Daniel Yarosh - The Death of Hercules - A DocuNovel

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They arrived in Krakow near midnight, and made their way to the Kazimierz district, the Jewish quarter. At the Alte Schul synagogue, they woke the rabbi, who had received a message from Zalmund and showed them to a large catering room with a divider. He put Deena on one side and Zalmund on the other, then returned to his home. They waited as long as they could for Zalmund to arrive, but eventually fell into an exhausted sleep.

The next morning was Sunday, December 1. The Jewish quarter was workday busy despite the flu, but the rest of Catholic Krakow was just returning from church. Zalmund had not yet arrived, and they each shared a lingering doubt that he would. They nervously dressed and Max led Deena down Starowislna street to Rynek Glowny, the romantic Krakow central square. Soon their mood turned as they put aside the horrors of the day before and strolled the enormous medieval plaza. The facades of the ancient Grey House at number 6, the burgher’s townhouse with an ornate Baroque doorway, and the Gothic Boner house at number 9 with Renaissance figurines adorning the archway, transported them to a fantasy time of lords and ladies.

They stopped in front of St. Mary’s Basilica as the traditional trumpeter abruptly finished the Trumpet Call. The last stragglers of the mass were leaving, and Deena turned to Max with a quizzical smile. Of course she wanted to go in, Max thought, but can I? He searched his heart. She was so immediate and beautiful, and wanted this so much. His family and traditions seemed so remote, abstract ideas that bound him to his future. After what he had survived, what could it matter that he went into a church? He smiled back, took her hand, and they entered. The soaring nave was covered with a cross-ribbed vault and dressed in flanking stained glass windows. He felt that he was suddenly dropped behind enemy lines. He sensed guilt for enjoying the beauty and intimidated by the ornately carved statues and the enormous crucifix in the center. At once he felt all eyes were on him, although no one noticed the pair. Deena kneeled near the back pews, crossed herself and prayed for forgiveness for what she had done. She stood and they left.

Deena seemed infused with a new and fresh spirit. She took Max’s elbow and told him she wanted to see a szopka , a traditional nativity scene set against a Central Square townhouse. They steered toward a small crowd that had gathered to watch a puppet show played out before the manger scene. Max and Deena craned their necks to catch a view, and when a couple in front turned to leave, Max put his hand gently on Deena’s hip to pull her out of their way. Perhaps his touch was a little too firm and tender. She turned to look at him and found him staring at her face. At that moment a charged shiver leapt between them. They held each other’s gaze too long, and Deena glanced down for a moment. But she peeked back up and found him still staring at her.

Max felt a stabbing turmoil. His heart clenched and released with joy. He had forgotten his connection to who he was and what he was doing there. Why had he come all this way if not to meet her and take her away? He yearned to be released from his task, his burden, his responsibility to his older brothers and his parents. He did not want to miss this chance. He felt young, alive and full of possibility, while the road ahead was dark and uncertain. This beautiful woman could be his savior, his diversion from tragedy. It felt like love. He did not take his hand from her hip.

Deena surprised herself at the ease with which she let him into her heart. His sentiment for her was not well disguised, and she felt great relief to give in to it. Her life had become as a soldier, an escaped convict, a refugee, always in the immediate and always in danger. This place, this time with him made her as calm as she had been in many weeks. The prayer in the church, the puppet show, and his touch connected her to memories of peace and tranquility that she had almost forgot. Could this be love? She leaned into his shoulder and laid down her head.

On the way back to the Jewish Quarter, they strolled slowly, as if to hold on to the moment that they might not be able to recreate. Neither spoke but held hands, consumed with their own thoughts that were a dialog between them. They turned to each other, supposing that the other was thinking the same. They each imagined a future of idyllic peace in an illusory homeland, which lasted a few blocks of the Starowislna.

As they approached the dingy Jewish Quarter, the drapery of fantasy sloughed from their shoulders and the weight of their circumstances descended upon them. No more needed to be said.

“Do you think Zalmund will be there?” Max asked, breaking the silence.

“He said he would meet us there,” she said, for the first time without the confidence of destiny.

After a few steps Max stopped and held back Deena’s hand. “Why were you on that train?” It was a simple question but coming when it did it seemed like a terminal stop on a long chain of thought that reconnected him to now. She stopped and turned with a tilt to her head. She looked him up and down again, now that the magic was broken. Was this now an American soldier interrogating her?

“We were returning from Amsterdam. We went south to Lille to avoid the Front when you boarded.”

“Yes, but why?” he persisted.

She began to walk again, with her head down. Max had to keep up to hear her quiet words. “Zalmund’s father had sent goods to a family friend to sell in Amsterdam. When the war started, they could not retrieve the proceeds. As soon as the war in the west appeared over, we set out to retrieve the money.”

“Did his father know he went to get the money?” Max asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. It happened so fast. Maybe not,” she huffed, annoyed at this inquisition. What would it matter and how could he understand? Living comfortably in America was not at all like living in a Polish town in Prussia with Russia breathing fire and Austria stirring the cauldron. What did Max know about doing what had to be done?

“Was it a lot of money?” Max asked, but Deena did not answer. She put her head down and one foot in front of the other. “Of course it was,” he said. “Why else go?”

When they reached the catering hall of the Alte Schul in late afternoon, Zalmund was nowhere to be found. They searched out the Rabbi in the main sanctuary preparing for the minchah prayer service.

“I couldn’t let him stay here,” he said. “He looked terrible and coughed like a skeleton. I sent him to the hospital, but he said he was going to get a room.” Max asked where that might be, and the Rabbi suggested two boarding houses nearby. Max and Deena gathered their suitcases and set off.

They found him at the first house. The house matron immediately recognized the description and shook her head. “He is upstairs. I put him in the room at the top, down the hall. No one should be near him.” They arranged to stay themselves then went upstairs and knocked at the door.

“Zollie” she said.

They heard a weak voice say, “come in” and coughed. They gently pushed the door open and peered into the dark room. It was a December evening in a poorly heated chamber but Zalmund lay on top of the bed, head on a pillow wearing all his clothes, sweating profusely. Rivulets of moisture left tracks on his temples. But his eyes were as sharp as ever.

“I see you have been out. Enjoying the town,” he whispered. He rearranged himself to sit up in the bed and composed his posture. He took only a moment to surveille their stances, how they leaned into one another and shot looks of concern between them, to conclude his greatest fear was true. He had lost Deena to Max. “Are you surprised to see me?” he said.