for Sunday dinner afterward.”
So here they sat in Sunday school. Esther glanced at Peter and saw him staring vacantly into space, showing no more interest in the lesson than she did. He was supposed to be in a class with kids his own age, but ever since he had been old enough to attend Sunday school he had insisted on staying with Esther, refusing to leave her side. “Either he stays with me or we both go home,” she had told the superintendent that first day. Peter had been in her classes ever since.
“Well, our time is nearly up,” Mrs. Nevin was saying. “Does anyone have a question? Something to share?”
Esther raised her hand for the first time. “Our father went away to fight in the war last week.”
“My dad is fighting, too,” someone said.
“Yeah, so is mine.”
Esther raised her hand again. “Why do there have to be wars?”
The teacher removed her eyeglasses and cleaned them on a corner of her sweater. The tiny, prim woman had tightly curled hair that was so gray it looked blue. “Well, I’m sorry to say, Esther, that it’s because there are evil people in the world, and they have to be stopped.”
“Why doesn’t God just kill all the evil people himself? Why do our fathers have to do it?”
Mrs. Nevin’s pleasant smile faded. She wiped her glasses so vigorously, Esther thought the lens might pop out. “We don’t really have time today to – ”
A year’s worth of unanswered questions suddenly spilled over like boiling soup. Esther was sick and tired of holding them all inside and no longer cared what Mrs. Nevin or anyone else thought of her. “I want to know why people who never did anything wrong have to die, and meanwhile the bad people get to keep on living?”
The room went very still. Even the rowdy boys who usually whispered and snickered throughout the lesson sat as still as mannequins. “I’m not really sure,” Mrs. Nevin finally said, “but I think we should take a moment to pray for our loved ones who are off fighting.”
“Why?” Esther asked. “What good will prayers do? Everyone prayed that my mother would live after the car accident, but she died in the hospital.” Mrs. Nevin didn’t seem able to reply. “Even if we pray and pray,” Esther continued, “God doesn’t stop people fr
om dying, so what good does it do?”
“Everyone dies, Esther. But God promised that those of us who know Him will go to heaven to live with Him after we die.”
“Why does He need more people up in heaven? Didn’t you tell us that God owns the whole universe and all the stars and planets and things? Aren’t there already a bunch of angels up in heaven with Him?”
Mrs. Nevin walked over to Esther’s side and laid her hand on her shoulder. “I can’t answer your questions, dear. I’m so sorry – ”
“Well, who can?”
“Would you like me to ask Reverend McClure to visit you at home?”
Esther’s anger fizzled into the familiar darkness once again like the last dying burst of fireworks. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it does, dear. I’ll speak with the pastor right after the worship service, okay?”
“Don’t bother.”
Penny Goodrich was waiting for Esther and Peter in the church lobby, smiling and talking with everyone in her mile-a-minute way as if she had attended Esther’s church all her life. She hadn’t. Penny had never set foot in this church before. She didn’t belong here. “Why can’t you go to your own church?” Esther had asked her this morning as they boarded the bus.
Penny’s smile had wavered like a birthday candle in the wind. “Well . . . because your father wants you to keep going to your regular church. And I’m taking care of you now.”
The sight of Penny making herself at home here in church the same way she had made herself at home in the apartment made Esther furious. She hurried ahead into the sanctuary and plopped down in the pew so that Peter would have to sit in the middle beside Penny. Esther lowered her chin and stared at her shoes. The familiar sanctuary seemed like a different place for some reason.
She tried to remember what it had been like when she and Peter and Mama and Daddy used to come to church together. On the Sundays when it was Mama’s turn to play the piano they would sit up front in the very first pew, right behind Mama. Esther loved to watch her mother’s strong fingers dance across the keyboard. Mama had begun to teach Esther how to play, but now all the music had faded into silence.
The service lasted forever. Afterward, they walked over to Grandma Shaffer’s house for Sunday dinner. Penny said good-bye and went next door to eat dinner with her own parents. Grandma greeted Esther and Peter in her housecoat and slippers.
“There was no sense in fixing a big meal now that your father isn’t here to eat it,” she said. “I made beans and franks. You like that, don’t you?”
Esther shrugged. “I guess so.” She didn’t feel hungry.
It seemed very quiet without Penny’s endless, cheerful chatter. Grandma put the pot of food on the table and sat down with Esther and Peter, but she didn’t eat anything. She didn’t even have a plate or silverware in front of her. She seemed very sad. “What’s wrong?” Esther asked her.
“What do you think is wrong? All three of my boys are fighting in this terrible war, and I don’t know what in the world I’ll do if anything happens to them.”
Esther didn’t know what to say. She poked holes in her hot dog with her fork as Grandma’s parakeet chirped noisily in the background. “We got a letter from Daddy this week,” she finally said. “He told us that he has to sleep in a big room with lots of other men.”
“Yeah, he sent me a letter, too. It’s here somewhere, if you want to read it.” Grandma braced her hands on the table and got up to search through the endless piles of papers on her countertops.
“Never mind,” Esther said. “It’s probably the same as ours.”
Peter didn’t play his usual game of fetch with Woofer after lunch, even though the dog begged and begged, dropping her slimy ball at Peter’s feet and gazing up at him with her happy doggy smile and lolling tongue. Instead, they all sat in the crammed living room, listening to The Old Fashioned Revival Hour on the radio. Grandma’s house smelled stuffy and stale, like a closet full of old clothes that no one ever wore.
“Knock, knock,” Penny finally called through the back screen door. “Lunch all finished?”
Esther wove through the piles of junk to get to the door, relieved to see Penny. “Can we go home now?” she whispered.
Penny had filled two more shopping bags full of her things, and she lugged them to the bus stop. When the bus arrived, she set them down for a minute to help an elderly woman board the bus – then nearly left the bags behind. “I’m such a scatterbrain,” she fussed when they were safely on board.
The woman reached across the aisle to pat Penny’s hand. “Thank you for your kindness, dear. You don’t find very many young people who are kind these days, especially a pretty young lady like you.”
Esther made a face. Did the woman need glasses? Penny wasn’t pretty at all.
As soon as Esther stepped off the bus, she took off at a run, sprinting ahead of Penny and Peter all the way home and clambering up the stairs to their apartment. She had her own keys. Daddy had given them to her so she and Peter could let themselves into the apartment after school.
That evening after supper, Esther was reading a book in the living room when she heard Penny’s raised voice coming from the kitchen. “You’re not being very nice, Peter. When someone asks you a question, you’re supposed to answer it.”
Esther had never heard their mousy caretaker raise her voice before. She had spoken to them in a sickeningly sweet voice all week as if they were babies. Had Penny only pretended to be shy and nice all this time? Esther stuck a marker in her book and hurried to rescue her brother.
Penny gripped Peter’s arm as he struggled to get away. “No, wait. I want to know why you won’t talk to me. You’ve been ignoring my questions all week. I don’t want to write to your father, but – ”
“Don’t you dare touch my brother!” Esther grabbed Peter’s other arm, winning the tug-of-war as she yanked him away from Penny. He looked pale and frightened, but he didn’t cry out or make a sound. “Come on, Peter.” Esther pulled him upstairs to the bedroom they shared and slammed the door.
“Are you okay?” she asked. He nodded.
“What was Penny so mad about?” He stared at her, not blinking. “Come on, you can tell me. I’m on your side.” She waited, trying to be patient, but he still said nothing. “Are you mad at me or something?”
He shook his head as tears pooled in his eyes. “Then why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” Peter’s face turned red as he continued to stare at her, his mouth slightly open as if he was trying to speak – but nothing came out.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asked, giving him a shove. Esther wouldn’t hurt her brother for anything in the world, but there was something unnatural about the mute way he stood there, as if he couldn’t breathe or was choking on something. Her heart sped up. “Say something! If this is a game, then it isn’t very funny.”
Peter lowered his gaze and lifted his bony shoulders as if trying to make his head disappear down the collar of his shirt. He never had been a chatterbox like Esther was, and when he did speak it had always been in a soft mumble. People would have to lean real close to hear what he was saying, and Grandma Shaffer, who was hard of hearing, couldn’t hear him at all. Everyone always said that Esther did enough talking for the both of them.
“Now, listen to me, Peter. I’m mad about the way things are around here, too, but it’s going to get a whole lot worse if we make Penny mad. So come on, talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. I promise I won’t tell anybody.” She waited for almost a minute, but Peter still didn’t reply. “Are you mad at me?” she asked again.
He shook his head and a tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it with the heel of his hand. Esther sighed and sank down on her own bed across from his, listening to the traffic noise on the street below as they stared silently at each other.
That was when it dawned on Esther that Peter hadn’t spoken a single word since Daddy left a week ago. Peter had walked to school in silence, eaten his meal
s in silence, done his homework, read comic books, and gone to bed in silence. Her heart began to race as if she had just run up two flights of stairs to their bedroom. She jumped up in a panic and rummaged through their toy box in search of Peter’s small, square blackboard and a piece of chalk. When she found them, she pushed them into Peter’s hands. “If you won’t talk to me, then at least tell me why not.”
He held the slate against his chest for a moment before lowering it to his lap and writing: I can’t.
“You can tell me, Peter. I promise not to tell.”
He shook his head from side to side, as if trying to shake off water, and rapped his knuckles against the board. When he had her attention he added one word to what he’d already written.
I can’t talk.
“Don’t be stupid. You talked fine a week ago – and the week before that. Is your throat sore or something?”
He shook his head again, erased the words with his fist, and wrote: The words won’t come out.
Dread rolled through Esther. She didn’t know what to say. Peter erased again and wrote: Please don’t make me.
“Okay,” she said softly. “Okay. Everything will be okay.” But she wasn’t at all certain that it was true. What would she do if something happened to Peter? He was the only person she had left.
She heard a knock on their bedroom door. Penny. “Please go away,” Esther said. There was a long pause, but she could tell that Penny hadn’t left. Esther could picture her biting her lip and twisting her fingers in that annoying way she did.
“Um . . . Esther?” Penny’s voice sounded shaky. “I’m sorry I yelled. What happened was . . . I mean . . . all I did was ask Peter if he would dry the supper dishes because it’s his turn, and . . . and he wouldn’t answer me. So then I was trying to see if he was okay because he seemed real quiet all week, and . . . and he still wouldn’t answer me. You know I would never hurt either one of you, don’t you?”
Esther felt a small measure of power. Penny was probably afraid that she would write to Daddy and give him a bad report. “I’ll be out in a minute,” she said. “And I’ll dry the dishes for him.” She turned to her brother and pointed to the chalkboard. “If you won’t talk, then at least explain to me what’s going on, okay?” Peter nodded in reply.