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go down to silence

Multnomah Publishers, Inc.

Chapter One

But Jacob Horowitz hesitated at the mirror, staring at his complexion. It reminded him of an old riverbed, creased and worn-perhaps a piece of leather sun-scarred and brittle. And for a brief second he raised his large hand to touch it, to establish contact with the other in the mirror, the self that had been transformed. Yes, this was he-Jacob Andre Horowitz-the Belgian Jew who nearly lost his life fleeing from the Nazis. Yes, yes, indeed. The car horn forced him into the present once again. He rubbed the smooth cherry table with his index finger and slowly walked out to his son.

The trip to the airport was slowed by the rain, torrents of water splashing across the windows, lines of cars, taillights like red burning eyes suddenly blinking open.

Asher gripped the steering wheel tighter than usual, then suddenly smacked it with both hands. "You'll never make the plane at this rate."

"I can catch another." Jacob turned to gaze out the side window, thin streaks of water like fingers spreading across the entire glass.

Silence.

A large truck pulled in front of their black Mercedes and with it a blizzard of thick mist, rendering the already frantic wipers useless.

"They should outlaw these-"

Asher suddenly swerved the car into the other lane. A set of headlights approached, and he swerved back and slowed down to get away from the oily spray.

Jacob was resolute about his decision and he knew his oldest son did not understand. He had made all the arrangements months in advance, had written all the letters, made long distance phone calls. It had taken time, this plan, yes, time. And that was something Jacob Horowitz had precious little of. And even as he thought of this, he smiled. Somehow traveling to Belgium with Isaac was the right thing to do. How could he tell Asher about such an absurd idea. He knew it to be absurd, but something deep inside convinced him it was right. Yes, Isaac would have to do, was the only one to do it, the only one who could. And so, as Asher swerved once again out into the other lane, passing the truck and speeding toward the airport, Jacob silently stared out the window.

"He won't show, Pop. You know that deep inside. I mean, you haven't even seen him for what-ten years? It's crazy, Pop. I told you this before. You're only setting yourself up for a complete letdown." Asher glanced over at the old man still looking out the window. "Are you listening to anything I'm telling you?"

"Yes, yes, Asher. I am listening. I am always listening to you, Asher." Jacob faced his son. "I listened when you told me not to call him. I listened to you when you told me he wouldn't call back. I listen to you even now." Jacob turned his face back to the streaked glass. "But he did call back, Asher." Jacob's voice was a whisper. "He did."

They drove on in silence for a time.

"Why are you going to Belgium? Why now? I mean, to go and visit your old garment factory is one thing, but to take Isaac. Pop, it doesn't add up."

"I am patient with you, my Asherel. I will tell you one more time. I am going to the old garment factory in Antwerp. I am going to take your brother, Isaac, because it is my wish. We should all know our roots, Asher. It is good to know from where we came. This changes the future."

Asher shook his head.

"Have I not taken you there many times, Asher? Yes, when your mother was still alive, I took you and your family. Yes, to the garment factory in Antwerp." Jacob stared for quite some time out the window, houses and cars blurred by. "Now is the time to take Isaac."

Jacob remembered that phone call from Isaac. It had been late; he had exhausted himself playing handball with his friends at the club. Seventy-one years old and still playing handball. Three Jewish associates and one Gentile-a retired carpenter, big, burly, and extremely adroit with his kill shots. The other three he had known for quite some time, ever since he moved from New York to Cleveland. Harvey Spellman was a saggy body mounted on two bad knees. After each game Harvey would hobble and swear all the way to the locker room. Melvin Braun, thin, rail-like, was a miserable and self-deprecating handball player. Melvin was a garment store manager who wished to be a part of Jacob's world-more to the point to learn Jacob's business savvy. And of course, Herman Bergman, a huge fat man who was as nimble as a gymnast, crouching down like a sumo wrestler before each return. The Gentile's name was Raymond Lereau, a newcomer who had ingratiated himself into this Jewish world through his skill and athleticism. Lereau was a born-again Christian, who at every turn witnessed and questioned the other three about what they believed and why-nicely, politely, but with a sense of urgency Jacob could not understand.

Now that he was seventy-one, now that he had seen the doctor, these things he began to think about. So he had called Isaac. The doctor had been very clear: Get your things in order, Jacob. Yes, yes, indeed. So he had called his son and left a long and surreptitious message.

Idiot! he thought to himself afterward. What kind of father would ask such a thing on an answering message?

And so, a day or so later, when Jacob walked into his large house in the east suburbs of the city-well established, old money-when he pushed the button on the answering machine and heard the messages, his knees gave way, and he sat at the counter rubbing his furrowed brow.

The first message was of no importance. The second was from Asher: "Pop, I'm closing the Ferguson account for good this time. They are cheating Gentiles who only want to run us out of business! I know you like them, but I am making the decision to shut them down. I just wanted you to hear it from me. Love ya, Pop. Ruth and I will be over for the Sabbath." The third message was of no consequence. And then Isaac's voice came on. There was a hesitation, a clearing of the throat:

"Hello." Pause. "This is Isaac Horowitz returning your call. Papa? I will be at the airport at Gate 37. I don't know why I'm doing this, but for some reason I think it's a good thing. I'll be flying in from New York the day before, not until late. The book signings have gone better than I had hoped." Pause. "Well, okay then." And the phone message abruptly cut off with a synthesized voice: That was your last message.

That night Jacob wept. Sitting at the counter, in the middle of a large empty house, he shook with an emotion he had not felt since Belgium. Once again he found himself scared and alone. So he rubbed his forehead, rubbed it and allowed the tears to find their way down his cheeks and onto his arm.

Asher pulled the car up to the airport terminal and abruptly stopped between a yellow taxi and gold Lexus. He jumped out of the car and opened the trunk, pulling out his father's heavy suitcase. A skycap came over with a luggage cart.

"Good day to you, sir," said the lanky, black man. "Let me take your bag for you." He reached down and heaved the bag onto the tarnished, flat surface.

"Thank you." Jacob peered closely at the attendant's identity badge, "Lawrence. If you take my luggage, I am sure I can make it the rest of the way by myself." The attendant nodded and wheeled the cart toward the ticket counter.

"I should really call you one of those service carts, Pop," Asher said, looking around for someone to wave down. But Jacob had already walked inside.

"Welcome, Mr. Horowitz," said the spunky woman behind the ticket counter. "You'll be traveling first class on flight 417 from Cleveland to Chicago. And then nonstop to Brussels." She smiled at him just as Asher scurried up behind.

"Miss," Asher said, a flustered look on his face, "can my father get a cart to take him to gate 37?"

The women nodded politely and picked up the intercom. Jacob shook his head and smiled at the woman.

"That will not be necessary, Miss ..." And Jacob looked at her badge. "Jane. I can manage the walk all by myself."

Asher pulled on his father's arm and leaned forward. "You don't want to miss the flight, Pop."

"I will be fine, Asherel. Just fine. You should not leave the car parked where it is. You might get a ticket."

Asher asked, "Is flight 417 on time?"

Jane checked her watch and looked at the computer screen.

"From what this tells me, it is. If you hurry you should have no problem."

Jacob smiled at the woman and fast-walked toward the gate. Asher followed behind. They passed the food court, a bustle of commotion, and joined the large and snaking security line. Inch by inch, they stepped toward the gate. Jacob walked through first and Asher followed. The alarm went off.

"Step over here, sir," said a security guard. Jacob turned around and then motioned he was going on ahead.

"I'll catch up to you, Pop."

Asher stepped through the gate again, and again the alarm went off.

"Step over here, sir. Any metal objects on your person?"

Jacob could hear his oldest son complaining about the service, the rush, and the immediacy of his situation. Jacob passed a small bar, filled with people and smoke. He walked past a nice bookstore, trimmed in dark cherry, an entrance of elegant glass. He turned instinctively-as he did every time he passed a bookstore-and peered into the front display window. He shook his head in recognition and moved quickly on. There was a small coffee shop to his right, and then gate 34. He walked on, a sense of dread, of hope, of urgency filtering through his thoughts. Was he here? Would he be on the plane? Gate 35. A horde of people streamed out into the waiting area: hugging, squeezing, shaking hands, some empty and hollow on their way to the next airport. Gate 36. The hub was empty, a sole attendant behind a desk scribbling on a piece of paper. Gate 37.

The hub was packed with people, rows and rows of frustration. Jacob stopped, scanned the crowd. Several people huddled around a tall thin man. Was it Isaac? He walked toward the group, and the man turned around. No, it was not Isaac. Again Jacob scanned the mass of people. He sighed and made his way into the line of impatient passengers waiting for a flight update. The group inched forward and by the time he was in earshot, he had guessed the situation. Flight 417 had been delayed due to weather. It was still stranded in New York. The thunderstorm front was massive and unrelenting. They would make their announcement shortly. Jacob stepped out of the line and waited on the fringes.

"There you are," said a familiar voice. Jacob turned around and once again scanned the crowd. "I told you," Asher said. "I told you he wouldn't be here."

"The plane has been delayed. He has probably called ahead."

They both scanned the crowd again, and Asher shoved his hands in his pockets. "What did you expect, Pop? I told you he would hurt you."

"He will be here," said Jacob calmly. He took one more look around and then turned to Asher. "You may go now, if you want. I know you are busy today." He suddenly put his hand up and stopped Asher before he could speak. "I will call you if I need you. Have a safe trip home, my Asher. Give my love to Ruth and the kids." He smiled. "I will call you when we get to Belgium."

Asher hesitated, shook his head, and then hugged Jacob goodbye.

"Yes, my Asher, yes," Jacob said. "I will call you if he does not show." And with that Asher walked back to his illegally parked car.

A heavy burden suddenly settled upon Jacob's shoulders. He sat near the large rain-streaked window and looked outside. Alone. This was the single word spinning around in his head. His precious Liza, of blessed memory, wife of thirty-six years, had died five years ago. The years since her death had taken their toll on Jacob. The empty house in Pepper Pike was harder and harder to come home to. Asher, now a successful businessman in his own right-a bit of an ogre at times, but a businessman in the nineties had to be-he had launched out on his own long ago. He had recently expanded his father's garment empire, opening more and more stores across the country. And that shift in power, that stepping down process had also taken a toll on Jacob. But it was the letter from Belgium that seemed to suck his marrow dry.

When he received the letter, postmarked Brussels, his heart fluttered just a moment, and once again a feeling of dread, a darkness he could not explain settled upon him like a mist. The writing was small, beautifully scripted French:

My dear Tany,

Pierre is very sick and will not last the month. Please come. He so wants to see you.

Sincerely, Micheline

The tether that for sixty years had secretly bound Jacob to his roots was beginning to fray. Jacob sat staring out the window and suddenly grunted so that a little boy next to him looked on with curiosity. He stood up and scanned the crowd for Isaac.

Yes, there was still Isaac, enigmatic and odd. Isaac did not want anything to do with the garment empire, did not want to be Jewish; and one day he proclaimed quite emphatically he was going to New York to be a writer. Isaac succeeded. He wrote furiously for two years, wrote and by a sheer act of will transformed himself from a rich Jewish man from Cleveland into a struggling artist living in Greenwich Village. But then Jack Oxford, Isaac's pen name, became synonymous with action adventure novels. His picture was prominently displayed in windows-a gangly cardboard frame, one arm at his side, the other relaxed over the stack of his latest release. They were written at just the right time, said the critics, tapping into the social conscience of the complacent nineties America. And best of all, they were perfect for the movie industry. Jack Oxford was wealthy, was a celebrity. And Isaac Horowitz had not seen his father for more than ten years.

Jacob rubbed his brow. Still no sign of Isaac. Why should he show? Hadn't Jacob neglected his son? Hadn't he confounded him at every turn? You want to do what? But certainly, Isaac, you want to work for the family business. Your roots demand that you do. We must keep the business in the family.

But the response fell on deaf ears. So off his son went. Oh, there was a letter here, a letter there-Papa, can I borrow some money for this idea? Papa, can I borrow some more money for this idea? Papa, my bills are due, and I cannot pay them, may I borrow some more money. This time I promise I will pay it all back, everything, the whole lot, and even with interest. Jacob didn't mind sending his son the money, didn't mind the late night pleas.

Continues...

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Excerpted from go down to silence by G. K. BELLIVEAU Copyright © 2001 by Greg K. Belliveau. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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