In truth, Jacob remembered little of his tall bushy-haired uncle except that each time he would visit the family, he brought cinnamon-flavored cookies, which he would present to Jacob and Leon with a smile and a wink. Jacob liked to think that he was like his uncle Gershon in more ways than one. That he had promise. When he was younger, and he and Mama were alone in the hours after school was done, he would ask her to tell him stories about Gershon—the kinds of clothes he wore, the books he liked to read. And if she wasn’t too tired, she would take him onto her lap, and as he angled in close, letting his long legs dangle to the side, she would tell him what little she remembered of Gershon. “What a mensch he was!” she said. Jacob absorbed the information as if it were manna from heaven, in the same ways he would look at the pictures in the book under his bed, as he let his head fall against her bosom and inhaled the air of her, the soap and talc as if she had just stepped out of a bath.
Jacob changed in other ways too. The child who was once talkative, curious, became more sullen. Meanwhile, Nazi soldiers began to appear like a swarm of bees positioned on every corner, occupying the few establishments that were left open: the post office, and the brau house where they would gather, lighting their cigarettes, tossing the still-lit butts into the trembling air. They ambled along with a proprietary swagger, as if they owned every inch of sidewalk. Which, of course, they already did.
And, as the years passed, Jacob’s solemn, introspective nature turned to anxiety, and as he kept his feelings beneath the bone of his breast, it only made matters worse. It did not help that his mama was spending more and more time with Herr Reichert, as the business of the Reich, it seemed, was increasing as steadily as the clip of the horses that occupied his stables in the country.
Many years had passed since Jacob accompanied his mama on her work expeditions, for he was soon of an age when he could remain at home without the supervision of an adult. Like Leon, he felt the skin on his forearms ripple as his mama would return home, her red lips a little paler, her hat askew. The mere mention of the colonel’s name would bring the taste of bile into the boy’s throat, so that he even developed an acute aversion to horses. His papa, however, remained unchanged.
Whenever Jacob thought of his papa, it brought to his mind the elm tree down the block, grounded amid a quiet circle of greenery where birds pecked at the soil each summer, and where a gray frost clung against the slowly peeling bark every winter. But the elm remained stoic despite the shedding of its yellow leaves, the ravages of worms and ants. And so it was with Papa. Despite the sluggish demeanor of the few students whose minds were on other things as they slouched in their seats, the low click of the clock as the doors of shops and even apartments closed one last time, the intimidating growl of their German shepherds, the snickering grins of the soldiers, the growing quiet, the eerie silence in the streets, none of it seemed to bother Papa. And while his father’s stoic nature, despite the threats that surely loomed larger than ever before, had once seemed admirable to Jacob, a strength to be envied, now he sensed the facade had begun to crumble so that even the elm, as he passed it each morning on the way to school, appeared silly and useless.
Jacob was smarter than they thought he was. And now that Leon was gone, enlisted in the Polish army, and now that Jacob himself had become a man (fully a bar mitzvah for nearly five years), it was time to speak up. But try as he might, he could not stop loving her. The work “appointments” with Herr Reichert had become more frequent, and now there were the nights, too, when she would slip in the door, birdcage hat no longer tipped stylishly to the corner of her brow, taking off her shoes so as not to waken the others, pretending that all was well, as it should be, in the morning.
It was easy to hate the German, as easy as slipping into his threadbare jacket and leaving while darkness still covered the sidewalks, as his parents slept in their beds. Jacob would wander the streets then, in the chill of dawn, circling the elm, striding purposefully past the school, its doors long chained and barred, past the old synagogue, its red brick still sturdy despite the shards of glass that lay scattered at the threshold. Jacob walked the street, picking up his pace, fueled by his anger, and yet unable to summon the hatred, which always seemed at bay, for his own parents. His mama, his mind told him, was nothing but a shameless whore, a traitor of the worst sort. His papa, once so revered, had become spineless, less than a man. Another leaf scattered in the wind.
His mama was making the coffee when he came home, refreshed somewhat by the brisk early-morning air. But Jacob’s mind seemed just as consumed by his worries as when he left. Sometimes Jacob stayed out for an hour or so, or if the scent of an imminent spring greeted him on his way to work, he would remain outdoors and stay for as many as three hours, long past breakfast. When she saw him, as always, she would greet him with a bright smile, but it had been many months since she’d moved toward him with a mother’s caress. He had rebuked her several times before that. There were lines of exhaustion beneath her eyes, more noticeable now that her face bore no signs of the makeup she so meticulously applied on the days she set out for work. His father, as unperturbed as ever, glanced up at his son, inquired as to the weather, and returned to polishing his sturdy brown work shoes, even though he had no need of them since the Nazis had issued an edict shutting down the few remaining schools in the town. How oblivious he is! thought Jacob as he poured some coffee into the chintz china cup. How ridiculous!