Chapter 3 #4
Rachel's eyes narrowed – she'd always been too perceptive when it came to his discomfort.
"But surely you must talk to him sometimes?
Papa always said that true scholars can speak to anyone, regardless of rank.
" She took another piece of bread, using it to soak up her soup.
"Remember how he used to tell us about debating with the nobility back in Russia? "
"Before they drove us out," Sarah muttered. She stood, gathering empty bowls with efficient movements. "Rachel, you haven't touched your mending."
"I was reading," Rachel protested. "And anyway, my book bag is falling apart – I can barely carry my texts anymore. Miss Andersson says we need our books every day now." Her voice took on that particular wheedling tone that had always worked on their father.
Jakob watched his mother's fingers tighten on the serving spoon, saw the slight hunch of her shoulders that meant they couldn't afford whatever was coming next. The familiar ache of responsibility settled in his chest.
"How bad is the satchel?" Sarah managed to keep her voice even, but Jakob recognized the careful way she formed each word, her accent growing stronger with stress.
"The strap's completely worn through, and there's a hole in the bottom.
" Rachel stayed focused on her dinner, pushing the potatoes around her plate.
Then, like their father used to do when building an argument, she added her strongest point last: "The other students all got new ones at the start of term. "
Jakob caught the flash of pain in his mother's eyes. Rachel might have inherited their father's gift for debate, but she hadn't learned when to stop pushing. He stood, gathering dishes. "I'll help clean up, Mama."
Rachel disappeared into her room with her books – their father's books, really, the few they'd been unable to sell. The quiet splash of dishwater filled the space between them as Sarah began to wash and Jakob dried, the familiar rhythm of their evening routine settling over the kitchen.
"The egg money's spoken for this month," Sarah said finally, scrubbing at a bowl with more force than necessary. Her sleeve slipped, revealing the red, chapped skin of her forearms from hours at the laundry. "And there's nothing left from my wages after we bought the slate to fix the barn roof."
"I could take it to Old Erik's place," Jakob said, carefully wiping each plate Sarah passed over.
The old leather worker had always had a soft spot for their family, especially after Chaim's death.
"He's a great one for repairing any kind of tack or leather.
Maybe he'll have an idea that's cheaper than a whole new satchel. "
"You're doing too much already." A clean bowl appeared in his hands. "The academy work-"
"Can wait a bit. Won't be forever." He lined the dishes up with precision on the shelf, trying not to think about Harald's face in the library. "Rachel shouldn't have to stand out from her classmates. You know how she gets when she feels different."
Like their father had been different. Like they were all different, really, in this Swedish town full of blonde Lutherans where everyone else's family had lived for generations.
Sarah's hands stilled in the dishwater. "You spoil her, you know. She didn't even help with the milking this morning. Instead, I found her in your Papa's study chair, reading Maimonides as if that would put food on our table."
"I know." Jakob hung the dishtowel to dry, remembering how their father used to sit in that same chair, surrounded by books, muttering in a mix of Russian, Hebrew and Yiddish that only he could understand.
Rachel had his same habit of getting lost in texts, forgetting the world existed.
The thought brought a familiar ache, but he pushed it aside.
Someone had to keep their feet on the ground.
"You're already stretched thin with school and the farm." Sarah's voice softened. "I see how late you've stayed up studying this week. And you're up before dawn to handle the animals. Your father-" she paused, swallowed. "He would have wanted you to focus on your studies, not worry about us."
"Papa would have wanted a lot of things," Jakob said, more sharply than he intended.
"He would have wanted Rachel to have a new satchel.
He would have wanted you to not work your hands raw at the laundry.
He would have wanted-" He would have wanted me to be more like him, to care more about books than about fighting and trajectories and making the world safe, he thought.
He cut himself off, running a hand through his curls – another of his father's gestures he couldn't seem to shake.
"Genug," Sarah said softly. "Enough." She pulled the plug, letting the water drain. "We manage with what we have, like we always have."
Jakob leaned against the counter, watching the last of the soapy water swirl away.
His mother was right, of course. But managing meant more than just getting by.
It meant making sure Rachel didn't lose herself in books and dreams like their father had.
It meant keeping their small farm running so his mother didn't have to take on more washing.
It meant studying twice as hard at Riddarhuset to prove he deserved his place there, while pretending not to notice the talk about the Jewish laundresses son who didn't belong.
"Just... promise me you won't work yourself to exhaustion," Sarah touched his arm, her work-roughened fingers gentle. "We need you healthy more than we need a new barn roof or Rachel's satchel fixed.
Jakob nodded, though they both knew it was a promise he couldn't really keep. Someone had to keep the farm running, help Rachel with her homework, and make sure there was food on the table. That someone had always been him.
He'd figure it out. He always did. But first, he had artillery calculations to complete for tomorrow's class – problems he hadn't quite managed to finish that afternoon.
From behind the curtain around her bed, he could hear Rachel humming their father's favorite niggun as she read.
Some things, Jakob thought, were better left unmanaged.
August 25, 1939
The dew-soaked grass was slippery under Harald's boots as he made his way to the firing range in the pre-dawn darkness for the first Riflery exam of the year.
The air was starting to get a chill in the morning, just enough to make everything feel fresh and new.
Still, he gave a little shiver, which was likely just his deep dread of the morning's exercises making him tremble.
The Mauser rifles waited in their rack, steel gray against the wooden stand, their barrels dull and black in the pale light.
Harald's stomach clenched at the sight. Freddie's voice echoed in his memory: "Come on, Hal, you're thinking too much.
Just pull the trigger!" Easy for Freddie to say.
His older brother had always made everything look effortless, especially shooting.
Christian's voice cut through the morning stillness. "Gentlemen, form up!"
Harald took his place in line with the other cadets, trying not to notice how Jakob stood ramrod straight two spaces down, eyes forward, every inch the proper soldier.
Nothing like the boy who'd spoken with him in the library yesterday.
The memory of that easy conversation made the formal distance between them now feel like another weight pressing down on Hal's chest.
The sun crept over the horizon as Christian demonstrated the "proper form" for what felt like the hundredth time.
His cousin moved with practiced grace, settling the rifle against his shoulder as if it were an extension of his body.
"Notice the stance, gentlemen. Feet shoulder-width apart, weight slightly forward. "
Harald's attention drifted to where Jakob was methodically checking his weapon. His movements were careful, almost tender as he ran the cleaning cloth along the barrel. There was something mesmerizing about the quiet confidence in those hands—
"Your Highness?" Christian's voice snapped like a whip. "Perhaps you'd care to demonstrate for the class?"
Harald stepped forward, his cheeks burning.
Christian knew how terrible he was at shooting, why would he single him out like this?
The rifle felt awkward and heavy in his hands, the metal ice-cold even through his gloves.
He tried to mirror Christian's stance, but the weapon seemed to fight him, refusing to settle properly against his shoulder.
The first shot went wide. So did the second. By the third, Harald's shoulder ached from the kick, and he could feel Christian's smirk without having to look.
"I see some things never change, cousin," Christian murmured, just loud enough for Harald to hear. "Still can't hit the broad side of a barn."
A quiet voice cut through Harald's humiliation. "Permission to assist, Your Highness?"
Your Highness. Yesterday it had been Harald, soft and almost shy in the library's shadows. Harald wanted to snap at the formality, but Jakob's expression was perfectly, precisely neutral as he waited for permission. Only his eyes, fixed somewhere over Harald's left shoulder, betrayed any tension.
"Of course, Cadet Eliasberg." Harald tried to match that careful formality, but his voice came out rougher than intended.
Jakob moved behind him, and suddenly Harald couldn't remember how to breathe, much less shoot.
A gloved hand settled at his waist, applying gentle pressure.
"Shift your weight forward, like this." Jakob's voice was low, meant only for Harald's ears.
His breath was warm against Harald's neck, a contrast to the morning air.
"Shoulder relaxed," Jakob murmured. His hands moved up, adjusting Harald's grip on the rifle. Was it Harald's imagination, or did those fingers tremble slightly as they brushed his? "You're fighting the kick. Let the rifle become part of you."