“Next time, you should tell them exactly what they can do with those papers,” Grandfather mutters.
“Stop it, Foter,” Mother argues. Grandfather doesn’t go too long without cracking a joke or trying to make light of our dim situation. It’s hard to hold back my laughter sometimes, but it’s best not enrage my mother. For a woman who has always had full control over this family, she isn’t faring well, ensuring each one of us follow every given law and rule imposed over us.
“I’ve paid dues for this country. I have more rights than those nudnicks, and I’ll be damned if they think they can tell me what to do. They can kish mir en?—”
“Dear, no one wants to kiss your behind. Quiet down,” Grandmother hushes him.
I’ve always agreed with my grandfather’s ideals and perspective on life, and he’s been one to see life through my eyes a bit clearer than most, too. He’s the reason I still sing, three years after my father wanted me to give it up…
“What will the boy do with himself if singing doesn’t work out for him? You’ve spoiled him rotten with this singing shtick and now I’m not sure he can fend for himself, if need be,” Father says to Mother. They told me to go to bed an hour ago, but thewalls in our apartment are thin and their argument has kept me awake.
“You’re meshuga—crazy, you know that?” Mother hisses at Father. “Your father, may he rest in peace, would be so ashamed to listen to you speak this way,” Mother says. “That wonderful man had the most beautiful voice and used it for the same good as Luka uses his. He made a living out of entertaining others. Why can’t we allow Luka to do the same? It’s obvious he inherited your father’s talent.”
Father responds right away, nearly interrupting Mother’s final word. “I grew up poor, dear. Sure, my father entertained people, but he would work all week and get paid bubkes. We lived off my mother’s baked goods, selling them at the square markets each weekend. I want to make sure Luka will be able to provide for a wife someday, as I’ve done for you.”
I’m seventeen and not ready to think about marriage. Father thinks I’m useless and Mother loves to hear me sing because what mother wouldn’t want to listen to her son sing? I’ll find a trade, something else I can succeed at, so I don’t let anyone down. I’ll do it on my own and prove to them I can both sing and be useful. I don’t want them to argue over me.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” Grandfather says from my doorway, stepping in quietly before taking a seat on the edge of my bed. “Luka, listen to your grandfather—the one without a nice singing voice—your father kvetches because he wants to make sure you can survive in this world, and your mother will always see you as a little boy, one with an abundance of talent. They both love you more than you’ll ever understand, and that is why they argue over you.” Grandfather uses his hands like yapping mouths shouting at each other to prove his point and I try not to laugh.
“Then what do I do?” I whisper.
“Oy, listen. Where do your lyrics come from, huh?” he asks.
My head leans to the side with confusion. Where else could they come from other than my head? “My brain?”
“Exactly,” Grandfather says. “We live in Warsaw, a city booming with opportunities—especially within radio broadcasting. When you listen to the radio, what do you hear besides music and news updates?”
“Advertisements about household products and cigarettes?” I ask.
“Yes, son. Yes,” he says, shuffling his hand through my hair. “Think about finding a job with a radio station that needs jingles for products they’re advertising. Newspapers need writers who can capture a reader’s attention with a headline and if words come to you the way they do, there are many more opportunities out there than singing. You can do both, yes?”
All along, I’ve been thinking every career would involve a skill in a physical trade. The thought of journalism or media never crossed my mind. “Of course I can,” I say, excitement riveting through my response.
“Shh, shh. How about this little talk of ours is a secret. Tomorrow, why don’t you share your plan with your parents. I think you’ll find your father…singing a different tune.” Grandfather utters a chuckle at his play on words and I follow.
“Thank you, Grandfather.”
“You’re a mensch—really, something special, son. Don’t ever let anyone tell you differently.
Grandfather has always fought for happiness and that’s the legacy he’s given me. Mother and Father were thrilled with the idea of me using my skills for more than singing, and the radio hired me about six months after the talk Grandfather and Ihad that night. They had me working on creating jingles and sometimes even singing them over the radio. It was like a dream come true, until a year later when I was let go, just because I’m a Jew.
“I can’t bear much more.” Mother paces back and forth between the small living room and the kitchen table.
“Chana, dear,” Father says, reaching for my mother’s shoulders, his tone preempting words of reason. “We don’t have a choice, and you three—you, your mother, and our son—are going to need whatever money Luka can bring in—more than ever now.”
His statement makes my blood run cold. Something has happened while I’ve been gone. “What do you mean, ‘you three’?” I ask, struggling to pull my coat off my shoulders.
The silence following my question should be enough of an answer, but with how much has changed over the past year, it’s hard to predict what they’re about to say.
“Your father and grandfather are being sent to Skarzysko-Kamienna for factory work next week. It’s slave labor, unpaid. They’re just being taken from us,” Mother squawks, throwing her arms up in the air.
My heart pounds and sweat crawls up my spine as I try to digest this news. “Why them? What about me?” Why would they send my grandfather and not me?
“I—I’m not sure, Luka. Your name wasn’t on the letter,” Mother says, her voice tense. Her heavy brown eyes focus on the ground as she shifts her weight from foot to foot while fidgeting with her apron’s fraying hem. “May—maybe perhaps—well, it could be because you’ve never worked in a factory before.” A breath hitches in her throat. “We should just be grateful you were spared.”
I turn away to hang my coat up on the hook by the door next to Father’s tan overcoat, trying to make sense of it all.
I return to the living room where my grandparents are still seated and drop my gaze, letting out a heavy exhale as I form one of many questions barreling through my head. “This makes no sense. I’m capable of labor and, well, grandfather is in no such condition. He shouldn’t be the one going. It should be me.”
