The Legend of Safehaven (19 page)

“It sounds like you’ve grown up in a very supportive, loving community, Jacob.”

Edison knew what the answer would be, but he had to see if that was part of the young man’s perception of himself.

“On the surface it would seem that way, wouldn’t it? So why do they herd us all toward each other—all the adoptee descendants—like sheep on a breeding farm?”

“Maybe there’s wisdom in that, Jacob.”

Nancy could see an alternative plan here.

“Think about it: Your ancestors—and the others—probably came from the same village in the old country. Marriage and mating were kept within the confines of that social structure. It’s possible the old ones, those who opened their hearts and homes to the victims of the Nazi monsters, wanted to preserve that pattern. But that’s only a guess on my part.”

“You don’t suppose it was a deliberate attempt to segregate us—that we were looked upon as outsiders, unfit to marry within the community, Tia?”

“No, Jacob,” Galen added, “everything you’ve told us says otherwise. Your genetic family was Jewish; your adoptive family was also Jewish. I know there are differences in some of the external practices, but you come from a great heritage, and those who took in your grandparents continued that tradition.”

“Then why did my papa do what he did? I told him and Mama that I loved art—that I loved to capture life as it is and preserve it. That’s what cinematographers do. Someday, I told them, I would trace our family and bring its history to life. But Papa became angry and said I would bring shame on our family by having anything to do with that
yetzer hara
box.

Galen whispered to Edison, “The TV.”

“He ordered me to go into the family business, because it was tradition—and a son must obey his father’s wishes.”

Galen blanched at those last words. He steadied himself, not allowing Jacob to see the tremor in his hands.

“I don’t think your problem is with Judaism,” Edison interjected.

The young man started to interrupt, but Edison held up his hand.

“Wait, let me finish. It’s so easy for older folks—parents, teachers, whatever—to forget that one of the bittersweet joys of youth is to dream. All young men and women dream of conquering the world with great deeds, righting wrongs, becoming heroes and heroines.”

Edison was surprised by his emotional response. He remembered his own dream and the power structure that shot it down. Then he almost laughed out loud, realizing for the first time that the Powers That Be had not stopped his idea from happening. He had received no credit, but the Internet—his dream child—had become a reality.

“Your problem is with Isaac the man...” and Edison looked directly into Jacob’s eyes, “and with yourself. You are your father and he is you—two identical magnetic poles. It’s natural to have conflict. You’re both afraid of your futures.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Yes you do,” Nancy countered. “Your father is getting older. He sees his mortality coming closer day by day. He wants to be assured that something of him will carry forward, that what he views as part of himself will respect and remember what he was. You are an extension of him. How can he deal with what he considers self-betrayal?”

“You mean…”

“No, I am not saying that you are betraying him. Remember, he was young once and had his own dreams. Who knows what he would have done, if he hadn’t entered the family business.”

Jacob nodded.

“Papa is a fine violinist. He and Mama play violin-piano duets together. I even studied it for awhile, but I’m not nearly as good as he is.”

“The artistic soul resides well within your family, Jacob,” Galen said. “The job facing the four of us is to remind your father of his dreams. Only then will he accept the possibility of yours.”

“That’s enough for tonight,” Nancy chimed in. “Tomorrow you three men can go shopping. You know how I hate to shop.”

She tried to hide her grin.

The two old men laughed.

Galen lay in bed, staring at the wall. Was it all that simple? Why couldn’t he have seen this back then? His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on his door.

“Come in, whoever it is.”

The door opened slowly, and Jacob entered, wearing Tonio’s spare pajamas and robe.

“Tio Galen, I’m sorry to disturb you but … I wonder if, before we went into town … could we visit the Garden of Remembrance? I never had a chance to do so when Betty died, and I’d like to do it while I’m here, for Tonio’s sake as well as my own.”

Galen nodded. He, too, needed that visit.

Morning broke with the unique crisp, cool clarity of a mountain spring day. The four had delayed breakfast, until they could trudge down the mountain trail at dawn, their steps accompanied by the chirping of nestling birds seeking sustenance from their parents.

“Here we are, Jacob.”

Edison indicated the small clearing, where only the early daffodils were in bloom, their white petals bonnet-like around their central cones.

Jacob carried the sandalwood case. He took off his coat, spread it on the ground, and set the case on top of it. He carefully opened the case and placed one of the
tefillin
on his left arm, the other on his head. He unfolded the time-worn
tallit
and carefully draped his shoulders. The
tzizilts
moved in time with the early morning breeze, tassels of belief in God’s wisdom.

Nancy, Edison, and Galen watched the young man step forward and recite the Kaddish, the ancient prayer of mourning.

“
Yisgadal yiskadash sh’may rabo
…”

Glorified and sanctified be God’s great name throughout the world, which He has created according to His will.

The three knew that Jacob had found himself.

It was a long drive by car for the old friends—a long time since any of them had ventured to New York. They had discussed many options for travel, but considering what Nancy had in mind, Edison’s Subaru seemed the most practical. And, given the length of the trip, Edison even allowed Galen to share in the driving. He often said it was “white-knuckle travel” when Galen took the wheel.

“You realize, young man, that this car stops for all bathroom breaks. It is one of the joys of surviving as long as we have. The bathroom is a holy shrine for the three of us,” Edison solemnly intoned.

Galen and Nancy completed the doxology.

“Praise be the bathroom. Amen!”

Jacob tried relieving his nervous tension by joking, “Are we there yet? Are we there yet?”

The trio smiled in recognition.

As they approached their destination, Edison and Nancy thanked the Fates for their escape from metropolitan New York twenty years ago. Neither had thought the area could get more congested, but during their absence the area had seen an astounding growth in buildings and traffic.

It was Sunday. The
Shabbat
restrictions had ended in the residential neighborhood of old brownstones, where Jacob’s parents lived. With his knowledge of the area, they were able to find parking just a short distance away.

Following the instruction of the three, the young man dressed in muted dark clothing—not quite the outfit he was used to, but comfortable. His hair and beard were still short, because he now kept everything trimmed.

“Let us go in first,” Nancy warned. “We need to size up the situation. If the police show up, stay in the car.”

She tried to laugh at her remark but couldn’t. She knew police intervention was always a possibility in family disputes.

Slowly she climbed the worn, stone steps to the heavy, wood door.

We’re both relics of a bygone time, aren’t we, house?

She lifted the cast-iron knocker. Three times she struck the metal anvil. A minute later the door opened on its intruder chain, and a late-middle-aged woman peered out, her face distinctly lined by stress.

“Mrs. Geltmacher?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Nancy Edison. This is my husband, Robert, and our friend, Dr. Galen. We’d like to talk with you about Jacob. Is your husband home?”

“My husband cannot come to the door. He sits
shiva
.”

“I’m sorry, have you lost a relative?”

“He sits
shiva
for Jacob.”

Nancy stood impassively but mentally shook her head. Isaac Geltmacher was going to be
one of those
. She tried again.

“Jacob is not dead, Mrs. Geltmacher. He is here with us. We’d like to talk to you and your husband.”

The woman’s face lit up with relief at the news of her son. Jacob was well! Then her somber expression returned, as she remembered her husband.

“I do not think that would be wise.”

Galen moved forward. “We’ve come a long way, Mrs. Geltmacher. At least give us the opportunity to try.”

Rebekah Geltmacher thought a moment then nodded, released the chain, and led the three into the parlor. The diminutive woman, dressed in simple, dark dress—no jewelry, no makeup to sully her natural good looks—moved hesitantly toward a back room.

As they waited, they saw the spinet piano sitting in the corner of the room, and a worn, violin case rested on top of it. There were no paintings or photos on the walls. The furniture had that heavy, stuffed look favored at the beginning of World War I.

Isaac Geltmacher, dressed in a black, broad-cut suit, heavily bearded and locked, entered, followed by his wife. She drew back, her hands clutched in front of her. He wasn’t tall but was imposing none the less, in the way he stood and in the angulation of his jaw.

Galen immediately saw the boy in the father. Jacob had inherited that not-quite-stocky build and strong jaw line. He also shared his mother’s sensitive brown eyes and delicate lips. And when Isaac spoke, Galen recognized the young man’s mannerisms mirrored in the father.

“You come to speak with me about my son? My son is dead! I sit
Shiva
for him. I have no son!”

The words hit Galen head-on like an arrow, wrenching him to the core.

Edison took a step forward, and Isaac involuntarily stepped back.

“Why do you say this? On what basis do you reject your own son?”

Again the arrow pierced Galen, as he heard the words Geltmacher spoke in controlled anger.

“A son must obey his father’s wishes.”

“No, Isaac Geltmacher,” Nancy interjected, a subtle fierceness tingeing her voice. “A son must
respect
his father. Nowhere is it written that a son must live his father’s life.”

“Since when is a
shiksa
a
rebbe
?”

Nancy tried to keep her voice gentle, but she felt hard-pressed to do so at the man’s reply. Fire now burned in her eyes as she faced him.

“Mr. Geltmacher, my name is Nancy Seligman Edison. My father, Ira Seligman, and his ancestors came from the same village as your family. He fought the ones who made it necessary for your father to be brought here and adopted. Do not insult me, young man!”

Rebekah stood in the shadows nodding agreement.

Galen took up the charge. He could barely resist choking the man.

“Mr. Geltmacher, you are Isaac, son of Abraham. If the God of Abraham Himself had commanded your father to kill you in sacrifice, would Abraham Geltmacher have done so?”

“So now the goy is the
rebbe
.”

Galen pushed on.

“Has God commanded you to sacrifice your son?”

Isaac lowered his head.

“No.”

“Then why have you done so?”

Isaac slumped into one of the chairs and began to sob.

Rebekah placed her hands on her husband’s shoulders. She was smiling.

Nancy turned to Edison and whispered, “Get Jacob, and make sure he brings the thing.”

Edison left the apartment and headed to his car. Jacob saw him coming and got out.

“Come on, and remember what we told you—and bring that with you. Did you get it ready?”

Jacob nodded, grabbed the case, and followed Edison back up the familiar steps. He felt strange, both feverish and chilled at the same time. His mouth was dry, as he crossed under the
mezuzah
-marked lintel and entered the home of his youth. He stood as he had been instructed, until his father and mother looked up at him.

Rebekah’s eyes filled with joy. Isaac’s eyebrows rose questioningly. The three elders looked at their young friend expectantly, their mental fingers crossed. Jacob took a deep breath, stepped forward, and faced his father directly.

“Papa, Mama, I’m sorry.”

Isaac grumbled to conceal his own emotion. He looked at his son and said in quiet tones, “As well you should be.”

Then he stood and embraced him.

The tension broken, the six had sat down for tea. Afterward, Jacob opened the case and took out Nancy’s violin. Eyes twinkling, he looked at his father and began to bow the opening to Mendelssohn’s “Concerto for Violin and Piano in D Minor.” His mother went to the piano. His father hesitated then opened his own violin case, lovingly removed the heirloom instrument, tested it, and began to play.

Galen watched with pleasure, as the mother’s fingers moved over the keyboard, her body emphasizing the beauty of the sound in motion. Father and son, playing in synchrony, each bow, each nod of the head seemingly choreographed.

Galen’s thoughts drifted to a long-ago day, when his old friend and classmate Dave Nash sat next to his father on their Virginia farm. The same thought that had occurred to him then echoed in his mind now:

Twins, not father and son, but twins—one older than the other

They left hearing promises and words of understanding exchanged between parents and son. Each of them silently hoped the identical temperaments of Jacob and his father would remain buffered by Rebekah’s conciliatory presence.

Galen had taken Isaac’s hand and looked him in the eye.

“Remember, you are an artist, and so is your son. Allow him the privilege of developing his art. I have a feeling there is greatness there.”

“Thank you, Rebbe Galen.”

”Are you sure you don’t mean Reb?”

“No, truly.”