No Time for Tears (65 page)

Whatever Jacob’s age, he was bigger and stronger than any of the other little boys in his village, and the thick curly head of blond hair and the deep blue eyes certainly made him the most handsome. If anyone had bothered to observe the boy in the last few weeks, they would have seen a change in him. There was still the haunting look in his eyes that made him seem older than any child had a right to, but his manner had taken on a calm resolve. For some time now, he had thought carefully about his life, and if there were many uncertainties that remained, one thing he was not uncertain about and that was what he now had to do.

One night, after everyone was asleep, he quietly got up, went to the meager larder, broke off a large piece of black bread and stuffed it into a small sack. He climbed through the rear window and, once outside, he put on his shoes and ran across the field until he reached the huge tree where he’d hidden the sharp knife in a hollow. Quickly opening the sack, he stuck the knife into the bread. His journey had just begun, but he never once looked back.

He walked for three days, resting only when he was too exhausted to go on. But the urgency to escape compelled him to continue almost beyond his endurance. He slept for only a few hours each night, in a hayloft, a meadow, a forest, wherever he happened to be. He kept alive by stealing a few eggs, which he cracked and swallowed whole. At first he almost gagged, but he forced himself to hold it down, and the rumbling in his stomach subsided. When he came to a stream, he would bend down, cup his hands in the cold water and drink until his belly bulged. Once he was even lucky enough to spear a trout with his knife, though he had to eat the fish raw.

Finally, he felt a little less apprehensive, having put many miles between himself and his captors. But Jacob needn’t have been so concerned. It was several days before anyone even realized he was missing and the worry he caused was not because anyone fretted that perhaps he had met with danger, but because he had the
chutzpah
to steal the bread from his benefactors, who chose to forget that he had not lived on their charity but on Esther’s hard-earned money. However, their anger was assuaged when a ticket and a little money arrived, shortly after Jacob’s departure, to take him to America. Unfortunately, Jacob would not be the recipient. How could he be? So they chose their Mottel, to carry the torch of freedom to the golden shores of America.

If Mottel and his family were jubilant about his imminent departure, it was no more than Jacob felt at this moment. He had finally arrived at the train station. It really didn’t matter how long it had taken or what he had gone through; he was here and the last leg of his journey to freedom was at hand.

He waited in the shadows until the train was about to move out, then he jumped aboard and darted, unseen, to the first row of unoccupied seats. He crouched beneath it in the corner, praying he would not be detected. From that position all he saw were feet and all he heard was the sound of the giant wheels grinding along the railroad tracks.

For hours he remained immobile, then something terrible happened. He had to urinate. Unable to hold back, he wet his pants. He spent the night feeling cold and uncomfortable, but he consoled himself with the thought that as the night wore on it brought him closer to his destination.

The next morning, when he awoke from the screech of brakes, he was in Frankfurt. He had scarcely changed his position all night and he felt too stiff to move. But with sheer animal determination, he willed himself to stretch his legs, and with the same instinct, he sensed when it was safe to crawl out. When the last of the feet were seen, walking slowly down the aisle, he peered out cautiously, got up and walked rather closely next to a young couple, as if they were his parents. At last he stood on the platform, watching people coming and going, embracing and kissing, and he felt a surge of happiness, as if he belonged among them. He knew he was free at last.

After many inquiries, Jacob found himself in front of his grandparents’ house. His pulse racing, his breathing staccato, he knocked on the door and waited expectantly. At last he had come home to love and be loved. He had dreamed of this moment for so long. Grandparents were…so special. He had never met them, only seen them in the faded photograph he carried, but still the feeling within him was overwhelming. He waited, knocked again, still no answer. This time he pounded.

He looked at the door for a long moment. For some reason he could not fathom, his hand shook as he turned the knob and opened the door.

All the furnishings had been removed. Frantically, he walked from room to room, opening closets, praying there would be some clue as to what had happened to his grandparents. But the house offered no answers. Slowly, he walked back to the front room and stood in the middle, trembling. Then he noticed that there were some old papers and letters in the fireplace. Quickly, he retrieved them. Sitting down on the bare floor, his pulse raced as he picked out the first one. It was a letter written by his mother, but since he could scarcely read, he was only able to make out a few of the words and the date, January 7, 1899.

Suddenly he became aware that he was not alone. He looked up and saw an old man framed in the doorway. Frightened, Jacob got up, putting his hand on the hidden knife, and asked, “Who are you?”

“I live in the house next door and saw the door open. What are you doing here, young man?”

Jacob looked at the old man, whose face wore a thousand folds and creases.

“I’m looking for my grandparents,” he replied, his voice quavering.

The old eyes softened. Quietly he answered. “From the looks of you, you must have come a long way.”

Jacob nodded. “Yes, a very long way.”

The old man shook his head sadly. He took so long in answering that Jacob finally whispered, “Where are they?”

Without looking at the boy, he said, “Dead…I’m sorry.” He could not stand the agony in Jacob’s eyes. He was too old, too old, and he had no more grief to share. Feebly, he turned and left, shutting the door behind him.

“They’re dead?” Jacob mumbled uncomprehendingly to himself. Then he looked down at the letter in his hand. Quickly he ran to the door and called after the old man. “Wait…please, please would you read this for me?”

The old man looked down at the small boy, took the letter and read it in a low voice.

My dearest mama and papa,

My heart broke when I left, knowing I would never be able to see your sweet faces again, for I will never be able to save enough to send for you. New York is a jungle, and I doubt I will ever be able to get used to it, but at least I know Gittel is taken care of and loved. I find great comfort in that, and in knowing I have been blessed with good parents. I was fortunate in one thing—I found a job working in a restaurant. And Shlomo is well. I receive little word from Poland about Jacob, but all must be well since I have had no complaints.

May God be good and keep you for many years to come. Please write often. Your letters are my greatest joy. The address is…

Jacob wasn’t listening anymore. All he could hear, reverberating in his ears, was her love and concern for Gittel and Shlomo. But for him? Nothing.

He thanked the old man for his kindness, took the letter, put it in his pocket and walked back to his
bubbe’s
house. Knowing where his mother was brought him small comfort; she neither loved him, nor wanted him.

In frustration and anger, Jacob took the knife and stabbed it into the wall, then sat on the floor and cried himself into exhaustion.

For the next two weeks, Jacob spent his days roaming the Jewish district of Frankfurt like an alley cat, staying alive with whatever food he could steal.

At night he would return to sleep on the floor of his grandparents’ house. His dreams were nightmares, and he awoke from them shaking, drenching in perspiration.

Death was something Jacob had become acquainted with very early. His father had died when Jacob was only three, but the terror of it had remained with him, and was now intensified in his dreams. He remembered the still body of his father, stretched out on a wooden slab. There were coins covering the closed eyes. His face had been the color of yellow wax and his lips purple. Jacob had witnessed the ancient Jewish burial rite. His father had been put into the ground, covered with only a shroud. Then handfuls of earth were thrown into the pit until it was covered over. Jacob’s dreams revived the memory of the traditional
minyon
of ten men assembled in a very small room, sitting on the floor. Their lapels were cut in the traditional gesture of mourning, and they wore no shoes. He heard the mournful chanting of the
Kaddish
, glorifying God’s name. The sound had been so eerie he had hidden in a closet, but there was no escape from the distorted, dizzying chanting of his dreams. Those were Jacob’s most vivid childhood memories, and the images were indelibly imprinted. And now, with the death of his beloved grandparents, he relived the haunting knowledge that no matter how much he longed for them, they would never return to give him what he so badly yearned for…to be loved. He was still a little boy, and yet already too old for his age.

The days stretched into weeks, and one day a man and woman entered the house unexpectedly. Jacob’s heart pounded as he stood rigid against the wall, his hand poised on the ever present knife in his pocket. “What do you want? What are you doing?” he demanded.

The man looked at the piercing, defiant blue eyes. “Me, you’re asking? What are
you
doing here?”

“This is my house. Get out.”

A tough little
dybbuk
. This one will wind up in jail. “Your house? Why, you bought it?” He laughed coldly.

“No, but it’s mine.”

“Oh, I see.” He looked at Jacob, who stood like a trapped little animal. “You ran away from home, yes?”

Jacob stared back without answering.

“God will punish you for bringing so much worry to your parents.”

Jacob answered, “I have no parents. They’re dead.”

There was no compassion in the voice that replied, “So, you’re an orphan. You found this house vacant and you moved in. You could go to jail for that.”

Jacob swallowed his fear. “This is my house. It belonged to my grandparents.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “To your grandparents? You have papers to show they gave it to you? You little liar, I just bought it. I’m going to take you to the—”

Before the man could say more, Jacob ran from the house down the streets, into the alleys, as fast as his sturdy legs could take him.

For the rest of the day he hid in a deserted basement. They had taken his house away from him. It was his legacy. He loved that house because it held the memories of his
bubeleh
and
zayde
. One day, he promised himself, if he did nothing else, he would come back and redeem what belonged to him. His house. Yes, at least that…

Buy
Portraits
Now!

Cynthia Freeman (1915–1988) was the author of multiple bestselling novels, including
Come Pour the Wine
,
No Time for Tears
, and
The Last Princess
. Her novels sold more than twenty million copies worldwide. Born in New York City’s Lower East Side, she moved as a young child with her family to Northern California, where she grew up. She fell in love with and married her grandmother’s physician. After raising a family and becoming a successful interior decorator, a chronic illness forced her to adopt a more sedentary lifestyle. At the age of fifty-five, she began her literary career with the publication of
A World Full of Strangers
. Her love of San Francisco and her Jewish heritage drove her to write novels with the universal themes of survival, love, hate, self-discovery, joy, and pain, conveying the author’s steadfast belief in the ability of the human spirit to triumph over life’s sorrows.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

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

Copyright © 1981 by Cynthia Freeman Enterprises, Inc.

Cover design by Mimi Bark

978-1-4804-3570-4

This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com