Dasvidaniya E-Book

W.L. Liberman

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Mordecai Goldman is a man born of chaos.

His life changes when Simmy, his little brother, comes home with a knife stuck in his shoulder.

After turbulent years in a Christian high school in Poland and his military service, Mordecai finds himself manning a tank for the Soviets in the Second World War. After he fights his way to Germany, Mordecai falls in love with his future wife and emigrates to Canada.

Saying goodbye to everyone he loves, Mordecai moves on with his life and toward the inevitable conclusion that awaits us all. But will his life end like it began: in violence?

This story is based on true events, and Mordecai Goldman was a real person. This is the story of a man tough, passionate and stubborn - to the end.

Leseprobe

Dasvidaniya

W.L. Liberman

Copyright (C) 2017 W.L. Liberman

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Katarzyna Kosbiel

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Prologue

A seventeen-year-old crack addict named Beulah Robinson lay strapped to a cot in my second floor bedroom. She'd crawled to my back door earlier that day, mewling. I'd heard a weak scratching on the screen and thought it had been a sick animal; a dog or cat from the alley out back. Beulah was the granddaughter of my neighbors, Fred and Alma Robinson. I'd watched her grow up, a beautiful girl, full of wonder and light. Then the crack dealers got to her and her life plummeted faster and deeper than anyone could imagine.

I wanted to take her to the hospital but she fought me, saying she wouldn't go, that she'd rather die on my floor.

I carried her upstairs, just a bundle of bones, and laid her on the cot.

“Tie my wrists,” she said. “You'll need to tie my wrists and my ankles.”

I didn't argue. I cut some strips out of a pillow sheet and bound her to the metal frame. I gave her some water. She closed her eyes and I waited for the inevitable to happen.

I knew they would come for her and I wondered if she had considered that. Whether she had wanted them to come to me? I didn't know.

Beulah passed in and out of consciousness. I fed her chicken soup one sip at a time and waited patiently while she swallowed. It had been six hours since she'd arrived. Her hair had a bright henna rinse and it contrasted garishly with the ghastly pallor of her light skin. Her mother had been a white woman.

Beulah jerked at the straps, writhed in the cot, gnashed her teeth and shrieked. She begged me for money. Begged me to buy her drugs, told me I could have sex with her, called me dirty, foul names…but I didn't answer. I just wondered how such a fine girl could fall so far and whether she'd find her way back.

Finally, she lay back, exhausted. I hoped she'd find some peace and fall asleep, even for a few minutes.

Just as I was about to leave, she stopped me.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Talk to me,” she whispered.

“About what?”

“Tell me a story… tell me your story…please…don't go. I…need…you…to…talk to me…just keep talking…don't stop…”

I got up to leave the room but again she stopped me.

“Don't run out on me now, Mr. Goldman, please. Tell me…tell me about your life…so I can forget my own for awhile…please…tell me…I got time…not going nowhere…”

I considered her request. I too had nowhere to go. Everyone who mattered was dead. What else did I have to do?

And so, I began.

Chapter 1

KRASNOWIECZ - 1925

One fine day in May, my eight year-old brother, Simmy, staggered home crying, a knife blade sticking out of his left shoulder blade. Simmy collapsed, crumbling to the ground, his pitiful wail piercing my heart.

I burst through the screen door like a maniac. Then I saw the knife and froze, feeling sick and suddenly weak-kneed.

“Oh my God…Shit…shit,” I lifted his limp body and half-carried, half-dragged him inside the house.

“Katya! Katya! Come quickly!”

I heard the thump on the ceiling as Katya dropped the book she was reading and flew down the stairs to the kitchen.

I struggled with his weight. My hands slipped on his blood. Katya ran forward and looped Simmy's good arm around her shoulders. “I've got him,” she said, then barked, “Table.”

I looked at the oak table and in one motion swept the heavy ceramic dishes and silver cutlery to the floor.

Between us, we lay Simmy face down on the polished surface.

“We need hot water, alcohol, a scissors and bandages,” Katya ordered firmly. “The blade is stuck in the bone.”

I ran toward the medicine closet.

I returned and watched Katya fill a pot and set it on the stove. Simmy moaned. Katya pushed back her sleeves, took some soap and scrubbed her hands. “Get me a sponge,” she said. I reached. “No, not that one. The new one.” I found it and handed it to her. She turned to me. “You must pull the knife out quickly,” she said and the meaning of her words sunk in. I rolled a dishtowel up tightly and forced it between Simmy's teeth.

“Bite on it,” I said. He took it, whimpering like a wounded puppy.

Katya scissored away the bits of shredded fabric around the wound. I was terrified of hurting Simmy even more but took a deep breath to steady myself. I didn't want to think about slipping or making a mistake. I placed both hands around the wooden hasp of the knife. I could feel the tip of it embedded deep in the bone, speared in the pulpy mass. My fingers trembled. No mistakes, I told myself. I placed my right knee against the edge of the table, braced my body and yanked.

“Yyyeeeaaaahhhh…”

Simmy flopped and twisted and groaned.

The blade pulled free and I tumbled over backwards, arms and legs flung wide. Katya sponged the wound. “Here,” she beckoned as I got to my feet. “Hold this and apply pressure.”

“Mama,” Simmy cried, writhing in pain. “Mama…mama…”

“Don't worry, Simmy,” I said. “Katya knows what she is doing.” I hoped with all my heart that I was right. After a moment, Katya touched my hand and I lifted the sponge. A slug of blood oozed out.

“I need to disinfect,” she said looking distracted for a moment. “There's some sulfa powder in Mama's room, by the sink, and the thick tape. Go fetch them.” I ran off again, scrabbled around in the lavatory adjacent to my parents' room, then brought them to her.

“This will sting, Simmy, but not for long.” She doused the wound. Simmy yelped, arching his back, flailing his spindly legs.

“Mama,” he cried again, his skinny body shivering with pain.

“Hush, hush, dear Simmy. We're almost done.”

Quickly, she rolled out the bandages, cutting a section cleanly. She covered the wound, then held it fast with two bands of tape against his pale skin.

“There,” she said. “It's finished now.”

Katya brushed dank hair off his forehead and murmured to him, stroking his cheek. “Help me get him up to his room.”

We managed to hoist Simmy up the stairs and lay him on his bed. I eased him out of his clothes, then covered him up. He'd passed out.

Katya looked frazzled, her eyes glinting with fear.

“The danger will be infection from the knife blade. I think we got it in time, but I can't be totally sure. The next few hours will tell.”

“I hope you're right,” I said.

“I am right,” she replied.

“When Simmy wakes up I'm going to ask him for their names,” I told her.

“What will you do?” she said, worriedly.

“Little sister. You leave that to me.”

“What about Mama and Papa?”

I shook my head. “We won't tell them. Don't worry, I'll take care of it.”

I glanced at Beulah. She listened, eyes half-lidded but awake. I couldn't escape, not yet. “Keep talking, Mr. Goldman. Sounds good so far. A real family soap opera.” She gave me a faint smile.

Simmy awoke later that evening, his shoulder throbbing. He slurped some soup that Katya insisted on feeding him.

I sat and watched them. “You scared me, Simmy. Seeing you like that. I didn't know what to think.”

Simmy looked ashen, his face sweaty.

“I was scared too,” he said, “I've lost my spectacles.”

He began to cry. Katya stroked his face, shushing him.

I felt in my pants pocket. “It's okay…I found them. No need to cry.” I blew on the lenses, then rubbed them with the bed sheet. “Here. They're clean now.”

Simmy took them from me, unfolded the wire frames carefully and slipped them on.

“Now Katya, you need to leave us alone for a minute.”

She glared at me. “This is a mistake, Mordecai. No good can come of it.”

She stalked out, slamming the door.

When we were alone, Simmy looked at me with a sheepish expression.

“Who was it?” I asked. “Who attacked you?”

“Let it go. It was nothing.”

I spoke quietly and insistently.

“Tell me, Simmy. I won't leave until you do. You know I won't.”

I knew Simmy would give in. We stared at each other for a good long while until he broke away.

He sighed. “Vladimir. Kolya. Ivan,” he muttered.

“I'll make them pay for what they've done to you,” I said. “That's a promise.”

Simmy stared back at me through the grimy spectacles.

“I thought we were friends. Why did they hurt me when I did nothing to them? I don't understand.” More tears rolled down his cheeks.

I leaned in and touched my little brother on his good shoulder, then cupped his chin. “Jews and Polacks don't mix. It's as simple as that. They went after you instead of me, those bastards. I'll get them back, don't you worry.”

“It isn't right, Mordecai. Mama and Papa don't like it when you do these things.”

I stood up and smiled. “That's why they mustn't know, little brother. Revenge is mine saith the Lord.”

“You twist the Torah for your own purposes.” Simmy took his Torah studies seriously. He'd taken to it, enjoyed the stories he read, loved the philosophical discussions. For me, religious school was boring. All the talk made me edgy and restless. I'd rather be doing something, preferably with my hands. Religion was the first ideology Simmy encountered and it influenced him because he was young and didn't know anything else. In many ways, he was an idealist. When he grew older, he became enamoured of Zionism and longed to move to Palestine to build a Jewish homeland.

“Get some sleep now. I have things to do,” I said and looked at him fondly. “You need to rest.” He nodded and slunk down under the covers, pulling them up to his chin.

I went downstairs to the kitchen and wolfed some lentil soup, dipping in hunks of black bread. I stared ahead, seeing my fists at work and smiled grimly. It was happening again. Rage bit at me.

I removed my coat and cap from the closet and went out, closing the door after me. I heard a noise and turned. Katya pressed herself against the upstairs window. She banged her palms on the pane, yelling something that I couldn't hear. I turned my back on her, hunched my shoulders and strode away into the darkness.

I marched along, passing no one.

I approached the trestle bridge, walking in the shadows. At Simmy's age, a gang of young Polacks grabbed me and hoisted me over the side by the seat of my pants. They threatened to drop me into the swirling waters of the Volga. The water looked dark and cold and so far down below my dangling feet. Once again, I felt the sting of humiliation. I'd wet my pants and they laughed at me. I heard their jeers echoing in my mind as they hauled me back and dumped me face first in the dirty road. I should have protected Simmy. I should have prevented this from happening.

The storefronts sat silent in Polish town. Gas lamps lit the streets. The deep shadows embraced me. Out of sight, I peered around the corner at Ivan's house. After his dinner, he'd meet up with his friends and they'd wander the town getting into mischief. I waited. After a moment, Ivan emerged. I heard the soft patter of his shoes on the cobblestones and counted the steps under my breath. Five…six…seven…eight… As the unsuspecting boy drew abreast, I stuck out my foot. He fell forward. Before Ivan could make a sound, I hauled the young Polack up, clapped a hand over his mouth and dragged him into the laneway. I pressed him against the filthy wall.

“You know who I am?”

The boy nodded, his blue eyes wide and fearful. He was my age and size but gangly. He struggled, trying to free his arms, but I had him pinned tightly. I kneed him in the stomach repeatedly, getting in good shots, and he bent over and gagged.

“You tell your friends that I know who they are and what they've done and I'll come looking for them. And now, you rotten bastard, it's your turn,” I hissed.

I hit the boy with my fists, measuring each blow carefully until the blood ran from his nose and mouth and each eye went puffy. I loosened my grip and Ivan slumped to the ground. I gave him a kick and he toppled on to his side.

“You will never touch a Jew again, Polack, do you hear? Or I will come back for you. Tell your friends.” I looked at the huddled form and spat, then turned on my heel and walked away. As I walked, I felt the heat drain out of me and I began to shiver. Dirty, rotten, Polack bastard had it coming, I told myself. I had to do it. I walked briskly home, but felt the cold seep into my bones.

“That was harsh, Mr. G,” she said in a quiet voice.

I shrugged. “Maybe, but he'd just stuck a knife into my little brother. I wasn't worried about how he felt.”

“So, I see. Playing the bad boy,” she said.

I snorted a little. “I was the bad boy.”

Arriving back at the villa, I slipped in the back door. My sister found me at the kitchen sink, rinsing blood from my knuckles.

“I took care of him but his front teeth were sharp.” I held up my damaged hand.

“Oh Mordecai, that won't undo what has been done to Simmy.”

I turned off the tap. “I know that, but they'll think twice before trying it again. Little Jewish kids won't have to be afraid. Simmy won't have to be afraid.”

“Let me look,” she said, taking my hand and examining the chafed, broken skin. “You can't always protect him. You can't always protect everyone,” she said.

“I have to try,” I replied.

“I'll get the iodine and bandages,” Katya said quietly.

“Yes, little doctor.”

“Mama and Papa will wonder what has been going on here in their absence. Everyone is wounded.”

“Except for you.”

“In my heart, Mordecai,” she said quietly. “Wait here. Don't move.”

I clenched and unclenched my fist as I waited for her, stretching the skin, rekindling the pain I'd inflicted.

In a moment, she was back, carrying the brown bottle and the bandages. I held out my hand to her. She cleaned it with iodine, then wrapped the bandage roughly over the knuckles and across the palm.

“You'll live,” she pronounced.

“I'm glad, because I need to take care of you and Simmy.”

“Who is taking care of who?” she retorted.

I shrugged. I didn't want to concede anything, not even to Katya.

“You can't win every battle, Mordecai, or win every war.”

“We'll see.”

I went to embrace her but she stiffened. She tried to turn away but I held her close.

“Let's see how he's doing,” I said.

She smiled sadly. “Yes…let's…”

I led the way to Simmy's room. He lay fast asleep, spectacles perched on his stubby nose.

I pointed. “Look…he snores.”

Katya crept up to the bed and carefully removed the glasses. She touched his forehead.

“No fever. That's a good sign.”

“Good work, little doctor.”

Early the next morning, I ate an egg and sipped tea in the kitchen as Amalija, the Polish house servant, refilled the samovar. The rising steam wet her cheeks and brow. Katya came in wearing her robe and slippers.

“Tea, Miss?” Amalija asked.

“Yes, please.” Amalija poured a cup from the samovar and placed some fresh black bread before Katya.

“How is Simmy?” I asked.

“Sleeping.”

“Mama and Papa will be home soon. Pyotr is picking them up from the station.”

“What are we going to tell them? What will we say?” she asked.

I looked at her. “We say nothing. Why worry them needlessly? Simmy is recovering thanks to you and the problem is solved. No one will bother him again.”

Katya frowned. “This can't go on Mordecai. You must stop this before you hurt yourself and Mama and Papa. Things can only get worse. I can't stand all of this anger…this hatred…”

I pushed my chair back, heavily. Katya flinched.

“You don't know what you're talking about, little sister. We didn't start the hatred, they did. Stick to your medical books and stay out of it.”

Later on, I took a cup of tea and two pieces of challah toast up to Simmy.

“How's the shoulder?”

“It hurts and is very stiff,” he replied putting the book down on the nightstand. “But I will live.”

I placed the tray on Simmy's lap. “Nourishment for the patient.”

“When are Mama and Papa coming?” Simmy took a bite of toast. Butter smeared his cheek.

“Soon. We'll tell them that you fell off the fence. You've done that before.” Simmy slurped his tea. It was sweet, just the way he liked it.

“They might believe you,” he said, not entirely convinced. “But what will you tell them about your hand?” he asked.

I grinned. “Smart guy, huh? Maybe I should punch you in the nose.”

“Then Katya would have to bandage your other hand too.”

I laughed, then shrugged. “I'll think of something. There are plenty of things around here for skinning knuckles.” I rose. “Eat. Drink up. Stay in bed today. I think we can miss school. The rabbi will understand.” As a young boy, Simmy believed what he was told about a higher power. The idea of God comforted him. I never liked the notion of something else being in control. Something above us, something that didn't have to answer to anyone. I wanted to control things myself but as I found out, that can never be no matter how much you want it. The world I knew slipped out of control and spiraled away from me.

“That's easy for you, you don't get smacked with a ruler for being late or not doing your work. And what about Papa? You know he doesn't like us to miss school.”

I didn't know how to answer him. “Finish up little brother.”

I left the room and descended the stairs heavily. Simmy was right. I didn't have an answer for my father.

Shortly after eleven o'clock, I watched from the upstairs window as Pyotr pulled the Skoda saloon up to the front door. My parents, Chaim and Sadie Goldman emerged. Pyotr stepped out and opened the boot, lifting the luggage. I crept to the top of the stairs to listen. Amalija came out from the kitchen where she had been preparing lunch, a weak smile plastered on her face.

“You are home,” she said.

“And the children?” Papa asked.

“At home,” Amalija replied, nervously. “They wanted to be here…The little one…he…he…hurt his shoulder and is in bed. But…but… he is all right. Miss Katya has been taking care of him.”

Mama's face clouded. Papa's brows shot up but he tried to contain his concern. He went to Mama and patted her plump hand. “Don't worry. If Katya is looking after him, then he is in the very best hands. You know how clever she is.”

“I must go up to him,” she said and moved briskly to the stairwell. Halfway up, she turned to Papa.

“Chaim, what are you waiting for?”

“Yes,” he said. “I want to speak with Mordecai…get an explanation for this…” I heard the anger in my father's voice and skedaddled back to Simmy's room.

Simmy sat up in bed reading his science book. Katya stood nervously by the window looking out at the courtyard. I slouched in a chair with my feet up, glancing at the newspaper, bracing myself for what was to come.

“And what is this?” Mama cried. Katya turned quickly. Simmy smiled shyly over his book and I simply folded down the top half of the paper. “Why are all my children home from school? What has happened?”

Katya went to her obediently and gave her a kiss, then embraced Papa.

“Hello my little darling,” he said to her. “You are tending the flock?” But he glowered at me.

“Yes, Papa.”

“Simmy fell off the fence and hurt his shoulder a little, that's all, nothing serious,” I said.

“I feel fine,” Simmy piped in. “Just a little sore.”

“And this?” asked Sadie, holding up my bandaged hand.

Simmy laughed. “I told you she would notice right away.”

“Have you been in a fight? Again?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Papa. “Explain please. And it better be good.”

I didn't look at my father but pulled my mother to me. “Of course not, Mama. A stupid accident. The gate swung shut on my hand, that's all. We've given Katya the opportunity to play doctor for real.”

“I did my best,” Katya said.

“What will the rabbi say?” asked Chaim Goldman sternly. I knew he didn't believe a word of this.

“Only three days left, Papa. Then I'll be working in the mill,” I said. “I don't think the rabbi will be too upset once he knows the circumstances, do you?”

“Perhaps,” conceded Papa, his brow furrowed. “I am glad to see you are all in one piece, for now… especially you Simmy. As for you, Mordecai…” He waggled his forefinger, “We'll talk later. Amalija should be ready for us. I need a cup of tea. The road was very dry.” That put an end to the matter.

School ended that week. I'd be finished with yeshiva finally. Religion didn't interest me. The scholars droned on and on endlessly. Simmy liked engaging in the dialectic, in the arguing back and forth but I found it boring.

I also hated working alongside the men in my father's mill. I received seven zloty a week, less than half of what the Polish workers made. I complained but it did no good. Seven zloty it was and no discussion permitted. I hauled sacks of grain from the farmers' carts and unloaded the trucks.

Simmy worked in Papa's bottling plant, counting cases of soda pop as they were shipped to the distributors' warehouses in Warsaw, Cracow, Gdansk and Lodz.

Katya spent her time dissecting animals, concocting a makeshift laboratory in the garden shed. Katya coerced us, bribing us with lemonade and cookies to help her. We'd find her the specimens and hand her the tools she needed. Simmy and I watched her work with wide-eyed, gut wrenching revulsion.

“Yech,” Simmy exclaimed as Katya slit open the abdomen of a squirrel we found in the forest. No species was spared.

“Katya,” I said as I watched the small animal's body shudder and gasp. “Are you sure you want to be a doctor and not a taxidermist?”

“You're an idiot. How else will I understand how the body works?”

“It's disgusting,” Simmy spat.

“I think Simmy is right. There's something creepy about all of this.”

“Be quiet, the two of you. I need to concentrate. Go work on an engine,” she said. “I don't need you here, after all.”

“Suits me fine,” I replied.

I preferred engines and motors anyway. I liked spending time with the mechanics who worked on my father's trucks. If I had a choice, that's how I'd spend the summer, not schlepping grain back and forth like a pack mule.

Chapter 2

On a blistering Saturday in July of that year, a tall, broad-shouldered, golden-haired man came out of the sun. He knocked on our door. My father went to greet this stranger as we children crowded around.

“Come in, my friend,” Chaim Goldman cried.

“Thank you,” said the stranger, and set his gleaming leather suitcase on the floor in the limestone foyer. My mother came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on an apron. When she saw this blond deity, her hands flew up to fix her disheveled hair.

“Darling. Children, I want you to meet Frederick Valens of Warsaw. I know his father very well. We are in business together … and did you know,” he asked, making sure to look straight at me, “that Frederick is still the finest boxer in all of Eastern Europe and Russia?”

“Stop,” said Frederick obviously enjoying the compliments. “You flatter me too much. I haven't boxed for over a year.” His teeth were brilliant. Katya's jaw hung open while Simmy simply stared. Papa introduced each of us. I muttered a terse hello under my breath, recoiling from the open smile, the glowing good looks.

Frederick bowed low over my mother's hand and she blushed like a schoolgirl. I snorted in derision. Frederick turned to me.

“Your father tells me you have a bad temper and fight a lot, is this true?”

I shrugged. “Now and then. It's nothing really.” And what business was it of his?

Frederick nodded in agreement. The shine on his golden hair blazed in the light. “I can see by the marks on your knuckles and the scratches on your face that you have been busy. But while I'm here, maybe you can show me what you can do.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Anything is possible.”

Frederick laughed. “A good fighter enjoys the spirit of combat, wouldn't you say?”

I found myself irritated by this guy. “School's over. I'm working in the mill now.”

My father stepped forward, humiliation burning his face, but Frederick held up his hand. “It's all right, Chaim. I don't mind.”

Papa beckoned to our guest. “Come Frederick, I'll show you your room. There will be plenty of time for boxing later. Mordecai, take the case.”

“Why can't Pyotr do it?”

Papa stopped in his tracks. He balled his fists and as he did so, his lips trembled, his eyes infused with outrage. I knew that look well, so I squashed my resentment and solemnly picked up the case. Papa forced himself to turn back to Frederick, his body rigid with fury.

Reluctantly, I followed the tall, laughing man up the staircase and wondered why he was so happy. Katya stood at the bottom of the stairs and continued to stare after him, open-mouthed. I glanced back while manhandling the valise.

Frederick Valens chatted away effortlessly during lunch telling us about his travels around Europe, his boxing exploits and after, when he entered the family business. He had traveled widely and visited many places, many cities. I took it in sullenly, barely listening.

“Are you a Jew?” I blurted. My parents looked at me in horror. Katya gasped. Only Simmy stifled a smile.

“No, I'm not,” he replied then cleared his throat.

“Then you're a Polack?”

“Mordecai,” Papa thundered.

Frederick's long face froze, his blue eyes clear and bright.

“No, it's all right. My mother is Polish and my father, a German.”

“And why do you do business with a Jew?” I asked.

Papa shot up from the table, but Frederick held his hand up.

“It's because we have a good business together. It makes perfect sense. We all make money and that's why we're in business, isn't it?”

“Mordecai,” said Mama sharply. “Enough questions. What is the matter with you?” She stood up to clear the table and by her brusque gestures, I could see she too was annoyed. Katya went to help Mama, turning her back on me. We males sat, as was the custom. There was an awkward silence.

“A wonderful lunch, Mrs. Goldman. But altogether, far too much food. It has made me sleepy.”

Mama smiled timidly, unused to compliments. “But I like to see everyone eat well. It is a blessing.”

“Then I can see you have many blessings and often,” he replied. Then he turned to me, his blue eyes glittering. “Mordecai, what do you say to a little workout. Get rid of this lunch?”

I shrugged. “As you wish.”

“Good. Put on short pants and an undershirt. I don't suppose you have any athletic shoes?” I shook my head. “All right. Regular shoes then but no boots. Off you go.” I turned to my father who'd been silent.

“Yes, fine…go…go…” He waved his hand, then turned to Frederick. “There is a good spot around the back. It is shaded.”

“I like the heat,” Frederick replied and stared purposefully at me.

“You were asking for it, huh, Mr. G?”

“Maybe I was. It was the arrogance of youth. From the beginning, I didn't like this fellow. He was too perfect it seemed to me, too pretty if you know what I mean. Frederick had this idea that he was superior, better than others, or so I thought at the time.”

“He give you a whuppin?”

I laughed. “Wait and see.”

Chapter 3

“Pa-pah…Pa-pah…Pa-pah,” Frederick exhaled, dancing in front of me, his fists flashing mere millimeters from the tip of my nose. I felt like a fool with legs splayed wide and hips and shoulders twisted.

“Keep your hands up,” Frederick barked. “Higher…higher still. Like this…”

He slapped my hands in an upward motion. Frederick walked around me in a tight circle, nodding and pursing his lips, then came to a full halt right in front of me, put his hands on his hips and stared down. Wearing a benign smile, Frederick kicked his leg out and I went down in a heap. Frederick laughed uproariously. He reached down to help but I batted his hands away.

“What'd you do that for?” I demanded.

Frederick waggled his forefinger. “Balance, Mordecai, balance, if you don't have balance as a boxer, you have nothing. Always remember that.” He clapped his hands sharply. “Back in position, let's go,” he barked.

I pushed myself to a standing position and assumed the stance; left foot forward, right back, elbows tight, fists high. I barely kept my anger in check.

“That's right,” Frederick said. “You need to protect your flank,” and he lashed out with a punch that grazed my side. “but more importantly, here,” pointing to my abdomen. “How can I find my way in? Right? You are covered. Now, I want you to push against me, as hard as you can. Come on, do it, do it now,” he urged.

I punched both hands forward. The impact jarred me up to the elbows. Frederick hadn't budged a millimeter. I tried again, harder this time, elbows back and pushed. No effect. Frederick just looked at me with that infuriating smile. I stepped back, went into a crouch and ran forward, head down, filled my lungs with air , blasted a roar…and found nothing but air. I hit the ground face first and bounced hard.

“Balance,” Frederick said, stepping to the side then hopped to and fro. “Balance is the key,” he trilled.

“You crazy bastard,” I gasped. “You tricked me.” And to my shame, I felt hot tears streaking my cheeks.

My lungs burned. I felt a furnace inside me. Far in the distance, Frederick loped ahead, his long legs barely touching the ground as I struggled to keep up. I wanted to lie down under a shady tree, press my face into the cool grass and die. Up ahead, Frederick danced lightly on his toes and gestured impatiently.

“Come on,” he bawled. “Faster. Keep up.” He waited for me, that mocking grin etched into his sleek face.

We ran down to the banks of the Vistula, turned around and ran back to the villa. I tottered, barely able to put one foot ahead of the other. When I reached the back garden of the property, I sank to my knees and gagged.

Frederick took off his shirt, then wiped his face with it. “Marvelous. What about you? What'd you think?” he asked me.

I continued to pant but remained determined not to show any weakness. “It was wonderful,” I croaked.

Frederick laughed. The braying sound hurt my ears.

Some moments later, I came back to consciousness and realized that Frederick was talking. “The best boxers, and naturally I include myself in this category, use their heads, not just their bodies. You must think about what you are doing, look at the man opposite and see his weaknesses. Does he drop his hand a little? Does he fall for the feint? Does he leave his body exposed? Does he fight with spirit? All of these things go through your mind and then you know whether you can win or not. But you can only do these things after you have all of the tools, right? Strength, conditioning, training and practice. It never ends.”

From my prone position on the grass, I was forced to listen, but only if I wanted some lemonade. I grudgingly admitted to myself that some of what Frederick said seemed to make sense.

I lay on my bed with a cold cloth pressed to my forehead. Katya knocked then slipped in and sat beside me.

“He's very handsome, isn't he?”

I looked at my sister, who'd never played with dolls and only talked of things relating to medicine, therapies and operations. “What?”

“So very tall,” she murmured.

“Katya,” I said sternly, sitting up. I grabbed her by the wrists. “What is the matter with you?”

She frowned at me. “Nothing. I'm allowed to say whatever I want.”

“But such foolish things. You're only a girl and he's a grown man.”

“It's none of your business really, Mordecai, but I was hoping you might understand. I can't talk about this to Mama and Papa.”

“Just stay away from him, he's a pig, I tell you.”

“Don't tell me what to do. I am older than you,” my sister said and yanked her wrists free.

“You warned me before and now I'm warning you. You'll look like a fool.”

“You don't understand much then, do you?” she asked, but never gave me a chance to answer. I couldn't tell her I wanted to protect her from this man. I still thought of her as a girl but I knew she had grown up on me. In those days, in Poland, we grew up quickly. We had to.

Chapter 4

“He had your number, Mr. G, didn't he? That Frederick.”

“I suppose he did.”

“Why didn't you like him?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe it was just his blond good looks. Too Aryan. That air of superiority.”

“You were jealous maybe?”

“Maybe,” I conceded. “Just maybe.”

I suffered through the longest two weeks of my life. During the day, I toiled at the mill. After the evening meal, I submitted to whatever torture Frederick dreamed up – and he had a vivid imagination. We'd run to the river facing forward hands above our shoulders, then return to the villa running backward. Frederick taught me to spar, blow after blow after blow. My arms turned to lead, so heavy, I couldn't lift them above my waist. Then came the drills; up on my toes dancing, side-to-side, forward and back until my calves and arches screamed with pain. Frederick launched bombs at my head and I learned to dodge and weave. More than once, Frederick knocked me flat on my ass, forced me to get up, then did it again. After ten days of this treatment, my anger exploded. I surged forward, wildly raining blows on Frederick's unblemished arms and chest, bellowing at him like a frenzied animal. He didn't lift a hand to protect himself, not once. Calmly, that smile twisted on his lips, Frederick pushed me away.

“Are you finished?” he asked.

I stood there, wild-eyed, staring at him, panting and sweating, drool running from my mouth.

“Are you finished?” he asked again.

“Like hell I am,” I replied.

Frederick smiled, for real this time.

“Good. Then, let's box.” From that moment, I understood. I hated him but I understood.

The morning he left for Warsaw, Frederick stopped by my room.

“I know you haven't enjoyed our time together,” he said. “But at least I feel I have given you some tools that will help you.”

“You expect me to thank you?” I asked.

Frederick smiled. “Remember,” he said. “Balance is the key. I'll be back at the end of the summer. Keep practicing. We'll see then what you can do.” Then he left.

I heard his light steps on the stairs falling away and went to the window. I saw Katya reach up, stand on her tiptoes and give Frederick a kiss on the cheek. Frederick smiled at her, then got into the waiting car and drove off.

I slammed my fist into an open palm with a vicious smack.

That Sunday I answered the door as Papa's two brothers, Herman and Mendel, brought their wives and children to dinner. Six cousins in all. Katya toiled with Mama cutting flowers for the table, polishing the good silverware, helping in the kitchen. Simmy and I didn't have to do anything and couldn't have been happier.

I didn't enjoy these occasions. My cousin Sonya who, inevitably, sat beside me at dinner, had a large wart right in the middle of her nose. She looked like a witch.

“Sonya has the evil eye. You have to spit behind her back,” Simmy said. “Then kiss the mezzuzah for luck or she'll cast a spell on you.”

“Whatever you say, Simmy,” I said. We stood together on the verandah observing the domestic activity inside. Katya glared at us. “I think Katya is giving us the evil eye right now.”

“It's not our fault girls have to do all the housework,” Simmy said. “It's better being a boy.”

Sonya, the witch, sat between me and Simmy at dinner. Simmy kept looking at me and giggling. Papa and his brothers sat at the opposite end of the table while the aunts, Ruth and Sara, sat beside them. The children were sandwiched between the adults. I didn't care for my cousins, parochial schoolboys all of them.

“So, Mordecai,” said Uncle Herman, “how do you like working in the mill?” A dribble of borscht ran down his chin.

“I don't care for it much. You can tell the boss from me, the pay is lousy.” My two uncles chuckled awkwardly while the aunts looked horrified. The conversation at the table ceased. Papa pricked up his ears and wrinkled his eyebrows.

“So, my son. You think you're not paid enough?” he asked in a querulous tone.

“I do a man's work, Papa. I should be paid a man's wages, don't you think?”

“But you're not a man. Not yet.”

“He has a point,” said Mendel.

“But a man earns a man's wages, not a boy,” insisted Papa. “This is only natural. It's how the system works.”

“Then we must change the system,” I replied.

“What are you, a communist?” my father asked, anger flashing in his dark eyes.

“No Papa. I'm asking only a question. I don't think it's fair, that's all.”

Papa stroked his beard. “I see.” He reached for the decanter and poured a glass of wine. “Since you consider yourself a man, then take a drink of wine.”

“But a whole glass?” asked Mama. “It will make him sick.”

“We'll see.” Reb Goldman stood up from the table, strode purposefully to where I sat and plunked the glass in front of me. I picked it up and took a gulp.

“Not bad,” I said.

“Don't drink too quickly,” said Herman. “You'll get a sore head.”

“And more than that,” added Mendel.

“I'll be okay.” I took another mouthful. I'd downed half of it. Papa came around behind and clapped me on the shoulders, digging his fingers through muscle into the sinew. I wanted to shrug him off but kept very still. He could be hard when he wanted to.

“You want to grow up all at once, eh Mordecai? Don't be in such a hurry. The world will wait for you.”

I tried to pull away but he held me fast.

“Maybe I won't wait for it,” I declared feeling grown up in my defiance. “So, do I earn a man's wages or not?”

My father pondered the question then released his grip. He pulled at his beard then returned to his chair. He spoke deliberately. “No, my son, you do not.”

I stared at him for a long while without saying anything. He met my gaze calmly. I picked up the wine glass and drank down the remainder.

“All right,” I said. “But I'll take another glass of wine.” The room froze into silence; all eyes turned to Papa.

Then Uncle Herman snorted and pretended to cough, finally erupting into wheezing, hacking laughter. The others stared at him in surprise as his laughter burbled around the silent dining room. Without warning, his wife began to titter, burying her face in her hands while her sister-in-law grinned. My cousins brayed like a pack of frenzied mules. Even Papa couldn't hold his composure after that and when Simmy broke out into hysterical giggles, he too opened his mouth to laugh aloud, then guffawed, his cheeks turning red, his chest heaving. I relaxed finally and looked around the table, smiling. Laughter seemed better than tears, I thought.

Chapter 5

The summer ended and the moment I dreaded, occurred. After two months, Frederick Valens returned. He set down his valise and placed his large hands on his slim hips, puffing out his chest. I stood on the verandah saying nothing as he examined me with a critical look.

“You have grown, Mordecai and put on weight too. You look fit and still angry. Why am I not surprised? Have you been practicing what I taught you?”

“Every day,” I replied, jaw clenched.

“Good, good. You know, Mordecai, anger alone won't do you much good on its own. In a fight, a match, a cooler head is a better way to go.”

I bristled but smiled grimly. “I'll try to remember.”

Frederick went round greeting everyone. Katya threw her arms around his neck and Frederick lifted her off the floor and swung her around while she squealed in delight. I watched through the screen door, my blood seething. Frederick set Katya down then shook Simmy's hand so vigorously, his body twitched and his glasses slid down his face. Frederick said hello to my father.

“Chaim, I hope you are well?”

“We'll talk after lunch,” Papa replied. I smiled as Frederick bowed deferentially. He'd been stung by my father's brusqueness. Katya disappeared into the kitchen to help Mama with lunch but gave Frederick one last, lingering look. I pushed through the screen door and let it bang behind me. Frederick smiled grimly.

“We'll go for a run after lunch, see how you're progressing.”

I didn't want to make a scene in front of my father.

“Sure. I'll look forward to it.” Papa nodded, and I was pleased that my father thought we might be getting along a little better.

We ran side-by-side. Frederick's easy lope had tightened, his gait stiff. I breathed deeply, staying relaxed, keeping my limbs loose.

Now, we'll see, I thought and pushed the pace a little more. I heard Frederick's breath echo shallowly in his chest but I kept my eyes straight ahead, focusing on the road. We ran past Solnicki's farm, following the banks of the river leading us to the mill. Frederick lengthened his stride but his breathing came out labored. I smiled to myself and ran even faster. I saw the mill in the distance and went for it, pushing all else out of my mind.

I felt a sublime pleasure even as my arms and legs strained and my body heated up from within. I could hear Frederick falter, listened to the missteps as he tried pushing himself through the stiffness and pain. I surged ahead as Frederick lost ground.

I vaulted forward and as I moved ahead something hooked my right ankle. I fell, going down in a heap of arms and legs, skinning the palms of my hands and kneecaps on the broken road. Frederick loped past and as I went down I saw the bottom of his shoes churning up dust. My chin smacked hard and I felt a wetness fill my mouth. I'd bitten my tongue. The pain nauseated me and my sight went dark for a moment but I pushed myself to my feet, spat blood down my shirtfront and staggered on, chasing the lean figure disappearing ahead of me.

Frederick waited for me in the foreyard of the mill bouncing on his toes, that glib smile twisting his lips. My dirt-stained face hardened into a mask of hatred.

“You dirty bastard,” I cried. “You dirty thieving prick.”

“You can tell your father if you like,” Frederick said quietly.

I shook my head, then spat more blood. “I fight my own battles.”

“I thought you might,” Frederick replied quietly. “If you believe that your opponents always fight clean, then think again and be prepared. It's a dirty world, my young friend.”

“I'm not your friend,” I cried. “I will never be your friend.” In my fury, I picked up a clod of earth and threw it at him. It thunked off his chest leaving a dirty smear on his clean, white shirt.

Frederick merely shrugged.

“He got to you, huh?” Beulah smirked weakly. “You let him get under your skin…”

“I was only a boy and reacted impulsively. I was filled with anger and outrage. I didn't think he'd do such a thing. It never occurred to me that he'd act that way.”

“Surprised you, didn't he? Maybe that was a good thing, taught you a lesson, toughened you up. I've seen things…” She wiped at her lips and I fed her some water. She appeared weak, more than sickly, sweating through her clothes, shivering uncontrollably even though I'd wrapped her in a warm comforter. I got up to get her a cloth for her forehead. She grabbed my wrist, showing surprising strength. “Don't go, keep talking. Tell me more of the story. Please.”

I nodded and sat down again, leaning in closer.

“I made it my business to keep track of Frederick. I didn't trust him and my sister was infatuated with him. Just a young girl and he was a full-grown man.”

“Knight in shining armor,” Beulah said bitterly. “Where was my hero? Never had one and never will.”

I didn't have an answer for her.

Chapter 6

After dinner that evening, Frederick sat on the verandah smoking a cigarette. Simmy and I hid around the corner of the house, listening in. I had to shush him several times or he'd have given us away.

“You'll ruin your lungs.” Frederick turned to see Katya standing in the shadows. He smiled at her.

“Come,” he said. “Sit.” Despite her bold pronouncement, she sat beside him demurely. “You're probably right. I don't have the wind I once had. Your brother outran me today. I guess I'm getting old.”

“Nonsense,” she said then hesitated. “I mean, it is proven that the chemical properties in tobacco cause lung damage. Maybe you shouldn't inhale.”

Frederick dropped the glowing butt on the verandah floor and ground it out under the heel of his summer loafers. “I heed your command.”

“Don't be silly. I can't command you,” and she smiled at the thought of ordering him about.

“You may command me anywhere and anytime,” Frederick replied. “Give me an order and I'll obey it.”

“Now you really are being silly,” she said.

Frederick gathered her hands in his. They were fine-boned and supple. Katya tensed. “Don't be afraid, dear Katya. I mean you no harm.” And he pressed his lips fervently to her palm.

Katya stared at him, astonished but didn't pull her hand away. “Frederick, what are you doing?”

“I don't know,” and he smiled at her then became serious. “You're too beautiful, Katya. It's painful for me to see you. It's why I came back.”

“I thought you were helping Mordecai and working with my father?”

“Just excuses really. I wanted to see you again.”

“Frederick, I…”

“Katya. I may be a grown man and you are much younger but your beauty makes you seem older. I'm sure all the boys are in love with you.”

“I don't have time for boys. I'm too busy studying and doing meaningless housework.”

“No time for love?”

“No, well, not yet,” and she watched him for a long moment.

“There is always time for love, dear little Katya.” He lapsed into silence and looked at her in the growing darkness. But then Mama's voice crashed through the quiet.

“Katya. Katya darling, where are you? I need your help for a moment.”

She stood up. “I'd better go.”

Frederick grabbed her arm. “Meet me tomorrow night? I'll wait for you by the fence in the back. I'll wait all night if I have to.” She stepped back gathering her skirts holding his gaze as she went inside, reluctant to take her eyes off him. After she left, Frederick turned to stare out into the darkness.

Simmy squeezed my hand and I knew we were both determined to be there, to protect our sister from this man.

All the next day, I waited as the farmers brought in their sacks of wheat. The men, gruffly bearded with piercing blue eyes and peasant caps pulled low on their ruddy faces. Their clothes ragged and dirty, their expressions haggard and suspicious. They brought their wheat and in return, received flour for baking breads and cakes that fed them over the winter. On this day, Pyotr helped out. The farmers were a hard lot and could be quarrelsome, even violent at times. A farmer came in. I'd seen him before and the man nodded without saying anything. Without waiting for me, he dumped his wheat directly into the wooden box to be measured.

“You see? It's all wheat, nothing else,” he said. Then muttered something unintelligible and spat.

“Thank you sir,” I replied politely. Pyotr stood by silently, arms crossed, watching the farmer. I checked the gauge.

“Thirty-five kilos,” I said.

“Eh?” The farmer jerked his head up in surprise. “No,” he said. “Forty kilos there.”

I checked the gauge again. “No. Thirty-five. Take a look,” I said and stepped to the side. The farmer bent over and squinted at the gauge.

“No,” he said again. “You cheat.”

I could sense the man's anger. This was his livelihood. The bread to feed his family. “Forty,” he repeated. “You make a mistake.”

“No,” I said firmly. “No mistake.”

“Fucking Jew. I know how much I put in. Forty kilos.”

Pyotr stepped in. “No need to get upset, friend. The measurement is accurate. I'm certain of it.”

The farmer spat. “You work for them,” he said. “The Jews.”

“Do you want the flour or not?” Pyotr asked.

“Of course.”

“Then don't cause trouble.”

“I cause whatever I want. They steal from us, these Jews. They take our money and they take our souls. Even the priest says so.” His voice thundered in the small weighing shed.

I listened and outwardly tried to appear calm. Inside, my blood boiled, my anger raged. I reached behind the counter. The farmer had turned his back to me as he spoke to Pyotr.

“Hey,” I said.

The farmer turned. I lashed out. The two by four I held in my hands caught the farmer across the forehead and he fell back in a heap, knocked cold. Pyotr stood stunned and speechless.

“Take him outside. Give him his flour when it's ready and tell him never to come back here again.”

Pyotr looked at me with a flummoxed expression, then down at the farmer where a dark welt had swollen up in the middle of his forehead.

“What if you have killed him?” he whispered.

“I don't think so,” I replied. “He has a hard head. But if you like, fetch Katya to take a look at him. But get him out of here. Others are waiting.” Pyotr gulped, but nodded.

He picked the farmer up under the armpits and dragged him outside. The other farmers looked at them curiously. One came up to Pyotr. I watched from inside then stepped closer to the window to hear better.

“What happened?” Pyotr told him. The other man nodded. “That Slava is a hot head. I would not have called him a fucking Jew to his face. Not here. There are other times and places, eh?” Pyotr said nothing, torn in his loyalty. He backed away and went to fetch Katya. The next man went in to have his wheat put on the scale. The hothead, Slava, now cooled off, began to moan as he slowly regained consciousness.

That evening, I stood out in the yard shadow boxing. Simmy sat in the grass watching me. My father had bought a pair of gloves for me and a helmet. I danced back and forth, punching, jabbing, weaving, keeping up on my toes.

“Mordecai!” came a roar from around the front of the house.

“Papa,” I said, and felt the bile rise in my chest.

“He sounds angry,” Simmy said.

Papa barreled around the corner. Frederick sauntered after him, a smug grin on his face. “How dare you,” Papa bellowed, the color rising into his full cheeks.

“Yes, Papa?”

“What's happened?” Frederick asked with feigned innocence, his hands shoved casually into the pockets of his white trousers.

“Tell him,” Papa commanded. I didn't want to say anything to Frederick but he seethed with anger.

“You better say something,” Simmy said.

I struggled to speak, but my father's angry glare coaxed the words out of me.

As soon as I finished, Papa interjected.

“This will never happen again. Next week your work at the mill is finished. You will never go back there.”

“I'm sorry, Papa. I let myself get angry at what that foul-mouthed bastard farmer said about us. They all try to cheat.”

“You were wrong to do this. It will only incite them.”

“It will teach them respect.”

Simmy wisely elected to stay quiet.

“And what if you had started a riot? What then? What if you didn't knock the fellow out and he attacked you? You might have been badly hurt.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Enough!” Papa roared. “This will not happen again. Violence begets violence. I will not hear of it, do you understand? We are a peaceful people. We live side by side with our neighbors. No more.”

I felt my heart race and anger flushed into my veins but I loved my father and wouldn't speak against him. “Yes, Papa.”

“From now on, if you must fight, then box, like this. You must get this anger out of you. It will hurt you in the end, Mordecai. It will destroy you.” I stared at my toes. And then Papa's anger was spent. He just looked sad. “Now go inside and clean yourself up. I want to speak with Frederick.”

The following week, the farmers came again to have their grain weighed. The troublemaker, Slava, was not among them. He sent his son instead, a boy a few years older than me. The other men averted their eyes and shuffled their feet but there was no trouble.

Slava's son, a hulking young man, was physically developed beyond his years with thick wrists and broad shoulders. His lank blond hair looked as if it had been hacked at with a machete and fell across his broad face in an uneven thatch. He flicked the hair from sharp eyes that never left me as the boy waited for the grain to be ground into flour. Occasionally, he whistled a tuneless song or bit down on his fingernails, all without taking his eyes away. I ignored the hulking boy's looks and carried on with the work. When the flour was brought out from the back, the boy hefted it easily on to his shoulder. Just as he was about to leave, he turned back.

“You there, Jew,” he said. I glanced up at him. “I shall see you soon at school. I won't turn my back.” The boy spat on the floor, then turned and walked out the door, ducking as he made the entranceway, his heavy boots clomping on the wooden floor of the shed. I stared after him. The term hadn't even started yet.

“He's mean, that one,” Pyotr said. “I know him. He takes after his father. You must avoid him. Cruelty runs in that family.”

“I can take care of myself,” I replied with a confidence I didn't really feel. I signaled to the next man in line who hefted his sack of wheat and stepped forward.

I was reading at the dining room table when I heard a pounding on the door. Papa went to see who it was. A police officer stood on the threshold.

“Are you Goldman?” the officer demanded.

I went to my father's side.

Reb Goldman smoothed his hair. He glanced at me. “Yes,” he replied.

“I have instructions to bring you down to the station. Get your hat and coat and come with me,” he said brusquely.

“What for?” I asked. “What is it he's supposed to have done?”

The officer stood tall and wore a waxed moustache. He looked at me with contempt. “It's none of your business.”

“But of course it is my business. This is my father.”

I felt my father's hand on my chest. “Sshh,” he said. 'I'll deal with this. Now, Officer, am I charged with something?”

“Not yet. We are investigating a complaint.”

“What sort of complaint?”

“A number of farmers claim you have cheated them out of flour.”

“Those bastards,” I screeched. “They're the ones who cheated. They've been cheating for years.”

“Be quiet,” Papa said and turned to me. By his look, I could tell that my father blamed me for this. That this had been my doing.

Papa removed his hat from the stand in the hall. I glanced up the stairs and saw Mama descending rapidly.

“Chaim, what's going on?” she asked. Behind her Frederick followed.

“Nothing, it's nothing. I'm simply helping the police resolve a simple misunderstanding, that's all, my dear. Don't upset yourself.”

I saw my mother's complexion pale.

Frederick broke in. “Chaim, let me come with you. I'm sure we can sort this out together, don't you, Officer?” And I saw the even lips part and the white teeth gleam.

“Well, er…”

Frederick rubbed his large hands together. “There, you see? We'll clear this up in no time, don't you agree, Officer?”

I grudgingly admired Frederick's approach. How easy it seemed for him. That confident manner put the policeman off balance.

Frederick removed his linen jacket from the closet and slipped it on.

“We're ready now, Officer. Shall we go?”

“Don't go with him,” I pleaded to my father. I didn't know if I meant the policeman or Frederick.

“I must,” Papa replied. “We'll be home soon.” The officer stood away from the door allowing Frederick and Papa to step out first.

Mama looked on the verge of tears. Katya stood at the top of the stairs staring down at me. Beside her stood Simmy, lips trembling. Even he seemed to understand what had happened. I burned with shame.