A Cobbler's Tale Page 17

  Jakob still needed to find Pincus. It took a few steps down the hallway to realize that he was still clutching the book in his hand. He looked down to the image of Peter Pan and decided that he would hold on to it for a while, and then he would return it.

  CHAPTER 48

  THE HEALER

  Hours before sunrise, Moshe awoke and quietly washed and dressed while his mother, sisters, and brother slept. Even though the walk to the synagogue took only minutes, Moshe had promised his mother that he would wear his coat, hat, and scarf. With his boots laced up, he opened the front door, kissed two fingers on his right hand, and touched the mezuzah nailed to the doorjamb.

  With fighting going on in the surrounding fields as well as in the mountains to the south, the synagogue of Krzywcza had become a first aid station for Jewish soldiers fighting against the Russians. Rabbi Shapira had done his best to organize a makeshift army hospital. However the only doctor was the seventy-year-old Dr. Frenkel. The shtetl’s best doctor, Dr. Bachman, had emigrated with his family to America the previous year. Fortunately, a few of the women had trained as nurses and provided most of the urgent care.

  Moshe entered the synagogue and walked through the sanctuary to the rabbi’s study. Not much had changed since he left the previous night. A dozen or so men still lay on blood-stained blankets on the floor. A few with less severe injuries sat or reclined in the pews. Some slept, but most groaned from the pain of their injuries. It took all his fortitude to fight back tears.

  Moshe stopped to greet a few of the wounded who had survived the night. Those who had the strength lifted an arm to grasp his extended hand as he knelt down to comfort them.

  After a few minutes, he made his way to the rabbi’s study and knocked.

  “Come in,” the rabbi called out.

  “Good morning, Rabbi,” Moshe said when he entered. As he removed his coat, he noticed how old the rabbi looked. Maybe it was the dark circles under his eyes. They seemed more pronounced today than he remembered.

  “Good morning, Moshe,” the rabbi said, rising up from his desk chair and walking around to Moshe. “Some of our boys out there,” he said, gesturing to the sanctuary beyond the closed door, “have remarked to me and to the nurses that they feel comforted when you visit with them.”

  Moshe nodded as the rabbi spoke.

  “I want you to understand that your training and education do not only take place in this room, but also out there,” he said pointing once again to the door. “As a tzaddik, you are not only of the flesh, but also a spiritual being. These men who are on death’s doorstep will see you as you are, a connection to Hashem.”

  The rabbi walked over to his window and looked out at the sun, beginning to illuminate the snow-covered streets. As he turned back around, Moshe saw tears running down his face. Moshe took a step forward and asked, “Rabbi, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Moshe,” he said, smiling and wiping the tears away with the back of his hand. “One of the duties of a rabbi is to encourage those just moments from passing to say the Shema prayer. You know this prayer, Moshe?”

  “Of course, Rabbi. Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One,” he recited.

  “Good, Moshe, go now. Tend to the wounded, give them comfort, and let them know that Hashem loves them and is waiting for them.”

  Moshe could hear the cries of the wounded men in the sanctuary as he left the rabbi’s study. His attention was drawn to a young man who lay on the floor, calling out in pain. His head was slightly propped up on a folded blanket. Moshe knelt down and took his hand. The man opened his eyes and fell silent. He squeezed Moshe’s hand tightly and offered a slight smile before exhaling his last breath.

  Just then a hand reached from behind Moshe and gently closed the soldier’s eyelids. Moshe turned to see the rabbi and, unable to contain himself, he laid his head on the rabbi’s shoulder and sobbed.

  Once he regained his composure, Moshe continued to visit the wounded. He wondered what would happen to the shtetl when the rabbi passed. There were a few young men waiting to take over the spiritual and religious leadership of the shul, but none had the experience or the connection that Rabbi Shapira provided to every member of the community. He would be deeply missed.

  Moshe felt that familiar unease sweep through his body. He sat down on an empty space on a pew next to a soldier with a head wound who slid down to give Moshe some space. He put his head between his knees to steady himself. The dizziness passed but not the nausea. Then the sweats came. He felt them rushing down his chest and forehead. He looked up and saw the rabbi looking straight at him with concern.

  Suddenly a loud disturbance from the street silenced everyone in the sanctuary. Moshe’s friend Max, who helped out occasionally, was perched by the window looking out onto the main street leading to the synagogue’s front door. “Russian soldiers,” he called out.

  A thunderous clash rang as the front doors flew open. In rushed soldiers with rifles drawn who took positions along the walls of the sanctuary’s main hall. The nurses screamed in fear. Those soldiers who could stand did so with thoughts of defense but realized their actions were futile.

  Moshe was still awash in sickness but struggled to his feet just as Captain Berbecki entered. Leather straps crisscrossed his chest, supporting a wide belt around his waist that carried his holstered handgun. He stomped down the sanctuary’s main aisle in his knee-high black boots and climbed the three steps to the raised platform where the rabbi conducted services.

  He was not surprised to see the captain as a Russian officer. Moshe had heard his mother speak before the war about the captain’s affiliation with the Galician Russophiles, a political organization sympathetic with the monstrous Russians.

  Berbecki scanned the room until his eyes fell upon the rabbi. “Rabbi, you are harboring enemies of the state.”

  The rabbi held out his palms. “These are wounded men, Captain, and need our care.”

  “They are the enemy and you are under arrest,” he said, signaling for his men to seize the rabbi.

  “Take your hands off him!” Moshe shouted. The captain’s attention and that of everyone else in the room turned to Moshe, who stood on the pew surrounded by armed soldiers with rifles now aimed at him.

  “Ah, Moshe Potasznik. It’s you again causing trouble,” declared the captain.

  “The rabbi is not well, please leave him be,” said Moshe.

  “He looks well enough,” the captain replied and signaled for his men to take the rabbi away.

  Moshe jumped off the pew and ran up to the steps standing before the captain. “Please do not take the rabbi,” he pleaded.

  The captain, who was a head taller than Moshe, looked down at him. “Okay, Moshe, I will release the rabbi.”

  Moshe was relieved. “Thank you, Captain.”

  “In his place we will take you.” He pointed to his men, and they grabbed Moshe, who was too weak to resist, and dragged his limp body toward the sanctuary doors.

  The captain scanned the room, sweeping his arm across the space, and shouted, “Take these men outside, drag them if they can’t walk, and shoot them.”

  A gasp of protests and screams was the last thing Moshe heard before he passed out. The lives of the thirty-six soldiers were about to be extinguished.

  CHAPTER 49

  THE GRAY MAN

  Jakob woke to the sounds of the ship’s horns announcing its arrival into port. Pincus had already left the cabin, probably hours earlier. Now the next part of their adventure would begin. The prince had offered him a wagon large enough to transport the five hundred guns, two strong horses to maneuver the German countryside, and papers for unimpeded travel from Hamburg to Kattowitz. Once they crossed the border into Galicia, they would no longer be under the royal protection.

  He made his way to the dining hall for his last meal before disembarking. To his surprise, he saw Pincus having breakfast with the prince and princess. Jakob couldn’t help smiling as he approached their table.
“Good morning, Your Highnesses,” he said with an instinctual bow of his head. “Good morning, Pincus. Would you mind if I joined you?” he asked.

  The prince said, “Please do, Jakob,” and indicated the empty chair. “Pincus was just enlightening us on the world of shoemaking. I think between the princess and myself, we must have over five hundred pairs of shoes. We would love to have Pincus live at the royal palace as the king’s cobbler,” he said with a glance at the princess who nodded in agreement.

  “That would be wonderful,” Pincus said. “Perhaps in another lifetime.”

  “Of course, we are just joking,” said the prince, who then turned his attention to Jakob. “I’m glad you’re here.” He looked around to ensure that no one could overhear him, and then added, “Your cargo is being offloaded onto the dock as we speak. When you disembark, go see this man.” He handed Jakob a note. “Arrangements have been made.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness,” Jakob said.

  “You will also need to stop at the customs office before you disembark. As a foreigner, you will need special permission to travel through the country. I have sent instructions to prepare the documents. But it would be my recommendation that you do whatever it takes not to be stopped and searched. Your cargo will interest many, and these papers may offer no protection after all,” he warned.

  The moment they stepped off the gangplank and into the Port of Hamburg, their first-class treatment ceased. Unlike the prince and princess, who had a luxurious heated motorcar waiting for them, Jakob and Pincus carried their luggage into the frigid morning. Jakob pulled his coat tighter and said to Pincus, “Let’s go find our ride.”

  After a chilling exploration along the waterfront, Jakob looked down at the note once more. It read:

  JÜRGEN HARTMANN

  STALL 24 NORTH

  “Here we are,” he said approaching the frozen gray steel door with STALL 24 NORTH emblazoned above it. He wondered if his knocking would be heard, because as he pounded the door, it felt like he was knocking against a block of solid ice.

  The door opened, and an older man looking just as gray as everything around him appeared. “Come in quickly,” he urged.

  Jakob and Pincus hurried in as the door slammed shut behind them.

  “It’s not much warmer inside,” Jakob whispered to Pincus, who seemed too frozen to speak.

  The only source of heat came from several steel barrels with sawed-off tops that served as wood-burning stoves. They huddled, holding their palms toward the flames and trying to absorb some warmth into their bodies.

  “My name is Jürgen Hartmann,” said the gray man. “I have everything prepared as instructed. Come, let me show you.”

  Jakob inspected the wagon. It looked sturdy enough to carry the weight of five hundred rifles, and the horses appeared healthy and strong.

  “Give the horses plenty of water and rest, and you should be able to make it to Kattowitz in seven days.”

  Jakob took the reins and summoned the horses forward. They set forth into the gray morning with many unknowns before them.

  CHAPTER 50

  CLARA’S SACRIFICE

  Clara thought she heard her name being called. She placed the pot down on the stove and walked over to open the front door to see if someone was outside. She was greeted by a gust of cold wind, dozens of dead leaves, light powdery snow swirling across the floor, and finally Max.

  He looked flustered and frightened.

  “Mrs. Potasznik, you must come quickly,” he said breathlessly. “They’ve taken Moshe and shot the wounded soldiers. You need to come now,” Max said, his eyes bulging.

  “What do you mean they’ve taken Moshe? Who has?”

  “Captain Berbecki. He wanted to take the rabbi, but Moshe begged him not to, so they took Moshe instead,” Max tried to explain.

  “Jennie.” She turned to her daughter. “Take care of the children. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She grabbed her coat, hat, and scarf and ran from the house.

  As Clara approached the synagogue she saw the horror that Max had hinted at. Motionless bodies of young men lay on the blood-stained, snow-packed earth, a mangled array of twisted legs, arms, and torsos. Rivulets of blood streamed down the wall, which was pockmarked with bullet holes.

  Clara screamed. “Who could do such a thing?” she wailed.

  “Clara,” shouted the rabbi from the entryway. “Come inside quickly.”

  She entered the sanctuary to the wails and cries of the nurses and midwives who had been attending to the wounded just moments before they were dragged out and murdered.

  The rabbi took Clara by the elbow and escorted her to his study. She felt everyone’s eyes looking at her.

  “Where’s Moshe?” she demanded the moment the rabbi closed the door to his study.

  “Sit down, Clara, and I will tell you.”

  The rabbi looked very frail as he related what had just happened. “Your son put his life in danger to save the life of an old man. I pray that Hashem provides a path back for Moshe.”

  “I am not waiting for Hashem, Rabbi. I am going to find this barbarian and bring my boy home,” Clara said.

  Clara hurried home as fast as she could on the icy street. Not wanting to upset the children, she took a breath before entering. Jennie was waiting for her as she walked in.

  “Shmuel and I are going to find Moshe and bring him home,” Clara told her. “You will need to take care of Anna and Hymie. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Mama, it’s too dangerous,” Jennie cried.

  “I’ll be fine, Jennie. Now you must be strong and take my place while I’m gone. If you need anything, go see the rebbetzin,” she said, giving Jennie a kiss and a hug.

  “Children. . . .” She gathered Anna and Hymie to her. “You listen to Jennie. I need to go find your brother,” she said, trying to smile. “I’ll be home very soon.”

  A sharp rap at the door interrupted the farewells. “That must be Shmuel,” Clara said. “Go let him in, Hymie.”

  Hymie ran and opened the door. “Hello Hymie,” Shmuel greeted him. “Are you ready, Clara?”

  “Just about. Did you find out anything?” she asked.

  “Most likely he’s been brought to the Russian outpost just north of the village. We can get there in about an hour. I have the wagon ready.”

  Clara sat next to Shmuel, who held the reins. The horses trudged through the snow-packed roads, following in the same path the army had marched along just hours before. The night sky had cleared, allowing the full moon to light their way.

  She rocked back and forth, pleading, “Hurry, Shmuel.”

  As they approached the encampment, Clara could make out groups of soldiers huddling around fires. Two on guard duty ordered them to stop.

  “Where do you think you two are going?” asked one with a rifle aimed at them.

  “Please inform Captain Berbecki that Clara Potasznik is here to see him,” she announced.

  The soldier stared in disbelief at Clara and Shmuel for a moment and then turned to walk back to the encampment. She looked carefully at the face of the remaining soldier guarding them and wondered if he had taken part in the carnage.

  Minutes later, the guard walked back and motioned for them to approach. He ordered them to stop in front of a wooden building surrounded by dozens of snow-covered canvas tents.

  Clara climbed down from the wagon onto the frozen mud, feeling stiff from sitting for so long in the cold. Shmuel joined her as they waited for permission to enter. The guard stepped in front of them and opened the heavy wooden door. She grabbed Shmuel’s hand for strength and they walked in.

  “Mama,” Moshe shouted from a chair pushed against the wall.

  “Moshe,” Clara shouted and ran over to her boy.

  The guard held up his arm, preventing her from taking another step forward.

  “Mrs. Potasznik, it’s nice to see you,” said Captain Berbecki as he stood up and walked around from his desk. She couldn’t help noticing t
hat his military uniform looked much more impressive than his former simple police captain’s uniform. But if he thinks this gives him the right to hurt Moshe, she thought, he is sorely mistaken.

  “Please sit down. We have much to talk about,” he said, motioning to the chairs in front of his desk.

  “You can see that Moshe is doing very well. No harm will come to him, I promise,” he said, standing next to Moshe and giving his shoulder a squeeze.

  Clara watched the captain strut around his office. She had never before thought that she was capable of causing another person physical harm, but at that moment she knew she could. She took a breath before she spoke.

  “We would like to take Moshe home now, Captain,” Clara said, trying to sound pleasant.

  “You can take him home, but not yet. You and I still have some unfinished business to attend to,” he said with a smirk.

  He then turned to his lieutenant. “Take these two outside,” he said, pointing to Shmuel and Moshe.

  “Mama?” Moshe called. Clara and Shmuel looked over to Moshe, who was now clearly experiencing an episode. His complexion had faded to pure white, sweat poured down his face, and he was slumped over in his chair.

  “Moshe!” Clara cried as she jumped up and rushed over to him. “He’s sick, Captain. Please let me take him home.”

  “Nonsense. Now the two of you get up and go with the lieutenant,” ordered the captain.

  Shmuel went over to Moshe and lifted him to his feet. The lieutenant shoved the two of them through the doorway. The door slammed shut. Clara looked at the captain who stood towering over her like an oak tree.

  “You know what you need to do if you want to walk out of here with your boy. The question is, Mrs. Potasznik, are you willing to do what it takes?”

  CHAPTER 51

  THE GERMAN COUNTRYSIDE

  They traveled without incident their first day through the German countryside. Jakob offered his charming smile to the passersby who hurried on, more interested in getting to their destination than standing shivering in the frigid cold chatting to strangers.