Bend in the Road

Excerpt:
Kracow, Poland, 1881
Aryeh Nachman jiggled the coins in his pocket and realized he had bupkes. Absolutely nothing but the clothes on his back, a tattered copy of the complete works of William Shakespeare, a prayer book—though seldom used, it was a Bar Mitzvah gift from Shimon—and a copy of Childe Harold.
He laughed.
And he now sported a slight limp ala Lord Byron.
Thanks to his former employer.
He had envisioned that being a tutor to the spoiled sixteen-year old daughter of Herr Abramowicz would be an admirable use for his English education. He thought his tenure was secure due to the overweening pride of her father. To boast of having a tutor who could speak several languages and quote Shakespeare and Goethe was quite a coup.
Little Sarahleh was more precocious than her father knew. After three months, Sarah confronted him in the charming gazebo in the garden and threw herself at him.
He then made the mistake of spurning her advances.
To quote the old saw, “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”
By that evening he was out on his ear, literally, as Sarah tripped him on his way out the door and her father tossed his valise after him, regrettably empty of his few pieces of clothing.
There was no possible way he could or would marry the rich man’s daughter.
For one reason, he was a bastard.
His flighty mother should have made sure his father wasn’t already betrothed before she became pregnant. Falling for the sexual blandishments of the son of the house where she worked as a maid was as clichéd a story as one could imagine. But since she was a good girl from a poor Jewish family, she wasn’t cast out into the cold.
Fortunately, the man had supported her during and after her pregnancy, up to his son’s twenty-first year, setting them up in a cottage with a cook and a maid.
By then Aryeh had acknowledged several facts that were to guide his life.
He was smart.
He was a hedonist.
He loved words.
And he loved men.
That last he had realized rather unexpectedly.
Like Sarah, he, too had been given a private tutor. As he neared the age of thirteen, his mother had begged his father for someone to prepare him for his confirmation.
Finding someone willing to begin with the “Aleph Bet” took some doing, but one was found. Shimon stayed with the family for five years, teaching him not only the necessary prayers for his Bar Mitzvah, but exposing him to a world of fine literature, history, mathematics and languages.
His tutor called him Aryeh, the Hebrew of his English name, Lionel. And it was Aryeh that fell from his lips the first time they kissed.
And the last.
On the eve of his eighteenth birthday, the lingering looks and accidental touches that had been exchanged between them changed.
Both he and Shimon knew his employment would end when Aryeh turned eighteen. That night would be the last time they would see each other.
They met in the little garden under the apple tree, the scent of the blossoms filling the air. They didn’t speak, just came together, their mouths open and greedy. Their tongues plunged deeply, tasting the sweetness of the wine downed at dinner.
Shimon’s trimmed beard brushed Aryeh’s chin like a kitten’s fur.
He wanted to purr like one.
Both the same height, their erections bumped together, hard and aching for release.
“Aryeh.” Shimon murmured his name and drew back, gasping for breath.
Aryeh remembered every word they exchanged, even now, ten years later.
“It’s a sin. Forgive me. A madness took me over.”
“Divine madness. Kiss me again.”
Aryeh felt Shimon tremble in his embrace. He wanted Shimon, and nothing Aryeh had ever wanted had been denied him.
Until then.
Shimon shook his head.
“I will not lead you astray. I’ve managed to refrain from acting upon my impure impulses up till now. I will not act upon my desire for you.”
“Why not? Who will know?”
“I will. And God.” Shimon managed a smile. “You could tempt Elijah the prophet.” He shook his head. “You have no idea how handsome you are. It’s easy to love you, Aryeh.”
“If you loved me, you wouldn’t deny me.”
“It’s because I love you that I must.” Shimon gripped his shoulders. “You’ll find a young woman from a good family—”
“Who will marry a momzer?”
Shimon winced then recovered. “You’ll go to America, maybe?”
“Not America. I’ll go where you go. We’ll be together.”
“No. I’m going back to Zolnyia. My parents are aging. They need me.” He took a deep breath. “They’ve found me the daughter of a wealthy merchant.” His mouth thinned. “He’s eager to boast that his daughter is marrying a scholar. Her dowry will take care of my parents in their old age.”
Even now, Aryeh winced at the way he lashed out at Shimon.
“You’d sell yourself and enter a loveless marriage, and that you don’t consider a sin?”
Shimon shook his head.
“One day you’ll find someone for whom you’ll give up everything. You can’t see that this is the best thing for you. Trust me.”
Shimon left and a few days later so did Aryeh. He headed to London with the little bit of allowance his father offered.
He soon found out that there were men who weren’t as unwilling as Shimon to act upon their desire.
He arrived in London and discovered that Shimon was correct.
He was handsome.
Simeon Solomon thought he was more than handsome; he was beautiful and begged him to model for him. After he begged him to be kind to him.
He reminded him of Shimon, even to his name.
And when Simeon stroked every part of his body, learning the muscles and tendons intimately, he knew that Shimon was wrong.
He would never marry a nice girl from a good family.
Commissioned to create a portrayal of a Rabbi for a new Temple, Simeon dressed him in the Rabbinical vestments and gave him the pillow they’d slept upon to take the place of the Torah scrolls.
“Think of me in your arms. Hold the pillow like you would hold me.”
Aryeh complied.
Dreaming of Shimon, he pushed his hand under the linen encasing the pillow, pretending he caressed Shimon’s arousal. His right hand curved around the down-filled cushion and he leaned his cheek upon it. Upon Shimon’s cheek.
He kissed the pillow as he would kiss the Torah upon the Sabbath.
And sighed.
“Perfect,” Simeon whispered. “Remember that look when you come to me later.”
He had modeled for several of Simeon’s circle of artists, but after a year left him and traveled to France with a young American youth newly awakened to his fondness for other young men.
In Paris, Simeon found him again and he left his American.
A mistake on his part, for Simeon was arrested. Simeon hadn’t been content with him alone, but had gone trolling for even younger men. It was fated, perhaps, that he had just left their apartments when the gendarmes came and hustled Simeon out of the city.
Once Aryeh turned twenty-one, the meager allowance his father begrudgingly gave him ceased. Aryeh picked up his last draft at the Rothschild’s Paris branch along with a note from his father. His obligations fulfilled, he requested no further contact between them. His mother died suddenly of congestion a year later. By the time the news reached him, she’d been buried for over three weeks. With no ties left in England, he remained on the continent.
He traveled farther eastward, instinctively journeying toward Zolynia and Shimon. To earn a living he wrote articles about travel, art and cuisine for various English language newspapers.
In Berlin, he hired himself out as the escort of an older, widowed, middle class woman who liked opera and much younger men.
That too had not ended well when Frau Bernstein had forgotten that he was only hired to act like her lover.
Thankfully, she’d paid him enough to get him to Kracow.
Now, here he was again, out in the cold and without any money.
He turned up his collar as a gust of wind sliced his neck. Without realizing it, he’d wandered towards the Reform Jewish temple.
And a loud argument.
He hovered out of sight, ready to intervene if the words became too violent.
“Putz! You think you’re better than us? If you won’t let us perform in the courtyard, we’ll disrupt your services! We’ll dance naked on Shabbos!”
“Take your business elsewhere! Who do you think you are? William Shakespeare? Defiling the Sabbath will get you nowhere! Go back to Romania, you mamaligaleh!”
“You ignoramus, I have never tasted a bowl of corn meal mush in my life! When no one wants to hear the Megillah Esther, you’ll know where to find us!”
Aryeh moved toward the shadows cast by a street lamp and took in the verbal altercation between the beadle of the Temple and a middle-aged man.
Dressed in shabby, though once fine, clothing, his grandiose gestures and clear, carrying voice caused Aryeh to wonder if he were one of the peripatetic members of a troupe of traveling players.
With the beadle’s back turned on the man as he re-entered the Temple, he failed to see the rude gesture given to him.
Aryeh had to learn more about the bold rogue.
“Pardon me, are you all right?”
He strolled into the light of the giant sconces on either side of the temple door, his valise in his hand, and smiled.
“Walk again.”
Aryeh stared. Was the man crazy or just pretending to be?
“You can’t be deaf, otherwise your voice wouldn’t sound so pure. Perhaps you only know the one phrase in Polish?” The man scratched his head and spoke again, this time in Yiddish. “Do you understand? Farshtaisht?”
Aryeh nodded, curious as to what the man would say or do next. He did appear harmless.
“So,” the man continued in Yiddish. “Since you speak Yiddish, you’re not one of the maskilim, then, those enlightened nuddiks who’d throw away everything to eat treyf? But who are you?”
Aryeh had enough with being coy. He was just as intrigued by the multi-lingual man as he was of him, and getting colder by the minute.
He answered in Polish. “My name is Aryeh Nachman, late of Kracow.” He switched to German. “Germany.” Then continued in French. “Paris.” And finally in English. “And born in Her Majesty’s blessed realm twenty-eight years ago. And you are?”
“Moyshe Bercovich, come to free you from the infidels and lead you to the Promised Land.”
Aryeh’s laughter rang out upon hearing Moyshe’s impeccable English.
“And what makes you think I need saving?”
Moyshe swept his hand up with a flourish, taking in Aryeh’s shabby jacket, thin shoes and single bag.
“Unless you’re some eccentric millionaire, I can see that you’re cold, with no lodging, and judging by how you’re clinging to that bag, you obviously have little in the way of worldly goods. I can offer you food and lodging.”
Aryeh inclined his head.
“Quite observant, but I’ve found that people seldom are generous without wishing something in return.” He ventured up towards the man and cupped his stubbled chin. “Am I correct?”
Though he didn’t cringe in disgust, Moses shook his head. “Although you’ve quite a gorgeous punim on those shoulders, my interest doesn’t involve using your body in that way.” He reached down and extricated Aryeh’s bag from his cold-stiffened fingers. “Come back with me to my wife Rivkeh. We’ll fill your stomach and get you some clean, warm clothes. Then we’ll talk.” He hoisted the satchel onto his shoulder and headed off.
Aryeh stood transfixed.
Moses turned. “Well, boytshik? Coming?”
Aryeh shoved his hands into his pockets and hurried after his potential savior.