Broken Song by Kathryn Lasky Page A

Lovotz knew it. “I shall think about it, cousin. I shall consider this most carefully. Yes. Lovotz, give me some time. I must get used to the idea. Give me some time.”
    Lovotz patted his hand. Reuven felt no warmth thistime. It was merely a gesture. “Yes, of course, of course. Shall we go? I think it is time for us to get back home,” Lovotz said.
    Yes, cousin.
    They got up to leave. As they were walking out of the cafè, Reuven felt Lovotz pat his shoulder and then grip it with that amazingly strong hand. It was not an empty gesture. It was one full of deep affection.
This man is so good
, Reuven thought.
    They were walking by the Strashun Library.
    “I will take you there tomorrow. No time today. There are tens of thousands of volumes of ancient Hebrew texts alone. Some are among the earliest ever printed. Yes, indeed, just twenty years after Gutenberg invented the printing press. As a book dealer I am often called in to advise them on the authenticity of certain materials.”
    They had just turned a corner when something rushed out of an alley. Reuven heard a funny popping noise and was about to turn to Lovotz and ask him what it could be when he suddenly realized that Lovotz was standing stock still and clutching his stomach with a look of frozen horror on his face. Then his cousin crumpled against him. There was almost no weight to the man. A terrible shriek cut the air as both Reuven and Lovotz fell to the cobblestones.
    “Cousin!” Reuven gasped as he held Lovotz in his arms. Reuven’s right arm, his bow arm, supported the light weight, and he stared in disbelief as he watched his hand turn red with blood. People were rushing up to them.
    “My God, it’s Lovotz Sperling… .”
    “The bastards shot Lovotz!”
    “Make way … give him air.”
    Reuven thought,
This cannot be happening. Not again. This is not Berischeva
. Scores of people now crowded about them. Reuven looked into Lovotz’s face. His eyes were open and focusing on Reuven. A small bubble of blood burbled at the corner of his mouth. He was trying to talk.
    “Don’t talk, cousin, don’t talk. We’ll get you to a doctor. Save your strength. Don’t talk.”
Oh please God
, Reuven prayed,
do not take this good man
.
    Lovotz’s mouth kept trying to make the words. There was so much blood. So much blood from such a tiny man. Then someone was peeling Reuven off of Lovotz’s blood-slicked cloak.
    “No no!” Reuven heard himself saying. “I’ll stay here with my cousin and help get him to the doctor. He’s so light. I am very strong.”
    He felt someone’s touch on his head. “Reuven, he is gone. It is no use.”
    “No, he is all right, I tell you. Lovotz?”
    An arm clasped him. He looked around. It was Isaac, the music shop owner. Tears were streaming down his face.
    “They got him.” Jagged words tore from Isaac’s throat.
    What was this man saying? They? Who was they? Why did they want to shoot Lovotz? “I don’t understand.”
    “Agents, my boy. Secret agents. They know about theBund. They know how powerful it is becoming.” While they talked, Isaac had been moving Reuven away from Lovotz.
    “This cannot be.” Reuven kept shaking his head and repeating the words.
    “It is difficult for the young. You have seen so little.” At this Reuven stopped walking. Anger flushed through him. “No, sir, you are mistaken. I have seen too much.” And a torrential sob ripped from his throat.
    After Lovotz was murdered, it seemed to Reuven that he existed in a timeless zone—unlike when his own family was killed and there had been no time to think but only to act, to snatch Rachel up and run. Now there was time to think. He wondered how in such a short space of time this man Lovotz Sperling had come to occupy such an enormous place in his mind, and then gently invade his heart. He thought back to that afternoon in the writers’ cafè when Lovotz had asked him to become a member of the Bund, to let Basia take Rachel to America. It