Chapter 7 #3
Inside, his mother stood at the stove, her back straight as a soldier's. The familiar scent of chicken soup filled the kitchen, but there was something different in the way Sarah moved—a new tension in her shoulders, a deliberate precision to her movements.
"You're late," she said without turning, but there was no reproach in her voice. Just relief.
"Sorry, Mama. The tactics lecture ran long." He kissed her cheek. "Where's Rachel?"
Sarah's lips thinned. "Out. Again."
"Out where?"
"She wouldn't say." Sarah stirred the soup with more force than necessary. "Just that she'd be back for dinner."
Jakob frowned. "She can't just disappear without telling us where she's going. Not with everything that's happening."
"I told her exactly that." Sarah set the ladle down carefully. "She said I was being paranoid. That nothing's going to happen here."
The front door banged open before Jakob could respond. Rachel swept in, cheeks flushed with cold or excitement, her dark curls windblown. She wore her good dress—the blue one usually saved for special occasions—and a scarf Jakob didn't recognize.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, not sounding sorry at all. She unwound the scarf—definitely new, Jakob noted, and finer than anything they could afford—and hung it carefully by the door.
"Where were you?" Sarah asked, her voice carefully neutral.
"With friends from school." Rachel busied herself at the sink, washing her hands. "Studying."
"Which friends?" Jakob asked.
Rachel shot him an irritated look. "Does it matter? I'm here now."
"It matters," Sarah said quietly, "because we need to know where you are. Always."
Something in her tone made Rachel pause. She turned, water dripping from her hands. "Why? Nothing's going to happen here. Sweden is neutral."
"So was Russia, until it wasn't," Sarah said, her voice tight. "So was Poland, until last week."
Rachel rolled her eyes. "This isn't Russia, Mama. And I'm not a child anymore. I don't need to report my every movement."
"That's not what this is about," Jakob said, stepping between them. "It's about being careful. Knowing where each other is in case—"
"In case what?" Rachel demanded. "In case we have to run again? Is that what you were going to say?"
The silence that followed was answer enough. Rachel looked from Jakob to their mother, her expression softening slightly.
"That's not going to happen," she said, gentler now. "Sweden isn't Russia. And even if it was—" She hesitated. "I have friends who would help us. Important friends."
Something in the way she said it made Jakob's skin prickle. "Rachel—"
"The soup's getting cold," Sarah interrupted. "Rachel, set the table. The good plates."
Rachel moved to obey, the moment broken. Jakob watched her, noting the new confidence in her movements, the subtle changes he'd missed while away at the academy. When had his little sister started keeping secrets? And what kind of "important friends" did a seventeen-year-old farm girl have?
The dining room table gleamed in the candlelight, the good plates—their mother's pride, carried all the way from Russia wrapped in quilts—arranged with unusual care.
Sarah's hands trembled slightly as she lit the Shabbat candles, her prayer more fervent than usual.
The familiar Hebrew words filled the small room, but tonight they seemed to carry a different weight—less ritual, more plea.
"Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha'olam..." Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe...
Jakob watched the candlelight reflected in his mother's eyes and thought of the reports he'd read that morning—Polish synagogues burning, Jewish businesses looted. How many mothers were lighting Shabbat candles in hiding tonight? How many couldn't light them at all?
As they took their seats, Sarah ladled soup into their bowls with careful precision. "I heard from Mrs. Goldstein today," she said, her tone deliberately casual. "Her cousin in Warsaw hasn't written in two weeks."
Rachel fidgeted with her spoon. "Maybe the mail is just delayed. With everything happening."
"Maybe," Sarah agreed, though her expression said otherwise. "And Mr. Levinsky's brother in ?ód? has gone silent too."
Jakob felt the weight of what his mother wasn't saying. The Jewish community in town was small, but connected—a network of shared history and mutual support. If they were worried...
"What are people saying?" he asked quietly.
Sarah's eyes flicked to Rachel, then back to Jakob. "That it's worse than the papers report. That the Germans are targeting Jews specifically." She hesitated. "There are rumors about... lists. Records of who is Jewish, where they live."
"That's just gossip," Rachel said dismissively. "People always exaggerate."
"Like they exaggerated in Russia?" Jakob asked, sharper than he intended.
Rachel flushed. "That was different. This is—"
"The same," Sarah finished quietly. "It always starts the same way, Rachel. For thousands of years. First the rumors, then the restrictions, then..." She didn't need to finish the thought.
"Have there been any incidents here?" Jakob asked, thinking of Christian's cold smile, his talk of "natural hierarchies."
"Nothing direct," Sarah said carefully. "But Mrs. Bergman says some customers have stopped coming to her husband's shop. And there was graffiti on the synagogue door last week."
Rachel pushed her soup away. "That doesn't mean anything. There's always been people like that."
"It means we need to be careful," Sarah insisted. "All of us." She looked pointedly at Rachel. "No more disappearing without telling us where you're going."
"I told you, I was with friends," Rachel said, an edge creeping into her voice. "Important ones. The kind who could help us if things got bad."
"Who are you talking about?" Sarah demanded, her calm facade cracking.
"Just... friends from school." Rachel wouldn't meet their eyes. "And... others."
"Others like Christian Vasa?" Jakob asked quietly.
Rachel's head snapped up, her expression confirmation enough.
"You don't understand," she said quickly. "Christian isn't like what you think. He's interested in big ideas; how the world is changing, how Sweden needs to adapt—"
"Christian Vasa," Sarah interrupted, "is the last person who should be speaking to you." Her voice was steady, but Jakob could see the fear behind her eyes. "About grand ideas or about anything else."
"You don't know him," Rachel insisted. "He's different when we're alone. He listens to me. He says I'm special, that I understand things other people don't—"
"Of course he does," Jakob said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. "That's what men like Christian do. They make you feel special while they use you."
Rachel's silence was damning.
"Oh, Rachel," Sarah whispered, her face ashen. "What have you done?"
"Nothing!" Rachel's chair scraped back as she stood. "I haven't done anything. I've just been listening. Learning. Is that so wrong?"
"It is when you're listening to someone who thinks people like us are vermin," Jakob said, his own anger rising. "Christian Vasa doesn't care about you, Rachel. He cares about using you to get to me."
"Not everything is about you, Jakob Eliasberg!" Rachel snapped. "Maybe he sees something in me that you don't. Maybe he understands me better than my own family does."
"Rachel," Sarah began, reaching for her daughter's hand.
But Rachel pulled away. "I'm not hungry," she said, her voice trembling. "May I be excused?"
Without waiting for an answer, she fled the house, stopping only for a moment to grab a scarf and slip on her shoes, leaving the front door to bang closed behind her.
Silence fell, broken only by the gentle sputter of the candles.
"She's in danger," Sarah said finally, her voice tight with worry. "But when I try to talk to her..."
"She won't listen to me either." Jakob pushed his bowl away, appetite gone. "But whatever Christian's telling her, it's not just flattery. He's using her somehow."
Sarah's hands trembled as she gathered the barely-touched bowls. "What do we do?"
"I'll talk to her again," Jakob promised. "And I'll keep an eye on Christian at the academy."
Sarah nodded, but her expression remained troubled. "Be careful, Yasha. Men like that... they're dangerous when challenged."
"I know, Mama." He squeezed her hand. "I'm being careful."
Later, after helping his mother clean up, Jakob stood in the small sitting room, studying the family photographs arranged on the wall.
His father in his professor's robes, a figure of authority and intellect; it felt like Chaim had always looked past him to those ideals.
His mother on their wedding day, young and hopeful—a stark contrast to the weary woman he knew now.
Rachel as a toddler, all curls and mischief, vibrant in a way that often made him smile.
And there, in the corner, the oldest photograph—his father in Russia, surrounded by students, his fierce gaze commanding respect.
Chaim Eliasberg had devoted his life to justice and the pursuit of knowledge, yet Jakob couldn't shake the feeling of abandonment.
While his father had chased lofty ideals, he had left his family to shoulder the burdens of the farm, thrusting responsibility on Jakob's young shoulders.
What choices would Chaim have made if he were here now, confronted with the realities Jakob faced?
Would he have stood up to Christian directly, risking everything as he did in his lectures?
Or would he have devised a more philosophical approach, one Jakob would struggle to understand?
Jakob's thoughts simmered with frustration. He wanted to honor his father's legacy, to protect his family—yet he longed for his father’s understanding of the man he was becoming, a soldier willing to fight for those he loved, not a scholar content to debate in safety.
The front door opened quietly, and Jakob turned to see Rachel slipping back inside, the new scarf wrapped around her neck despite the mild evening.