Portraits Read Free Page A

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