Read Brothers Beyond Blood Online
Authors: Don Kafrissen
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Historical, #Jewish, #World Literature, #Historical Fiction
Brothers Beyond Blood (16 page)
There was carpentry work on the end of the building and then electrical wiring which we were eager to learn. We met a man from Bulgaria named Boris, who said he was an electrical man and used to run his own company. He and Herschel found three more men, a Pole, Filip from Gdansk,; a German Jew, Moishe, who came from the horrors of Auschwitz, and an Austrian who said he hid Jews from the Nazis, a farmer, whose wife and daughter were killed by a misdropped bomb one year ago. I don’t remember his name now. They all had performed wiring of buildings and agreed to allow Herschel and me to work alongside them.
We worked hard this day, trying to forget the Rabbi’s death, or at least try to put it behind us. We unreeled wire, nailed in metal electrical boxes and drilled holes in wooden wall supports, called studs. By late afternoon, we were exhausted.
We sat in the shade and shared a glass bottle filled with cool water. A shadow fell on me and I lifted my eyes. Maria stood before me and held out a hand, which I gripped and hauled myself to my feet. My, that woman was strong.
“Hans, we must talk.”
“Ya, we must. Come, let us go into another room.” I kept her hand in mine, and we walked away. Behind me, I saw Herschel grinning as he took another long drink of water.
We went into one of the storerooms, and I tried to pull her into my arms, but Maria put her hands on my chest and held me away. “Hans, this must end now.” She crossed her arms across her chest. She looked sterner than I had ever seen her.
“What do you mean, Maria?”
“Hans, I can no longer be with you. I am frightened.” She hugged herself. “You are surrounded by death.” She was quivering now and sobbing softly, the tears running down her cheeks in rivulets.
Once more I reached for her but she threw her hands up and spun around, walking in small circles. “No, no. Oh, my Hans, I want to but I cannot.” Her agony was palpable. She gripped handfuls of her hair and shook her head violently. The sobs grew louder and deeper.
I stood straight and gripped her by the shoulders, “I have been surrounded by death for a long time. I had hoped to put it all behind me.”
“We will speak perhaps tomorrow, when you have calmed down.” I turned and walked away.
It was the beginning of the end. Now there was only Herschel and me. At least we had that.
We buried the Rabbi the next morning in the small wood behind the women’s camp. It was well attended, and both Herschel and I spoke well of him. Many men came forward and spoke, and no one had anything but good things to say of that fine man. He probably would have been embarrassed by the accolades. I will be remembering him in the Kaddish all the years of my life.
One week later, Mr. Nowicki informed Herschel and me that his family had agreed to sponsor us. Although we were apprehensive, the thought of a new life and a new family was a comfort.
I tried to see Miss Maria several times but she was either out or her assistant informed me that she was unavailable. Two months later Herschel and I boarded a ship in Antwerp and left for Chicago, America.
I never did have that talk with Maria and did not know what became of her. That is, until one day, two years later, Herschel and I were working on an apartment remodel with Mr. Nowicki’s brother, Daniel, in the city of Chicago, USA. I was holding a sheet of plywood against a wall and felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Hey, you. Have you got a minute for an old friend?” said Miss Maria.
I thought I recognized the voice and turned around slowly. Yes, it was she. I lowered the sheet of plywood and held out my arms. She jumped into them. And that’s how my wife, your Aunt Maria, came back into my life. Six months later we married and your father, Herschel, was my best man.
So there you have it, my children, the story of your Uncle Hans and me, up until the time we came to America. What happened after that, you already know … how we met our wives, your mother and your Aunt Maria, our work and schooling, where we lived and all the rest. We never lied to you, not really. Whenever you asked about our pasts, we just didn’t go into details, if you remember.
I also know that you once asked why we mumbled when we worked. You, Ancel, who worked with us, always wanted to know what we were saying. Oh, it was great fun spinning yarns each time you asked. But now I will tell you. We were saying the Kaddish over and over as a way of asking forgiveness for the friends who were killed, for the thousands of men, women and children we saw gassed and then heaped on our little trolleys and dumped in the pits to be burned or just buried; and mostly for Rabbi Horowitz and Mendel. I’d made it into a little song, and sometimes we sang it or just hummed.
Did you really want us to tell you the details? Did you want me to tell you that each morning I prayed that none of my children would ever experience the horrors I and your Uncle Hans saw, lived, experienced? Now I go to my rest peacefully, knowing that the world is different, that you and your children will be safe.
Do I have any regrets? Yes, of course, I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t. I regret that you never got to meet my real brother, Isaac, my parents, my sister Miriam, and especially Rabbi Horowitz and my friend Mendel. I think you would have liked them.
You may wonder why a couple of good Jews like Hans and I never went to Israel, even for a visit. We couldn’t. It would have been too painful, and we didn’t want to live in the past. The greatest thing that ever happened to us was being taken in by the Nowickis. They were our American family. That is why we have always stayed in touch with them, why you played with their children and why we sat on the board of their foundation.
Now, do you tell your cousins this story? Hans says no. I say yes. You are all our children and we raised you to be strong, independent people. We leave it in your capable hands. Both Hans and I loved you all deeply, and we will miss seeing your smiling faces. Have good lives and leave this world a better place than when you arrived.
Your loving Father and your Uncle,
Herschel and Hans Rothberg
* * *
“Well. Do you think its all true?” asked Miriam. She looked beat, haggard, like she was just lost.
Sammy sat on the edge of the recliner fiddling with his coffee. “Don’t know why they’d have written it all down just to bullshit us,” he said. “What do you think, Al?”
I sprawled on the old leather sofa in Mim’s den, sipping a cup of tea, letting the steam envelop my face. “I don’t know, Sammy,” I said finally. “What do you guys think? I mean, I believe the story, though it’s going to take me a while to process it all. But do we tell Nate and Ruthie?”
Nate and Ruthie
Rothberg
were our cousins, Hans’ children.
“I can’t, Al.” Miriam shook her head. “If we do decide, you’ll have to do it,” she whispered.
“Yeah, man. I hate to say it but it’s on you now,” Sammy added quickly. “I’ve got to get back to Vegas anyway. I’m on duty tomorrow night.” He was the ultimate buck passer. Nothing was ever his fault.
Well, I was the boss of a good-sized construction company, used to hiring and firing, dealing out bad and good news, just like my dad and uncle. “Let me think on it a while. If I decide to, I’ll handle it. I saw them at Pop’s funeral, so I know they’re still in town.”
And that’s where I’ll leave it. Two years have passed since Pop’s death. I still say Kaddish for the old man and Uncle Hans, and for all the others who have died.
Will I pass this manuscript on to my kids? I don’t know.
Maybe it’s time to just let the past die.
The End
About the Author
Don Kafrissen lives on five rural acres on Florida’s West Coast with his wife Diane, 2 cats and a dog. He and his wife built their own house and are “car people,” taking part in many car shows and cruise-ins each year with their vintage autos. Don started the Brooksville Writers’ Group several years ago and now enjoys friendships with many local authors.
Don is a veteran of the U.S. Navy, has lived in Rhode Island, Canada, Texas, California, Vermont and many other places. He has visited 43 different countries and he and his wife once lived 10 years on a 40’ Endeavour sailboat, spending many happy months in the Caribbean. Don is semi-retired, and owns a power tool repair business and a publishing company. He is a graduate of Cranston High School East in Cranston, R.I. and Queen’s University’s McArthur College in Kingston, Ontario.
His Bucket List still includes a trip to Ireland and to the Burning Man Festival.
Author Don Kafrissen and one of his cars.
Also by
Don
Missing Pieces
White Emeralds
Mustang Charlie
Gunfight on Clearwater Beach
Short Story Collection
On Top of Her Game
The Brooksville Terrorist
Stories in MOSAIC 2010
(Anthology)
