Broken Song by Kathryn Lasky

dresses with open collars and sleeves that did not reach the wrists. They were full of talk and humor, and the men were often the butt of their jokes.
    Lovotz ordered coffee for them both.
    “Different from Berischeva, eh?” he asked.
    “Yes!” Reuven took a deep breath. The words just came to him. “Cousin, it is as if you just read my mind. Are you a mind reader?”
    “Not quite, and I doubt that I read all of your thoughts.”
    “No.” Reuven paused. “I wish you could.”
    “How do you mean, Reuven?”
    “Cousin Lovotz, something is bothering you. I know that.”
    “Now
who
is the mind reader?” Lovotz sighed and muttered to himself.
    “What?”
    “Basia would be furious.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    Lovotz looked directly into Reuven’s eyes. “Reuven, this is very difficult. You are right. Something is troubling me, and in truth I have no right to be troubled by this.”
    Reuven waited, not saying a word.
    “I …” Reuven could tell that Lovotz was searching for the right words. “I was hoping, Reuven dear boy, I was hoping that you might want to …” He was speaking very slowly now, as if weighing every word. “Become a member of the Bund and that instead of going to America, you might remain here with us and … and …”
    “Join the revolution.” Reuven finished the sentence.
    “Yes.” Lovotz looked down at his hand on the table. His pale cheeks flushed slightly.
    “But what about Rachel? I am her brother.”
    “Right.” Lovotz spoke the word emphatically. “You are her brother.” Was there an emphasis on the word
her
? Was something left unsaid—that you are
our
brother too?
    Lovotz now leaned forward. He heaved up his withered arm, and with both his hands, one shrunken and white the other large and incredibly powerful, he grasped Reuven’s hand. It was a very odd sensation. One of Lovotz’s hands felt limp and even cold, the other was warm and seemed to tingle with life.
    “Look …” Then Lovotz’s eyes rolled toward heaven. “God forgive me. Look …” He began again. “We need you. You are young and strong. You speak Russian well. You are smart and quick. You would be invaluable.”
    “But Rachel?”
    “Rachel is a baby.”
    Please
, prayed Reuven,
don’t say she is so young she will forget me. Please don’t say that
.
    “But already you see how she loves our children. Basia will take her to America, to New York. We have been sending money to friends there. Basia will take care of her as if she is her own. She will behappy. She will be with other children. She will be in America. In America, she will go to school. She will have a chance. There is no chance here for a Jewish girl. These women who sit here in the cafè”—he gestured toward the intense women that Reuven had noticed when he came in—”they have fought and fought to get what they have. In most cases, their families hate them for this independence. They have gone against an old and outdated tradition. Yes, they are independent, but they will never be free—not in the way they would be in America. Rachel will remember you. Basia will make sure of that, and someday, probably not so far off, you will go to America too.”
    Reuven was silent for a long time. What Lovotz Sperling had proposed was unthinkable, unimaginable. He and Rachel had been closer than any two people for these last weeks. He had carried her on his back across the Pale of Russia into Poland. They had hidden in ditches, built snow caves to sleep in. He had cajoled her, scolded her, hushed her, clamped his hand over her screaming mouth, felt the furious light of her dark eyes. She was as much a part of him as a vital organ in his body. To leave her would be like cutting out a part of himself. Why couldn’t Lovotz understand any of this? But still, Reuven felt very deeply for his cousin. He felt he owed him a considered opinion. His mouth began to move mechanically. With the first words he knew he was lying, and he knew