Chapter 9
Sarah Eliasberg reached the edge of the chicken yard just in time to see a tall, aristocratic boy in a set of her dead husband's work clothes attempting to collect eggs from the nesting boxes while being thoroughly intimidated by her most aggressive hen.
Her son stood nearby, clearly trying not to laugh while also attempting to look helpful.
"Yasha." Her voice carried that particular maternal tone that had struck fear into the hearts of Jewish sons for generations.
Jakob's shoulders tensed. "Yes, Mama?"
"Prince Harald." She nodded at the royal egg collector, who had frozen mid-reach. "I see you've been promoted from uniform patches to chicken wrangling."
Harald straightened, offering an awkward bow that made the hen squawk indignantly. "Good morning, Mrs. Eliasberg."
"Oy gevalt." Sarah pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Yasha, when I said the prince seemed like a nice boy at the laundry, I did not mean that you should invite him home to help on the farm.
" She switched to Yiddish. "What kind of meshuggeneh brings royalty home to collect eggs?
Are you trying to give your mother a heart attack?
Next you'll tell me the king is coming to milk the cows! "
"What did she say?" Harald whispered to Jakob, his eyes never leaving Sarah.
Jakob's lips twitched. "She said she's concerned you might invite your father to milk the cows."
Harald's face brightened with unexpected mischief.
"Well, I hadn't planned on asking Papa to visit, but I'm sure he'd enjoy meeting your delightful cows.
" He turned to Sarah with a surprisingly charming smile.
"His Majesty has always believed in the importance of small-scale agriculture, Mrs. Eliasberg.
Though I think the royal court might object to him trying his hand at milking. "
Sarah stared at him for a long moment before a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "Hmph. A prince with a sense of humor." In Yiddish, she added, for Jakob's ears only "…that's more dangerous than I thought."
"Mama, please—" Jakob glanced nervously at Harald. "He's just a friend from school." Jakob tried to explain. "He's visited a few times now, and he likes the chores and the animals. It's not like we have a lot of people around here who want to help."
"You tell me that the prince of Sweden is just a friend who enjoys waking up before dawn to collect eggs?" Sarah's eyebrows rose impossibly higher. "Do you think I was born yesterday?"
Harald looked up from the nesting boxes, offering Sarah a hesitant smile. His face was flushed from work and his borrowed shirt was already smudged with dirt. "I hope you don't mind—I've been learning quite a lot from Jakob. Though I'm afraid I'm still a bit nervous of the chickens."
Sarah's expression softened slightly at his earnest tone, even as she continued in Yiddish to Jakob. "You're letting the chickens peck at the prince? Yashka! He'll have us all killed!"
"Mama—" Jakob's face was scarlet now.
"This friendship will only bring you pain, Yasha." She sighed, studying the way Harald was so carefully placing each egg in the basket, as if they were made of gold. The way her son kept gravitating toward him, like a flower turning toward the sun.
She switched back to Swedish. "I'll make extra food. You boys must be hungry after all this... helping." She turned to go, then added over her shoulder in Yiddish, "And if I'm feeding a prince, at least he'll eat well while he's frightening my hens."
After Sarah disappeared into the house, Harald slumped against the barn wall. "Your mother hates me."
"She doesn't hate you." Jakob collected the basket of eggs Harald had gathered. "She's just over-protective. And worried. And possibly plotting to force feed you."
"I have no idea what she was saying, but I definitely heard the word 'meshuggeneh' at least twice." Harald straightened up. "That's not good, is it?"
"It means 'crazy person.' She uses it affectionately." Jakob set the basket aside. "Usually."
Harald turned back to the chickens, who had settled into their morning pecking routine. "I still can't tell them apart. How do you know which one is which?"
"Years of practice." Jakob pointed to a speckled brown hen strutting importantly across the barn. "That's Duchess. She thinks she runs the place. The black one with the attitude is Rachel—" He stopped, scanning the yard. "Who is apparently not where she's supposed to be. Again."
Harald followed his gaze to the empty feeding trough. "Your sister or the chicken?"
"Both, apparently." Jakob's jaw tightened. "Rachel—the chicken—always leads the morning feeding. And my sister is supposed to be getting the grain ready for the afternoon." He ran a hand through his hair. "She's been disappearing a lot lately."
"I'm sure she's fine," Harald said, but his voice held a note of uncertainty. "Maybe she forgot?"
"Rachel doesn't forget farm duties. She avoids them, complains about them, tries to trade them for other chores, but she doesn't just..." Jakob shook his head. "Never mind. We should finish up before the food gets cold."
Harald caught his hand. "Hey." He pulled Jakob closer, voice dropping. "We'll figure out what's going on with Rachel. Both Rachels."
Through the kitchen window, Sarah watched them standing close together in the early morning light. "Meshuggeneh," she muttered in Yiddish, turning back to the stove. "But at least he's the kind of friend who can make my Yashka smile."
Sarah didn't just make lunch; she prepared for a siege.
By the time the boys came in from the barn, the kitchen table groaned under the weight of her anxiety: dark rye bread still warm from the oven, a crock of fresh butter, pickled herring, hard-boiled eggs, and at the center, a large pot of steaming shchi that filled the kitchen with the scent of cabbage, dill, and memories of home.
"Wash up properly," she called, ladling the soup into bowls. "And where is Rachel?"
"Haven't seen her since dawn," Jakob said, directing Harald to the washbasin. "I checked the storage barn, but—"
"Nu, we'll deal with your sister later." Sarah set the bowls on the table. "Sit, sit. You're both too skinny."
Harald settled carefully onto the wooden bench, his borrowed clothes still dusty despite his best efforts at the washbasin. He watched Sarah and Jakob's practiced movements—the way they each tore a piece of bread, the casual reach for butter—before mimicking them.
"You don't have to—" Jakob started, but stopped when Harald took his first spoonful of soup.
The sound Harald made was entirely unpracticed, entirely unprincely, and entirely genuine. His eyes widened as he swallowed. "This is incredible."
Sarah and Jakob stared at him.
Harald flushed, suddenly conscious of their attention. "I'm sorry, I just... we never get food like this at home. At the palace, I mean." He took another spoonful, somehow managing to look both elegant and eager. "What's in it?"
Sarah's expression softened. "It's shchi, russian cabbage soup. From the old country." She pushed the bread basket toward Harald. "Here, take more bread. No, no—butter it first. The butter is from the cow you helped Yasha milk this morning."
"Yasha?" Harald glanced at Jakob, who was suddenly very interested in his soup. "I thought—"
"It's what his father called him, his nickname.
In Russian his name is Yakov, and Yasha is the short version.
For people who know him well… friends and family.
" Sarah's eyes grew distant for a moment.
"And Yashka, that's what I call him when he's being particularly stubborn or when I'm feeling tender. It's smaller, more... mine."
She touched Jakob's shoulder briefly. "My Chaim chose the name — Jacob, the one who wrestles with angels.
Sometimes I wonder if we should have named him something more peaceful.
" She glanced at Harald, then back to her son.
"But then, perhaps he was always meant to wrestle with the world.
The name finds the child, my mother used to say. "
Jakob shifted uncomfortably. "Mama, I'm sure His High—Harald doesn't want a lesson on biblical namesakes."
"On the contrary," Harald said quietly, his eyes never leaving Jakob's face. "I find it rather fitting."
"And you," Sarah turned to Harald, "you've never had proper food? At the palace?" She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "All those French chefs, probably. Too fancy to make good soup. Here, try the herring. I pickled it myself."
Harald obediently took some herring. "I've had herring at state dinners, but never..." He took a bite and his eyes lit up again.
"You've never had homemade pickled herring?" Sarah looked scandalized. "You're the Crown Prince of Sweden and you've never had proper home-pickled herring?" She stood up, went to the pantry, and returned with another jar. "Here. Take this home. A prince should know what real herring tastes like."
"Mama!" Jakob looked mortified.
"What? He likes it! Look at him eat!" Sarah beamed as Harald helped himself to more soup. "At least someone appreciates my cooking. Your sister would rather starve than eat cabbage soup these days."
They ate in comfortable silence for a moment, broken only by the clink of spoons and Harald's occasional sounds of appreciation. Sarah watched him butter another piece of bread, noting how carefully he made sure every corner was covered.
Finally, she spoke. "You know, Your Highness—"
"Please," Harald interrupted, then looked startled at his own daring. "Please, just Harald. At least here?"
Sarah nodded slowly. "Harald, then. You know, I'm not happy about...
" she waved her hand between him and Jakob, "...
this. Whatever this is." And then, in Yiddish, "A prince and my son?
Friends? It can only end in sadness" She sighed.
"But you're a good boy. Respectful. You work hard, you eat well, you don't pretend to be something you're not. You can come back, if you want."
Jakob nearly choked on his soup. "Really?"