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Chapter Text

The Problem with Kittens 

It was Friday’s early morning, around nine hours before Shabbos, when Yosef arrived at the unassuming street. A cat crossed his path, nearly causing him to trip over his shoes and onto the paved brick of the road. 

He grunted as he stepped to the right of the mangy thing, trying to avoid its swishing tail as he put his foot down. But before he could cement his standing, the animal curled around his foot at the bend in his ankle. 

“ Ketzel.” He scolded the bright yellow eyes that stared up at him. “You’re not being very nice to me, you know. I find your behavior reprehensible and immoral, stopping a good man from his travels.” 

The kitten nestled on his shoes more, and flashed its belly at him with an expectant look. 

Yosef sighed, as if this situation was put upon him with great force and he had no choice in the matter. He crouched, careful not to disturb the creature from its place on his foot. “You’re not a nice kitten,” He rubbed at the flat part between its ears, content at the sound of its purr. “A tricky one, a mean one to be sure. Evil, evil, evil,” 

It was only when he spotted two tiny black boots no more than two steps away from him did he jolt up. 

“ Privet ,” He waved at the spectator, a little girl who could not have been more than nine years of age now staring down at him with a look of utter bafflement painting her face. Her white- blonde hair had been pulled back into tight braids by a severe hand, showing in the strain against her scalp and sharp pained expression. 

“That is,” the child responded in stern Russian, crossing her arms. “my cat. Jew.” She added on the last word after a brief moment, stating the fact of the situation. He was a Jew and she was not.

 And the fact seemed to delight her, Yosef noted, with her eyes widening and shoulders relaxing. 

‘The children in this city,’ Baruch had told Yosef sternly on a night over harsh liquor. “are not innocent. They are not curious bumbles of light that can be redirected onto a better path in a moment of interaction. They are the offspring of their parents, raised on a diet of hate, superiority, and vigor. And they are fattened upon it. And sometimes, they are worse than their adults.”

“Adults at least can have apathy on the subject- sometimes, knowing that Jews are inferior is enough for them to go on with work and busy life. But their sons and daughters, head full with these ideas and little else, will be the first to abuse them.” 

She had a sort of power here, never granted in any other situation in her young life. And she grinned, wicked. “Did you put a curse on my cat?” 

“No,” Yosef replied, slowly. He nudged the tip of his toe up slightly, disgruntling said creature from its resting place. It whined, betrayed, before returning to its mistress. “I wasn’t. No one I know can do magic or any of the sort.” He straightened from where he had bent down on the ground, now taking a step back with his arms raised to prove meekness. “I was just speaking to your kitten in my language- the one I speak at home.” 

“You should go back to your filthy home.” She laughed, something that sounded so much like the little girls that would come over to gossip with his mother. “We don’t want your kind here. You’re stupid if you think Koshka would know your Jew language when she’s a Russian cat. But I think you’re all stupid in general.” 

It was a female cat then, Yosef thought absently as he nodded to the girl’s statement. He had immediately seen the direness of his situation, being a Jewish man across from a Christian child on an empty street. And he didn’t know how to treat her. 

Too kindly and he could be accused of impropriety. Too sternly and he was hurting her. Running off immediately would make him suspicious, but lingering would make him even more so. 

So he decided to continue doing what he did best- playing dumb. Let her come out the victorious one in this fight, he reasoned, and this would be a moment to brag about a hapless Jewish man who she outsmarted.

“I don’t think I’m stupid.” He made a face similar to a pout. “I can read quite well. And write my name.” And books and newspaper articles, but that was not quite important. 

The girl sneered and in one swoop motion had grabbed Koshka by the scruff of her neck. Tugging the whining cat under her armpit, she giggled. “You can’t read! You can’t read the bible, it makes you burn up!” 

Yosef looked up to the sky, to all the world looking defeated by this impeccable logic. Internally, he tasted blood from biting his tongue. Never mind that he knew the torah in and out, more than Christians ever hoped to. Never mind their twistings of his people’s tales, used to mock and abuse them, call them Christ killers. 

Never mind, never mind - 

He nodded to her, muttering a brief goodbye out of a politeness entrained in him.  

He turned away from her bright laughter, trying to pretend he was back in his home. And that the glee of a child came from little neighbor Anshel’s teasing of his thick glasses, and not abundant cruelty. 

The Chateau 

Yosef had nearly turned around when he finally approached the address scrawled out on the piece of paper. 

He had known of Baruch’s status as the Jewish man with “suspicious' ' wealth. And if not suspicious, outright “stolen from the townsfolk of the empire”. But that was a claim leveraged at any Yidden with a large enough backyard.

But this- this-

It was a house he’d only known from goyishe novels, ones Mame wouldn’t let inside the house. Where the nobility intermingled French and pretension as their chief form of language. He’d laughed then from where he hid the books in the chicken coop, reading the characters and the consistent woes they faced brought by their own hands. And nearly most of all their lifestyle in “chateaus” carved out of gold. 

Well, gold was an exaggeration in this case, but all the same. 

The house- a chateau, a manor   - had to be more than four floors high. He squinted up, trying to count the windows and how much the glass had cost to install. He stopped at ten. Ten! 

The blue painted wood that adorned the front shone in the sun. Like someone had taken a piece of wet cloth and scrubbed over and over, until they reflected nearly like metal. Knowing the thoroughness of the man he was beginning to call a friend, Yosef began to suspect that was indeed the case.

After all, how many children did the man have that he could use to get the job done? Was it three at the last count? 

Wooden carvings, as carefully as if it had been drawn by a skilled hand, embellished the window frames and corners. They were white, startling against a house as blue as the sky. And delicate as well- interwoven like his mother's tiny lace doily only taken out for high holidays- 

“Yosef.” 

For the second time in this brief day, he startled. Flinching, he stepped back and caught his glasses before they fell off his face and to the ground.

“Baruch,” He coughed. Blinking, he adjusted his glasses back onto his ears and was eventually able to focus in on the other man’s crooked nose. “Gut Shabbos.” 

Baruch - and the baby he was holding- stared from their place in the doorframe. “It’s not even noon yet.” 

“Preemptive,” Yosef rubbed the back of his neck, and quietly wished the ground would swallow him. “I always say it all day Friday. But- ah- beautiful house!”

Baruch raised an eyebrow, as if to say ‘ evidently .’ 

“I have enough problems back home with our four rooms. But I’m sure you have more than four rooms on the first level!” He laughed, with near hysterics. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But it might be more trouble than it’s worth- and it’s worth a lot. Not that your home is a trouble  to you.” he raised a hand before Baruch could interrupt the embarrassing statement. “Just- I would have a hard time managing it. Not you though, I’m sure you’re used to this sort of thing.”

“Yosef.”

“Yes?” He coughed again and pressed his glasses to the ridge of his nose.

“Would you like to come in? As planned?”

To Yosef’s abashed nod, the man turned abruptly. But not before his fingertips lightly traced the mezuzah stuck to the side of the doorpost. 

Yosef did the same, pressing two fingers to his lips and closing the door behind him. As he did so, a scream erupted from upstairs followed by a crash. It hit him then- he had locked himself into a few days in the Weinn household.

The interior was as fantastical as the exterior, and Yosef attempted not to self monologue on it. But signs of wealth were everywhere. From the commissioned paintings that adorned the walls to ornate furniture he had only seen before in shop windows, it reminded him starkly that he was not at home. 

He trained his eyes not to widen when he saw a large lace doily- a much nicer kind than theirs- atop the fireplace mantle. Baruch noticed his attention anyway, and adjusted the baby currently chewing on his fingers.

 “My mother’s.” He said in way of explanation. “She received them as a wedding gift.”

Wedding gift, Yosef thought dizzily as he envisioned handing that piece of art to a shtetl bride. He tried to imagine the outcome of such a present. Tears, hair being ripped out, heart attack, death. All possibilities. 

Instead of voicing that, he cleared his throat and strangled out. “Very nice,”

Baruch placed his child down to the floor and situated himself in a velvet armchair as red as a cow’s blood. He beckoned for Yosef to do the same on its matching set.

Yosef muttered his excuses with sweaty  palms at the idea of being seated in such a luxury. Instead, he grabbed an innocuous wooden stool that was to the side, and elected to sit on that. 

The baby peered at him from where they sat on the floor. It was- strange- strange was a good way of putting things. Seeing a glimpse of Baruch’s early days because of the strong  resemblance gave Yosef perspective. Of the tot that had grown up in this home years ago, facing cruelty and hardships before opening up his heart and house to others. But maybe that was the writer in him.

All the same, the baby was not the identical of their father, with a darker olive complexion and startling green eyes. They came from an affair with an Arab Jewish woman in the east and was Baruch’s only naturally occurring child. 

Affairs - Yosef shuddered, picturing his mother’s reaction. Something only rich men could get away with. But then again, plenty of elements of Baruch’s life could only be possible with his wealth. 

His friend gave him a confused look at his choice in seating before ultimately adjusting his features. “How was your trip out?” He asked- a polite question that illustrated care, to be sure.

“Not pleasant,” Yosef answered honestly. “Hard riding in the back of a farm cart avoiding sliding vegetables. But the Christian farmer I know was kind enough to drive me in, I can’t complain.” 

“It sounds like you can,” Baruch grumbled, as he nudged the baby away from consuming a dust ball. “You could have sat up front with him had he offered- far more of a comfortable ride.”

“I-“ Yosef considered, and then admitted. “I suppose you’re right.”

“No matter. There will be plenty of rest for you tonight in the guest room made up for you.”

Yosef nodded, already plotting how he could convince them to allow him to sleep in their shed so as to not intrude. 

No sooner could he get out voicing his love for sleeping outside, did  a great calamity rush down the stairs. And as always, calamities came in the form of children, just as Hashem intended. 

Two children in this case to be exact, one stacked on top of the other. 

“Tatti, Tatti, Tatti!” The older one with wild blue eyes and brown-tanned skin jumped on his toes, unbothered that his brother sat directly on his shoulders. He pressed a hand against his yarmulke, so as to not have it fall down. “Tzvi and I have a question.” 

The boy- Chiriklo if Yosef remembered correctly- spoke fast enough one could only hear his accented Yiddish if they focused. Baruch had picked him up along on his travels, after the young one’s parents had been murdered by a village’s crowd.

“Justice,” Baruch had spit out the word like it meant nothing at all. And perhaps too often, it didn’t. “They were a Roma family who performed on the roadside because no one would hire or allow them to stay. And then they were accused of stealing an old man’s fake gold. And that’s the crime they killed his parents in front of him for.” 

It was hard to see that story within the eleven year old now, standing in the middle of a luxurious parlor with bright eyes. 

“Very ‘portant,” Tzvi lisped from his position- a  five year old with a delicate frame, straight dark hair, and rosy cheeks. Then, he took a second look at their guest. “Why is Mister Stranger on the punishment chair?”

Ah. That was what the out-of-place plain wooden stool was. Yosef felt his face heat and was about to rise from the stool before Baruch interrupted. 

“Sometimes guests feel comfortable where they choose, and that’s where my friend, Uncle Yosef decided to go today,” He said in a paternal voice. The tenderness within it almost startled Yosef, and rattled his vision of the brash man he thought he knew. “Guests are allowed their comfort, Tzvi, and I don’t want you disturbing that.”  

“Oh,” Tzvi accepted the explanation and petted his brother’s hair like a cat. “Rikki is going to ask something very smart.” He assured the two men. 

“Well, get along with it then,” Baruch leaned down and picked up the baby- not quite a baby, Yosef corrected to himself. More like a toddler. The child still wore dresses, easy enough for nappy changes.  But they- Yosef was nearly certain it was a boy, recalling from previous conversations- could stumble around in the usual grace of early years.  That was to say,  no grace at all. Hence his father’s aptitude for picking him up. 

Chiriklo did not allow his important news to wait. “Toli says the chicks hatched Monday and we can take one home!” He said breathlessly from where he stood across from them. “And - and Abi already said yes and we can take care of it and name it!” He added on, as if the authority figure he invoked brokered no argument. 

Abi- Yousef placed the name. Abrasha- the family friend that had taken Baruch and raised him after the death of his parents. Baruch spoke of him often enough in a subdued and solemn tone that it was evident the man could not love the elder more in the realm of filial affection. 

“Abi said yes?” The invocation of Abrasha had worked, as Baruch’s eyes widened before his face crumpled in defeat. “Well, Doriel,” He looked to the toddler in his lap and Yosef learnt his name. “Are you content with the proposal laid out before us?” 

Doriel nodded, with his fist half in his mouth. “Chick,” He said, clearly and intelligently, as if he’d been considering the offer in great thought. “Bawk.” 

The older two children cheered, Chiriklo’s hands raised in victory, nearly unsettling Tzvi from his throne on top of shoulders. 

Tzvi hit his brother’s cheek via a small hand with so little force it might as well have been a pat. At that, like a horse given a demand to move, the older one began to run up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. 

Yosef listened as their chatter faded before turning to see Baruch stand with Doriel in place on his hip.

“Where are you going?”

His friend raised an eyebrow with an air of condescension and knowingness that made Yosef’s skin crawl. “To young Toli and his Uncle Barak ben Ilan’s home, didn’t you hear?” He drawled. “where apparently a new member of the family- that may very well end up on our dinner table in a few good years- resides.” 

Yosef blinked at him before rising too. His legs had been uncomfortable- the revelation that it was a stool meant for misbehaving children did not surprise him. “Is it far?” He asked, and tried to gauge why Baruch insisted on leaving the comfort of his parlor when it seemed the children could handle this journey to a friend’s house just fine.

“No,” Baruch gestured for him to follow him up the stairs. “Just two steps up the road.”

Yosef nearly had not caught that information as he was staring at the banister- dark beautiful wood, so neatly carved- but he caught himself. 

“Chiriklo’s old enough,” He argued, remembering his boyhood of throwing himself into trouble and lavishing in the freedom. “He can take a few siblings and make his way up there by himself. It’s how young ones learn independence.” 

Baruch stopped suddenly, and Yosef collided into him. Ignoring the impact, the man’s voice dropped.

 “You think this is about their maturity?” He growled, lowly. “If it was safe, I’d trust Chiriklo all the way to Britain. But I am not allowing my clearly foreign Jewish children on the streets alone on a Friday during Lent.” 

Yosef’s blood drained away from his face. He felt like the world’s greatest fool. “I’m sorry,” He whispered- not out of secrecy but because he could not make his voice strong. “I’d forgotten, in the moment. That was naive of me.” 

Baruch nodded, apology accepted and argument forgotten. With that, they continued their ascension.

Chapter Text

Spun of Dreams

The children’s playroom- like everything in Baruch’s household- was made with the material dreams were spun and crafted of. The walls were painted a gentle yellow, with murals of castles, ducks, knights and princesses tracing throughout. If one looked closely enough, they could see the skid marks of rowdy children making their mark known.

Rocking horses lined up beside a dollhouse embellished enough to have a miniature tea set in the kitchen and real velvet couches in the parlor. Next to it lay a ship- no, Yosef realized. Noah’s ark, with animal figurines lining the deck. Vaguely, he imagined setting it asail in the stream back home. Baruch certainly spent enough money on it, that it had to be able to float. 

A large wooden train that could fit up to seven hefty young riders lay in a corner. Each box car was stuffed to the brim with dolls, stuffed animals, and other assorted playthings. Toy swords, hand carved seemingly, lay in a bin. Those were not in as pristine condition as the rest of the toys, fierce battles told in the chipped edges. 

There were wonders upon wonders to be described. But what Yosef wiped away a tear at, subtly behind his spectacles, was the bookshelf. It was as long as an adult man’s arm width and as tall as the ceiling, and absolutely cluttered to the brim. 

From a quick glance, about half the books were in Yiddish- ranging from children's religious stories to secular titles Yosef had no idea had the achievability of being translated. But with a rich man’s children, nothing proved impossible. 

Other languages included Russian, English, French, and- Arabic? He blinked at the Chinese characters on the binding  of one book. He knew about Baruch’s travels. But it still rattled him that a land so fantastically foreign was just another name on a map to his friend. 

In the midst of this childhood wonderland, looking to all the world exceedingly comfortable and habituated to luxury, were two more children huddled under a play tent where the inside was furnished by throw pillows. 

“How many children do you have?” Yosef turned to Baruch who actually hesitated for a moment.

“Five,” He said after too long a pause, before adding thoughtfully. “For now.” 

“He found me in the trash.” The boy spoke up from the nook, not glancing up from the book in his lap. Reddish-brown curls poked out from under his yarmulke, whose fabric was embroidered with pomegranates and birds. Freckles speckled his cheeks and moved when he squinted his eyes, turning the page. 

“I did find him there,” Baruch admitted, like this was a normal and expected place to find children. “Kirya,” he called, and crouched down to the entrance of the tent, reaching out a hand.

Quick as a flash of light, his only daughter launched herself out from the tent. She looped her arms around his neck, and her dress’ bow ruffled as he stood up. His hand covered nearly the entirety of her back. 

She glanced at Yosef, with a gaze so strong he could’ve sworn it was genetic. She was from the far east, told from her warm tawny skin and wide dark monolid eyes. 

But most importantly- he watched his friend’s hands trace through her dark short hair, adjust the ribbon atop her tiny head- she was Baruch’s child.

“We’re going out,” Baruch announced, arms now full of two children. “I expect all of you to be downstairs in ten minutes.” That wouldn’t be too hard a task, as a third of his children currently clung to him. 

The boy, still in the tent, jolted his head up in shock. “Not on Shabbos,” He protested, admonishment clear in his tone. 

“We are many hours from sundown, Yoshi,” Baruch chided. Kirya whispered something in his ear. In response, he wordlessly walked across the room and handed her a porcelain doll. Said doll’s dress had more ruffles on it than anything Yosef had seen in his life. 

“Ah,” Yoshi returned to his reading. “I hadn’t known how much time had passed and thought that it was night.” He explained, as if this was a phenomenon that oft occurred. “Anyway, I’m reading at the moment and mustn't be interrupted.” 

“Understandable,” Baruch accepted, to Yosef’s surprise. “I’m sure Mr. Ben Ilan and Toli will be sad that only four out of five children could come.” 

“Sadness is a part of life,” Yoshi mused. He licked his finger with a quick poke of his tongue and then flicked the page. “Best get used to disappointment.” 

“I suppose.” Baruch once again agreed, starting his way out of the room. “Just as it will be bitter for you that you won’t get to name the chicken.” 

“Chicken!?? We’re getting a chicken?” Yoshi snapped the book shut and tumbled out of his abode. “That’s not fair, you didn’t mention that! You can’t let Chirkilo name it - it’s going to be so stupid and- ” 

Shortly after, with all children wearing their thin spring coats, the seven of them walked along the road. 

Or rather, only four walked. Baruch was now holding no less than three children, with Doriel and Kirya refusing to budge from his side and Tzvi finding a new perch on his father’s shoulders.

 Yoshi and Chiriklo flocked to his respective left and right, chattering and arguing on what to name the new life they would soon be bringing home. 

Yosef walked a few steps behind, wistful that he was not a photographer nor artist. He could have captured the scene of the Weinns in simple wholesome terms, with a blurry photo or a quick sketch. But writers were far less beloved. 

Because writers had a knack for setting the scene. And if Yosef was to write about the love of one absurd family, he would have to mention the glares and whispers of neighbors. He would have to compare that visceral hatred to a mold, taking over the dark and damp spring until it infested each part and ruined a home, suffocating the inhabitants. 

And he could see that mold, forming at the Weinns’ feet. 

But no matter. He could not think about it now. Maybe this would be a scene he would return to in his mind in years to come, either in remarkable fondness or as a mirthless memory where he cannot stop the misery that is to come. 

But for now, he is in the moment. All he can do is breathe in the Friday air and keep up with his friend’s quick pace.