Page 5

FOUR

LUKA

The uneven pavement presses against the worn soles of my old shoes as I move along the darkening streets, keeping a stern eye out for any other meandering soldiers as I make it home right in time for curfew.

I had been tempted to risk the time, if it had meant spending another few minutes with the girl whose name I might never know.

I turn the last corner onto my street, the road too narrow for vehicles to drive through.

A few neighbors are sitting outside on wooden crates.

One is smoking, another is talking to himself, and a young boy is searching through a pile of rubbish with determination, as if he’s lost something very important.

“What are you looking for, Jak? Did you lose something?” I ask him while passing by.

“No, no,” he utters through a groan.

“It’s nothing.”

“Well, it can’t be nothing,” I argue.

“You’re looking quite hard for—nothing, yes?”

Jak takes a step back from the rubbish and takes a few deep breaths, wheezing through them.

“It was an old toy. I was going to give away, but it must have ended up in the rubbish pile.”

“What is this toy?” I ask.

Jak takes a shuddered breath.

“It was just a stupid old stuffed bear. No one would want it, anyway.”

I’ve seen Jak with this bear.

It’s small and he’s had it since he was very little.

Though he’s only nine or ten now.

I want to tell him I understand why he’s looking so hard for something that he’s attached to.

We all need items like that now.

“Jak, come inside at once,” his mother shouts from the window above his head.

“Have you seen the time?”

Jak kicks a box into the pile and scuffs his way into the side entrance.

“Bye, Luka,” he says.

“See you soon, kid.”

I check my watch, finding I have a few minutes left before curfew, and dig through the pile, separating the larger items to one side so I can inspect what smaller items might have fallen to the bottom.

One brown, stuffed arm sticks out from between some rusty tins.

I pluck the bear out and dust him off.

“There you are.”

On the way up the black and white checkered tile stairs, I take a hard look at the poor bear, noticing the years of love and squeezing it has endured.

Poor kid. I stop at the floor below mine and squeeze the bear to fit between the doorknob and doorframe of Jak’s apartment, knowing one of them will find it in the morning.

Amid the remainder of my hike up to the third floor, it’s hard to block out the background noise of arguing couples, and cries of hungry children.

It doesn’t matter what part of our building we’re in, it’s all we hear lately.

I fish out the key and unlock our apartment door, stepping inside to a flickering glow of candles on the wooden kitchen table beneath the double-pane window.

Then I find Mother and Father hunched together on the sofa to my left.

Mother never sits on the sofa.

She can’t seem to sit still long enough.

Father, though, he has the newspaper spread out across the lace-covered coffee table as usual, but he’s not reading it—he’s staring through it as if it was glass.

Grandmother and Grandfather are seated in the two rocking armchairs at either side of the sofa, but aren’t rocking.

Grandmother is holding her knitting needles, yarn looped between the two, stretching from the basket of colorful skeins by her feet, but her hands are still.

Strands of her silver hair have come loose from the black scarf she always wears around her head, claiming it’s cold inside no matter what time of year it is.

Grandfather’s white eyebrows are wild and look as if he’s ruffled them up with the heel of his palm too many times today.

He has a pipe pinched between his lips, but there’s no smoke pouring out.

It’s like a haunting still life.

I swallow hard as heat swells through my body.

They’ve received news—my gut says so.

“Where have you been, Luka?” Mama scolds me, standing from her seat.

“Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been?”

I’m twenty, old enough to take a walk without having to check in.

Although, I suspect they might have gotten word about the disruption in the square.

“I took the long way home to avoid the soldiers. I didn’t mean to worry you.” I snatch my rolled-up hat out of my coat pocket and place it down on the coffee table, the coins clattering against each other.

“No more of this. I don’t want you performing anymore—and where is your armband? Luka? Do you understand what would happen if you were caught?”

“Dear, let him take his coat off. He’s all right, as we can all see.” My father sighs.

“This time, he is,” Mother argues.

“How about I go down to the square with you tomorrow and if any of those Germans give you a hard time, I’ll handle it,” Grandfather says, snickering.

My grandfather has no tolerance for what the Wehrmacht is doing to our country, and we try to keep him away from any encounter that will get him into trouble.

My grandmother, however, she’s staring between my parents at the oil painting of a tulip field hanging on the wall.

An escape, perhaps.

“I removed my armband when the soldiers showed up in the square. I thought I’d be safer making a run for it than sitting around waiting for them to ask me for my papers.”

“Next time, you should tell them exactly what they can do with those papers,” Grandfather mutters.

“Stop it, Foter,” Mother argues.

Grandfather doesn’t go too long without cracking a joke or trying to make light of our dim situation.

It’s hard to hold back my laughter sometimes, but it’s best not enrage my mother.

For a woman who has always had full control over this family, she isn’t faring well, ensuring each one of us follow every given law and rule imposed over us.

“I’ve paid dues for this country. I have more rights than those nudnicks, and I’ll be damned if they think they can tell me what to do. They can kish mir en?—”

“Dear, no one wants to kiss your behind. Quiet down,” Grandmother hushes him.

I’ve always agreed with my grandfather’s ideals and perspective on life, and he’s been one to see life through my eyes a bit clearer than most, too.

He’s the reason I still sing, three years after my father wanted me to give it up…

“What will the boy do with himself if singing doesn’t work out for him? You’ve spoiled him rotten with this singing shtick and now I’m not sure he can fend for himself, if need be,” Father says to Mother.

They told me to go to bed an hour ago, but the walls in our apartment are thin and their argument has kept me awake.

“You’re meshuga—crazy, you know that?” Mother hisses at Father.

“Your father, may he rest in peace, would be so ashamed to listen to you speak this way,” Mother says.

“That wonderful man had the most beautiful voice and used it for the same good as Luka uses his. He made a living out of entertaining others. Why can’t we allow Luka to do the same? It’s obvious he inherited your father’s talent.”

Father responds right away, nearly interrupting Mother’s final word.

“I grew up poor, dear. Sure, my father entertained people, but he would work all week and get paid bubkes. We lived off my mother’s baked goods, selling them at the square markets each weekend. I want to make sure Luka will be able to provide for a wife someday, as I’ve done for you.”

I’m seventeen and not ready to think about marriage.

Father thinks I’m useless and Mother loves to hear me sing because what mother wouldn’t want to listen to her son sing?

I’ll find a trade, something else I can succeed at, so I don’t let anyone down.

I’ll do it on my own and prove to them I can both sing and be useful.

I don’t want them to argue over me.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” Grandfather says from my doorway, stepping in quietly before taking a seat on the edge of my bed.

“Luka, listen to your grandfather—the one without a nice singing voice—your father kvetches because he wants to make sure you can survive in this world, and your mother will always see you as a little boy, one with an abundance of talent. They both love you more than you’ll ever understand, and that is why they argue over you.” Grandfather uses his hands like yapping mouths shouting at each other to prove his point and I try not to laugh.

“Then what do I do?” I whisper.

“Oy, listen. Where do your lyrics come from, huh?” he asks.

My head leans to the side with confusion.

Where else could they come from other than my head?

“My brain?”

“Exactly,” Grandfather says.

“We live in Warsaw, a city booming with opportunities—especially within radio broadcasting. When you listen to the radio, what do you hear besides music and news updates?”

“Advertisements about household products and cigarettes?” I ask.

“Yes, son. Yes,” he says, shuffling his hand through my hair.

“Think about finding a job with a radio station that needs jingles for products they’re advertising. Newspapers need writers who can capture a reader’s attention with a headline and if words come to you the way they do, there are many more opportunities out there than singing. You can do both, yes?”

All along, I’ve been thinking every career would involve a skill in a physical trade.

The thought of journalism or media never crossed my mind.

“Of course I can,” I say, excitement riveting through my response.

“Shh, shh. How about this little talk of ours is a secret. Tomorrow, why don’t you share your plan with your parents. I think you’ll find your father…singing a different tune.” Grandfather utters a chuckle at his play on words and I follow.

“Thank you, Grandfather.”

“You’re a mensch—really, something special, son. Don’t ever let anyone tell you differently.

Grandfather has always fought for happiness and that’s the legacy he’s given me. Mother and Father were thrilled with the idea of me using my skills for more than singing, and the radio hired me about six months after the talk Grandfather and I had that night. They had me working on creating jingles and sometimes even singing them over the radio. It was like a dream come true, until a year later when I was let go, just because I’m a Jew.

“I can’t bear much more.

” Mother paces back and forth between the small living room and the kitchen table.

“Chana, dear,” Father says, reaching for my mother’s shoulders, his tone preempting words of reason.

“We don’t have a choice, and you three—you, your mother, and our son—are going to need whatever money Luka can bring in—more than ever now.”

His statement makes my blood run cold.

Something has happened while I’ve been gone.

“What do you mean, ‘you three’?” I ask, struggling to pull my coat off my shoulders.

The silence following my question should be enough of an answer, but with how much has changed over the past year, it’s hard to predict what they’re about to say.

“Your father and grandfather are being sent to Skar?ysko-Kamienna for factory work next week. It’s slave labor, unpaid. They’re just being taken from us,” Mother squawks, throwing her arms up in the air.

My heart pounds and sweat crawls up my spine as I try to digest this news.

“Why them? What about me?” Why would they send my grandfather and not me?

“I—I’m not sure, Luka. Your name wasn’t on the letter,” Mother says, her voice tense.

Her heavy brown eyes focus on the ground as she shifts her weight from foot to foot while fidgeting with her apron’s fraying hem.

“May—maybe perhaps—well, it could be because you’ve never worked in a factory before.” A breath hitches in her throat.

“We should just be grateful you were spared.”

I turn away to hang my coat up on the hook by the door next to Father’s tan overcoat, trying to make sense of it all.

I return to the living room where my grandparents are still seated and drop my gaze, letting out a heavy exhale as I form one of many questions barreling through my head.

“This makes no sense. I’m capable of labor and, well, grandfather is in no such condition. He shouldn’t be the one going. It should be me.”

Grandfather holds up his arm and flexes, pointing to his thin biceps.

“I will be just fine. You see that?” He squeezes his other hand around his flexed arm.

“Oy,” Grandmother says.

“Stop it. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

I hold my palms up, silently asking everyone to stop.

“This is absurd. There must be a mistake, or an oversight.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re not going,” Grandfather states with a hard stare.

“Kapeesh?”

I nod, but I don’t mean it.

It’s not right. “For how long? I mean, how long will you be gone?”

“The letter didn’t say. We can hope it’s temporary, right?” Father asks, smoothing his fingers through his thin, graying hair that he neatly slicks back every morning.

He stares at mother and adjusts his round rimmed black glasses as if sending her a secret sign, but it’s a nervous habit.

His eyes say one thing—worry—and his words say another, and I’m at a loss for what I should be thinking.

I’m not sure how either of them will be able to work in a factory line all day.

We’ve been living off scraps of food for nearly a year, and it shows in all of us.

Father moves over to the coffee table and lifts my hat, jingling the coins.

“I’m baffled by how you’re managing to get as much as you are when no one has anything left, but you must keep doing what you’re doing. Whatever you can do to put food on this table for your mother and grandmother, I need you?—”

“Abram, please—stop this nonsense. I don’t want our son putting himself at risk every day. We will survive off our rations,” Mama says, her words unsure, lacking confidence.

The rations aren’t enough—we’re all well aware.

“He’s the man of the house now, Chana, and he’s capable of taking care of you,” Father tells her, keeping his voice strong and dominant.

He never speaks to her that way.

I choke back a hitched breath, understanding the responsibilities that have just been handed over to me.

What if I’m not cut out to be the provider like Father has always been?

Maybe Mother is thinking the same way I am, and that I’m not capable.

She’s the one who has said singing and busking will only take me so far in life, but right now, it’s all I have and all I can do.

Jews aren’t allowed common jobs here.

It’s been that way for quite a while.

Father places the hat back on the table and returns to Mother’s side, stopping her mid-pace.

He takes her hand and presses her knuckles to his lips.

“I love you and we’ll make it through this.” He releases her in exchange for my shoulder, squeezing firmly.

“You’ve become a fine young man, Luka. I’m proud of you, always. And I’m confident you can handle whatever comes our family’s way.”

“They’ll probably be eating better than we will be,” Grandfather utters.

“Don’t be afraid of the black market, my boy.”

“Foter!” Mother hollers at him again.

“No, absolutely not. No black market. Don’t even utter those words in our home.”

The room falls quiet, except for a faint swoosh from the floral drapes as a draft sneaks in through the cracked seals of the window.

Then a sharp, urgent knock against the door shatters the silence.