Child of the Light (3 page)

Erich had no idea who that was but he could see that his friend was pleased.

Sol's mother came walking down the hallway toward them. "He said to tell you he was given this very book when he was your age," she told Sol. "He wants you to have it. Your papa said you were much too young to understand anything about the Kabbalah, but our beadle is a stubborn man. The Lurianic Kabbalah must be part of your education, he says, and to understand the philosophy you must first understand the man."

The book was small enough to fit in Sol's pocket with the dog collar.
 
Erich saw him slip it inside and pat his pants. "I tried reading this once," Sol said. "It's about a man who saw things inside his head that other people couldn't see. He was a mystic, whatever that is."

"Ask your papa," Erich said.

"I did. He said, 'leave the study of mysticism to the

Hasids--'"
Sol looked at Erich and laughed. "They're
very
religious," he explained, "like the Pope and the Cardinals--"

"Beadle Cohen says that when you are ready, the understanding will come." His mother took Recha's hand and led the little girl back into the living room. Sol started to follow but Erich stopped him.

"When we get the dog, we'll keep it in the sewer," he whispered. "We'll take turns going down to feed him and--"

"Boys!" his papa called out pleasantly. "We've decided to start opening the presents early."

Erich looked at Sol, raised his wrist one more time, and grinned. "Brothers," he said again. "Forever and ever."

"Liebknecht and Luxemburg! Both killed!" Jacob Freund removed his glasses and dangled them from his fingers over the newspaper headlines. "What is Germany coming to?"

Though this was one of those rare times that all the members of the Freund and Weisser families were in the shop together, Sol knew from his papa's tone that he was thinking aloud and did not expect an answer to his question.

"How did they die, Papa?" he asked from the back of the shop. Since the table was occupied, he and Erich were playing chess on the linoleum floor.

"What does it matter how," Friedrich Weisser said. "Dead is dead! Things will quiet down and we can get back to business."

"Ella, more and more I think you and the children should go to your sister. You'll be safer in Amsterdam with Herta." Jacob Freund sounded agitated.

"Look here, Recha." Ella Freund pointedly ignored her husband and gestured at the newspaper. "It says here this pretty little girl loves to dance, just like you." She leaned closer to the paper. "Miriam Rathenau, granddaughter of industrialist Emil Rathenau, is being sent to the United States to study the new modern forms of dance that have become so popular over there," she read aloud. "Poor thing. Her parents were killed in an automobile accident."

"Such a poor little thing I should like to be," Frau Weisser said. "They say her father left her a fortune in art in Switzerland, and it's just waiting for her to be old enough to collect it."

"Is money all you can think of, Inge? The child's an orphan--"

Sol stopped listening. Not that he didn't feel sorry for the girl, but right now he felt sorrier for himself. He was tired of staring out of his window and of reading about Isaac ben Solomon Luria. He was even more tired of listening to the four adults bicker about things that seemed entirely unimportant, or talk endlessly of danger and revolution. Already it was past the middle of January and there was no end in sight. He would probably never see the inside of a classroom again--

Erich sat up so abruptly that he knocked over his king's rook. He did not seem to notice it, though he usually went to great lengths not to lose his castles, even sacrificing knights and bishops. His face was turned toward the door, his head cocked like that of a bird. The adults went on talking; Erich gestured, palms close to the floor, as though wishing he could will the conversation to stop. It was interrupting his concentration--whatever it was he was listening to.

"Erich?" Sol asked in a low breath.

Erich shook his head and went on listening.

Then he leaned conspiratorially across the chessboard. His blue eyes shone with excitement. "We need to go.
Now.
Make up some excuse."

"Why! Go where!" Sol whispered.

Again Erich shook his head.

"
You
make up the excuse," Sol said.

But Erich was back to listening to something outside. Besides, Sol knew why he would have to be the one to ask. Herr Weisser inevitably denied any request Erich made, no matter how innocent or rational. It was a matter of course. Oddly, despite his obvious feelings concerning anything Jewish, the father always responded to Sol's opinions and requests, as though the boy were an extension of the man to whom, like it or not, Herr Weisser was indebted.
He respects intelligence,
Sol's mother had said once of the shop's co-owner.

He's stupid,
Erich had insisted when Sol relayed his mother's remark. Sol argued that no one should say such a thing about one's papa, but Erich would not be deterred. Stupid and...
and
selfish, Erich added.

"Do something." Erich poked Sol's forearm.

"I need to go...for extra lessons." Sol stood and held up his Luria book.

"You're going to the Grünewald? Now?" Sol's mother asked, wiping her hands on her apron as though ridding herself of imaginary dough.

"Yes. Me too," Erich piped in, rising so quickly that he bumped over more chess pieces. "Beadle Cohen promised to explain more about Mister Einstein's ideas."

"That damn beadle...teaching
my
boy," Herr Weisser muttered. "...Jewish science."

"You want instruction outside of school," Inge Weisser said, "you should go see Father...," she looked at her husband as if for confirmation about the name, "Father Dahns."

"Fast as he is, the boy should be looking for someone to teach him track-and-field," Herr Weisser said. "Not thinking about stars and psychics and God knows what else."

"Physics,"
Erich said, then added as if in afterthought: "Papa."

Herr Weisser's features clouded as he looked at his son, yet Sol could see light in the man's eyes. It's true what Mama said, he thought. He does admire intelligence--just doesn't want to admit it. Particularly in Erich's case.

"I'm going," Erich said stiffly.

"You be careful on the trolley," Sol's mother said to the boys.

"Of course, Mama." Sol leaned forward to peck her cheek, a motion guaranteed, he knew, to get him
almost
anything.

Erich hurried outside. Sol put the chessmen away, avoiding the adults' eyes for fear they might change their minds, and backed through the door, smiling a simpering smile.

"I hate lying," Sol said as they hustled down the sidewalk, dodging passers-by. "Especially where Luria is concerned." He patted the book in his pocket to assure himself it was still there.

"Some things are more important than lying." Erich trotted across the street at a diagonal, Sol beside him. They rounded a corner and Erich gestured for Sol to follow him down an alley, a look of fear and anticipation apparent in Erich's face. He stopped behind a pyramid of garbage cans.

"There." He pointed down toward where the alley ended in a brick wall. "You see?"

Tied beneath a lattice of small filthy windows was a bull terrier, whimpering. Beside him stood a stack of crates crammed with chickens, clucking uproariously. A calico cat lay on the top crate, asleep in the slant of sunlight, seemingly oblivious to the birds below.

"The pup called to me," Erich said.

"Sure he did. Three blocks away. Next you'll be telling me that the Kaiser sends you mental messages from Holland."

Erich eyed him sternly. "Don't mock me, Solomon. Just because you can't--"

A barrel-chested man in a bloodstained apron emerged from the building. He carried a cleaver. A cigarette dangled from his lip as if it were glued there. He opened a cage and gripped a chicken by the neck. While it hung flapping he chopped the twine that had kept the cat tied against the crate, and lifted the animal by its collar. It dangled forlornly, as though surrendered to its fate. Holding both animals, the man went inside, kicking the door closed with his heel.

"Butcher," Erich said.

"I know that. I'm not stupid," Sol said.

"Not stupid. Just not smart." Erich sat down, his back against a garbage can. "Not smart
here.
In your heart." He tapped his chest with his forefinger. "Peer between the cans. Watch the pup. I'll show you what I can do. I won't even look at him."

Erich closed his eyes; his face tightened. Sol could tell he was thinking hard.

As if it had received some kind of message, the pup began mewling, straining so much against its rope that the forepaws scrabbled ineffectually against the pavement.

"His name's Bull," Erich said.

"I suppose he told you that."

"He's telling me...a lot of things."

"Like what."

"Private
things," Erich said. "If I told you, he wouldn't trust me."

"He smells us, is all."

"All he can smell is death, right now." Erich stood and crept around the garbage cans, keeping close to the wall.

"If you can speak to him so easily," Sol said, "teach him to untie the rope himself."

Erich waved him off and continued on. Sol went around the cans but feared going further. "That butcher comes out and finds you with his dog, he'll chop you up instead," he whispered.

"You want me just to let Bull be someone's dinner?"

The comment caught Solomon so off guard that he consciously closed his mouth. He hadn't thought about the reality. Maybe Erich's right, he thought. Maybe I
am
smart yet stupid.

He ran to help his friend.

"Hurry up!" he whispered, as Erich fumbled with the knot. Erich bundled the dog into his arms and raced back toward the street. Sol looked at the thin rope...at the chicken cages.

He tied one end of the rope to the shop door and the other to the crates, which he unlatched but did not open. When the butcher opened the shop door, he would free the chickens himself. Life--and death--must go on, but perhaps having to chase after his chickens would make him think twice about stuffing so many into a cage.

Besides, Sol thought, why should only the dog go free?

"This is crazy," Sol said, looking at the puppy Erich held wrapped in a piece of old blanket they had found in another alley. "We'll get...
caught."

He had started to say
scolded,
but knew it would spark Erich's always-sarcastic laughter. What did a scolding matter, when a puppy was at stake?

His back against the tobacco shop, Erich craned his neck and peered in through the door's window. "Your papa's busy with a customer. I can't see anyone else inside," he whispered.

"What if they're in the cellar?"

"They're probably over at the apartment. Go on, now. Do what we planned."

"What
you
planned," Sol said morosely, but opened the door. The bell jangled. Smiling deferentially to his father, he stepped inside. He did his best to block the view between the door and the curtain that led to the cellar stairs. Jacob Freund was busy showing a derby-hatted man a silver cigar-guillotine. He did not look toward the boys as Erich stole in behind Sol and disappeared behind the curtain.

"The beadle had other business, so we came right back. We'll be downstairs cleaning up," Sol announced.

His father nodded, gave him a cursory smile, and went back to his customer. A silver guillotine, Sol knew, would easily equal the value of whatever other products his father sold this day--or for the week, for that matter. Sol was angry with himself for having interrupted.

He went behind the curtain but paused at the cellar door. He wanted to go down there and yet he did not. If his papa or Herr Weisser caught them playing in the sewer, they would be punished and he would be right back where he had been for so many weeks--in his room--alone.

By the time he descended the steps into the cellar, however, he could hardly wait to push aside the crate they had left guarding the entrance to the sewer.
 
Their
magical
place, fearful yet inviting...especially after all the months cooped up across the street.

While Erich stood holding and kissing the puppy, the dog squirming against the confinement, Sol heaved the crate away from the sewer's grate. It was blood-brown with corrosion and recessed into a limestone floor discolored by a century of cellar moisture seeping into the drain. Taking hold of the crowbar they had hidden there, he jammed it beneath the lip of the grate and, using the tool as a lever, pressed down on it with all his might. The grate did not budge.

"Hurry up!" Erich said, hopping from one foot to the other as though he needed to use a bathroom. "Get the thing open."

"I can't!"

"
I
always open it easily," Erich said.