Guest post written by author Shirley Russak Wachtel and excerpt from A Castle In Brooklyn
Shirley Russak Wachtel is the author of the short story collection Three For A Dollar, the book of poetry, In The Mellow Light, and several books for children. Her short stories and poems have appeared in various literary journals. A daughter of Holocaust survivors, Wachtel was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. She holds a doctor of letters degree from Drew University and for the past thirty years has taught English literature at Middlesex College in Edison, New Jersey. The mother of three grown sons and grandmother to two precocious granddaughters, she currently resides in East Brunswick, New Jersey, with her husband, Arthur. A Castle In Brooklyn is out January 1st 2023.
Growing up, I never lived in a house. Oh, there were plenty of apartments in Brownsville, Flatbush, or Kings Highway, as my father went from one promising business to another. We were always looking at lots of small split-levels and two-family homes where I would imagine what it would feel like to sit on a bed surrounded by pink floral wallpaper or to plant my feet on grass, as my younger brother and I had a game of catch in the backyard.
But after a few years of dashed hopes, I soon realized that the home I dreamed of would never materialize. My father had every intention of owning a home, but whenever he came close to the decision, he would inevitably back out. It is only now when I am well past the age my father was then, with children and grandchildren of my own, that I fully understand the reason for his reluctance.
He simply couldn’t take the risk. As a Holocaust survivor whose hometown was suddenly transformed from a thriving city to a ghetto, a prison where each action, the work you did, the number of slices of bread you ate each day, was dictated by Hitler’s Nazis. Even as he became a runner for the black market, my father saw his beloved mother, his brother, sisters, nephews, and nieces marched off to their deaths in Auschwitz. He alone survived, but only because he made a split-second decision to run for the line of workers rather than remain with the group to which he, a skinny, sickly young man, was assigned. After the war ended, he met my mother, and the two, under the sponsorship of my great-aunt, came to America to begin a family, establish a business, secure a home. It was only the last dream which never came to fruition. As a survivor, my father knew all too well how quickly life could be upended, how everything you once thought was inviolable, secure, could change at a moment’s notice. And that meant never placing your money into stocks or using credit cards when banks were more stable. It also meant forgoing a risky mortgage.
So, we never did own that home, and our family remained content in spite of it. Still, I wondered what life would be like for a survivor who did take that chance to build the home of his dreams, no matter the emotional and financial cost. And so, the idea of Jacob and his castle was born.
Although Jacob is not modeled after my father, he is representative of so many immigrants who, having endured a life of oppression and sometimes unspeakable horror, come to America in search of a new start, a better life than the one they left behind. In my novel, A Castle in Brooklyn, Jacob, who is haunted by the sad memories of his life back in Poland, manages to fulfill his American dream with a wife, a family, and, yes, a home he can call his own. But, when unexpected tragedy intrudes on his happiness, its consequences threatening the relationship he has with his best friend, and even his marriage, his American dream begins to crumble. The home Jacob builds, though, still stands, reflecting the lives of those who continue to live within its walls and hope for those who will occupy its rooms in years to come.
While my father never did live in a home of his own, I have. For the past thirty-five years, our home in New Jersey has been the hub of numerous family gatherings and celebrations, while offering a sense of stability and solace when the world gets too crazy. And, so far, the good times have outnumbered the bad. I hope that readers will see themselves, their fears, their dreams, in A Castle in Brooklyn. And, just as I have, come to understand the true meaning of home.
EXCERPT FROM A CASTLE IN BROOKLYN
One needs to plan well before building a house. Once you have the land allocated, then you must prepare and grade the site. That being accomplished, the foundation, a secure foundation, can be begun. Then comes the framing of the house, when you can stand back and gaze up at something for the first time, even if it looks like nothing more than a box with a few oddly shaped holes. Next is the installation of the windows and doors, and the roughing and siding, and even a two-year-old can tell that it’s becoming a house. Then the professional electricians come in and do their work. Sometime after, there is another need, something important, especially if you are living on the East Coast, when each year the summers get only hotter, the winters more freezing. So heating and air-conditioning systems—fans—are essential to make sure the building is insulated and there’s drywall, underlayment, and trim. Without a doubt, now it appears to be a home, but it isn’t, not yet. No one would risk living in a space with walls yet to be painted, incomplete wiring, empty walls without counters or cabinets, unusable toilets, and sinks. No one would dare unless you were in hiding, unless you were running for your life and had no choices.
So you finish the heating and air-conditioning work, hook everything up to the water main. Now it’s a house, but it does not feel like one. Well then, you add sturdy wood floors, so toddlers can run without tripping over gaps or nails, and plush carpet or maybe a shag in a bright green or blue, and pretty Dacron curtains that flutter when you open the windows in the springtime. And voilà, you finally have a house! But you still don’t have a home. Not yet.
Jacob’s mind began to race with these thoughts the moment he had signed the deed to the property where he would erect his home, no longer a dream, a whim of the imagination, but a home framed with bricks and wood. Where he could stay warm and secure while drifts of snow piled in the streets or tempestuous winds shook the trees, and while the rain formed puddles on the road or danced on the rooftop of a home for all seasons.
It took little convincing for Zalman to agree to become the architect, once again Jacob’s right-hand man. This time the new role was not in an escape, but a step toward a thing, moving toward hope. At first, Zalman balked, feeling unsure in his abilities in the trade, but Jacob had enough confidence for them both. After all, hadn’t Zalman studied the meticulously planned drawings at his father’s knee, visited the museums, office buildings, the homes of bankers and art dealers that had sprung from the brain of one of the finest architects in all of Poland? Hadn’t he salvaged the massive books on the art and techniques of this vocation, and Zalman’s own rudimentary drawings that, though amateurish, possessed a spark that demonstrated that Zalman was indeed his father’s son? All he needed was time to review it all again, to acquaint himself with the codes at the municipal offices in Brooklyn, and he could set to work.
After only three months, just as the street began to crackle with a mid-July heat, and the birds hid beneath the dry leaves, Jacob, holding the blueprint of his future home, felt that spring had begun. As he shook Zalman’s hand, threw his arms around his stooped shoulders, kissed his cheek, he realized his dream was now Zalman’s as well.
Jacob’s responsibilities at work had kept him from visiting the site very often, over half an acre in Brooklyn’s Mill Basin community, so Zalman, design in hand, supervised much of the construction. Often Esther accompanied him, the two carefully surveying a massive blueprint. As the house began to take form, she became emboldened, offering advice on trim and window size, then colors on the walls, the exact shade of marigold for the appliances. Sometimes she would ask Zalman to explain the measurements of a closet or why a bedroom radiator was placed so near to the entry. Zalman, who had lived among the Polish farmers, learned how to speak like an Americana, no longer such a greenhorn. The two discovered that they shared an interest in cooking, Esther explaining how to boil the bigos, a meat, potato, and sauerkraut stew he had loved as a child, while Zalman introduced her to sour cream with potatoes simmered in borscht. They also both loved music, especially the tunes each played on Esther’s beloved baby grand, bringing echoes of home to the young immigrants. Almost immediately, the two friends came to realize they had something else in common as well. Their love for Jacob, the man with the big dreams.
