My father’s father, Mordechai Izrael, was still a stranger to me. This was my chance to know his story. My father was a captive, waiting at his emptied house for the flight from Florida to an assisted-living home closer to us in New York. Gripping my grandfather’s dog-eared, musty, handwritten Yiddish memoir, I had thought about it on the plane-ride down. My father still had his faculties. He had mellowed over the years, and now there were no distractions. It was the right time for him, and there would never be a better time for me.

I looked at my father slumped in his chair, too weak to sit up, his eyes still bright, reflecting the green from the sunlit golf course outside. Taking a sip of the iced tea I had made, my mouth dry, I pulled out the worn leather-bound journal. “Can you read this?” I asked.

“Where did you get that?” he said, grabbing it from me. He opened it and flipped through the pages, just as I had when I got it from my cousin Esther. I could read a little Hebrew and understand simple spoken Yiddish words and phrases, but not this.

“I remember seeing him write in this at his desk in his office, when I was young. He always stopped when I came into the room and locked it in his desk. I thought it was lost,” my father said, thumbing the old pages.

“Cousin Esther gave it to me, just last week when we met for dinner. She found it after her mother died. She said her mother buried the past.”

“Sometimes the past is best left buried,” my father said, still fingering the pages. “You talk to Esther? I haven’t seen her in years. I didn’t want to go to my sister’s funeral. It was too much, all the way from Florida to Montreal.”

“Can you read this?” I leaned forward.

“Why do you need to know so much? After all these years, does it matter?”

“I want to know my family history. You told me some things when I was young, but you never told me everything. You just stopped the story.”

“How do you know you do not know everything? All those big books you have in your bookcases, they did not tell you everything? I already told you what you need to know.” He paused, staring, angry, still gripping the book. “You cannot know how it was.”

In earlier times, he would not have paused; he would have gone on in an angry, sarcastic tirade. Now there was a long silence. I could hear him breathing heavily; I almost heard his heart racing.

We sat on the screened porch at the back of the house, his bandaged foot propped on a cushion. He would have stalked out if he could, but his amputated toe wasn’t healing well, and he needed assistance. He wouldn’t ask for my help; he would rather sit there looking at the golf course. My father had never played golf in his life, but he liked the quiet and the huge lawn he didn’t have to care for.

There were minor interruptions to our silence—the distant murmurs of occasional golfers or the crack of a hit ball. It was late afternoon, and it was finally cooling, calming.

“It would hurt you to know. It still hurts me.”

“Not knowing has not been good for me.”

“I did not know,” he said.

The evening birds had begun their songs, though it was not quite sunset. Neither of us had noticed them before this silence. Each had a different song, and we listened to them all, ignoring our heavy breathing until the songs were enough.

He sighed, rubbed his eyes, put on his glasses, and opened the book. He began to read, but he went slowly. “This is hard,” he said. “It has been over sixty years, and his handwriting is terrible.”

He almost put the book down, but he didn’t close it. He looked again, adjusting the book and his glasses. Then he began to read once more, first slowly, haltingly, and then more easily, from capacity or curiosity, or both:

I had no choice. My sister warned me the Emperor’s army was going from town to town, pulling boys my age out of school, Jewish and Christian alike, taking names and addresses, telling them to show up in a week in the town square, to be drafted into the army. I would change my last name from Izrael to my mother’s maiden name, Jacobs, just like my brother Joseph. Joseph had sold all he owned and gone to America.

I found a scribe, an old woman from Prague, to write a letter in German with my new name, for permission to travel to a town over the border in Hungary. It would be illegal for me to leave town if I was drafted. This letter said I needed to go, that my brother was dying of consumption. It included my fake name and address, in case someone checked.

I paid as much for the letter as for the forged passport I got from Rashi Charapsky. Everyone called him, as a joke, Mogen David, the shield of the Jews. He was a confidant of the Rabbi and interceded on any legal matter between the town and the government. That way the government would not look like it was dealing with the Jewish leaders directly. He would take the letters and transmit them to the proper authorities. No one in our town thought of going directly to those authorities—they were all anti-Semites.

He had a big house with a big fat wife. She answered the door if the servant was not around. I was warned she would try to put off potential clients, to make herself seem more important and above these distasteful deals. If she couldn’t put them off, she would call her husband and business would be held on the steps, he inside in his comfortable warm house and the people who needed his help on the outside.

Mogen David came to the door as I stood waiting in the cold outside. He read the letter with the door only half open, to keep the heat in. I peeked in and looked around. It was the biggest house I had ever seen. The large foyer led to a big staircase. It looked like it went up to the sky. In the center of the foyer was a huge desk made out of solid oak, covered with papers. One red candle burned at the side next to the inkstand, the big pen sticking out like a sword.

Mogen David nodded in approval when he finished reading the letter. He was breaking the same law as the scribe, giving me a new name and identity, but he did not mind, since he charged more money.

“Fifty crowns,” he demanded.

“Are you sure this will be all right?” I asked.

Mogen David smiled and told me there would be no problem, taking my money. “Come back in two days and the passport will be ready. No one wants to keep the Jews from going to America, especially not the other Jews; they want to share less of nothing,” he said, laughing.

“I need it tomorrow. You know the soldiers will be coming back soon,” I said.

“Everybody wants things in a hurry these days,” he said, irritated. He knew very well when they were coming. I was not the only one who had visited him. “Another twenty-five crowns and you can have it tomorrow, but come after dark,” he said, no longer smiling.

The snow was falling, and it was cold on the doorstep. I was eager to leave. I gave him what he asked and a few more crowns, as my mother had told me to do. It was money we had saved for years, ever since my brother left—every little coin saved for such an emergency, now an adventure and a new life.

I returned in the dark and looked at the two rooms I had called home for all my life: a dirt floor and a huge stove in the fireplace that heated the rooms while it cooked food for the family. The windows rattled in the cold wind. My sister sat in the corner, sewing. She was to marry in the spring. My mother would live all alone, her only company the family pictures lined up on the mantelpiece, her own mother’s bed still standing vacant nearby.

My grandmother had lived with us, sleeping in the alcove next to the fireplace. Every other day she had washed the clothes she wanted to be buried in; the next day she would iron and fold them after they had dried outside. Even on the coldest days she would go out and hang up the clothes to dry. Every morning she would wake up, surprised, not pleased, she was still alive, and the rest of the day she would sit in her chair in the corner, waiting for her time to come. One morning she did not wake up. Her clothes were waiting for her, clean and pressed, and she was buried in them, just as she had planned. One knew to be prepared for the worst because it always happened.

I remembered the day when my mother first talked to me about leaving. It was only a few weeks before, but it had already gotten cold outside, just after Yom Kippur. The leaves were falling; the harvest of potatoes, wheat, and rye had all been brought in. The wind whistled down through the bare trees from the peaks of the Carpathians, the warm currents from the south blocked by the oncoming winter. Already I was restless over being cooped up for another long, cold, gray six months. Mother had seen how hard it was for me over the past few years, after my father died, and she had told me: “I knew the day your brother left that I would lose you too, either from no money or into the Emperor’s army. I understand, and I want you should go. There is nothing for you here.” She had kissed me on both cheeks and given me money to pay for the papers so I could leave.

Now I was eager to get on my way. My sleep that night was not good. Anxious, excited, depressed, afraid, I tossed and turned on my cot in the cold, dark room. Once I awakened to hear my mother quietly crying, but I was too tired to know if it was part of my fearful dreams or reality. I looked up at the mantel of the fireplace and, on it, the Menorah, only taken down on Chanukah, the one thing of value left in the house.

When the light of morning broke and the birds began to sing, I was unable to sleep any more. I packed up my things—my prayer book, my warm clothes, and a letter from my brother. It gave the address in Philadelphia where he was living and the place where he worked, and told anyone who read it that I was his brother and where I came from and that I was a hard worker. I put this letter in my coat pocket, next to my money.

I made myself a cold breakfast of bread and milk. I tried to be quiet, but my noise woke everyone. Mother got up to boil some water for tea.

“Don’t worry, Mama, I’ll get you some breakfast,” I said, cutting more of the bread.

“No, you made enough mess, bring that over already,” she snapped at me. She looked at the crumbs on the table and shook her head, just as she had when I was a little boy who couldn’t stay out of trouble.

“I’m not your little boy anymore,” I snapped. “I’m tired of this. That is why I’m leaving.”  I was sorry I had said it after I blurted it out.

“You just eat,” she said, holding back her anger. “I will make you some sandwiches for the trip.”

She cut some bread and salami and wrapped a little package for me, her sad eyes looking down as she cut, a tear or two falling on the bread. My sister was up, quietly sewing again.

I finished eating quickly, still red-faced. Then I washed with the cold water, which calmed me down, and gathered my things, ready to go.

“Here,” my mother said sharply, holding up a small ring. “This is all I can give you. It has been handed down to the last-born son for many generations. Your brother and sister have gotten all that we have, but this is yours. You will find someone to marry someday. When you do, this is hers. Until then, keep it close to yourself. It is your mother’s love.” She kissed me.

My sister got up from her sewing and gave me the jacket she had just finished. “It is not much, but it will keep you warm,” she said, smiling. “Maybe we will meet again.” She hugged me and kissed my cheeks. “Good-bye, brother, G-d be with you, and give Joseph my love.”

I looked around the room once more and closed my eyes quickly and hard, to keep the image in my memory. My mother and sister didn’t seem to notice the tear fall from my eye as I opened the door and left.

Snow fell again as I walked down the mountain road to the town. It was still muddy from the last thaw. I slipped in the mud, my bag spilling open, half of my clothes getting wet and filthy. I stood up, gathered my clothes, and stuffed them into my bag again. I would have to wash them somewhere, but first I had to reach the village. As the snow continued to fall, I got colder and colder. The clothes I had on were only warm enough when I was dry. Now they were freezing as I walked, the sweat of the inside mixing with the mud from the outside.

I passed a peasant whose cart was stuck in the mud. He was beating his ox and cursing the poor animal as it heaved and heaved, trying to pull the small wheels out, but they were buried deeply in the mud from the weight of the load.

“Cholera and dog’s blood!” the peasant swore. “Get moving or you’ll be tonight’s stew.” He beat the animal mercilessly, until there were big red welts on its back.

“Do you need any help?” I asked.

“Of course I do, you stupid fool,” the peasant roared. “Push the cart from the back, I’ll pull from the front.”

He gave his ox another hard whack and shouted, “Move!”

I pushed the cart. The pained animal lunged forward, almost toppling the man, but the cart was out of the mud.

I was pleased that I could help, and smiled. “We did it,” I said.

“What do you mean, we?” asked the peasant. He didn’t want to give anything to a Jew, not even a thank you. “Get out of here, you dirty Yid,” he said, snapping his whip.

I moved on, already tired and cold, more muddy and sweaty than before. I was almost crying now. I felt angry that I had been fooled into thinking I could help someone without being cursed as a Jew, and ashamed of how I would look when I got into town.

The town was down in the valley. The road was still muddy, but the cold had made it firmer than before. I reached the house of Mogen David just after sunset and knocked on the big door.

“What do you want?” asked the old servant, opening the door only far enough to see who it was.

I knew I would have to pay off the old yenta. “I want to see Mr. Charapsky,” I answered, slipping a coin into her hand.

“It’s cold, don’t just stand there. Come in,” she said, opening the door. The coin had worked. “Stand there and don’t move.” She pointed to the mat at the door that Charapsky usually stood on. I must have looked awful and smelled as bad, with all the mud and sweat.

She pulled aside the curtain slightly to look out the window. It was never safe to show oneself at night to the drunks wandering outside.

As I looked up at the giant chandelier lighting the whole room, Charapsky came down the stairs to speak to me. He was still chewing his dinner, his mouth so full he was drooling into his beard. The fat pig, I thought.

“Here you are, young man: a passport to the New World, Die Goldene Medina, the Golden Country. They say the streets are paved with gold, but you need a crowbar to get the stones out.” He laughed at his own joke. I smiled weakly.

The yenta appeared again as soon as Mogen David laughed. The door was opened, and in a second I was out in the cold again, with the passport in my hand. The snow was falling more heavily, and I hurried down the dark and muddy streets to Avram Mandelowitz’s house.

I had been there often in the past, the first time when my brother went to buy a brand-new suit for his trip to America. I didn’t have that kind of money, but I returned frequently for long talks with Avram, about my brother and how well he was doing in America and how Avram would go there too, as soon as he could make enough money. I had agreed to go with Avram, who was older and had more experience of the world; we would help and encourage each other on the long journey, especially since Avram had a new wife and baby.

I was hungry after the long walk to town, but I expected no food at his house. It seemed smaller than I had remembered. The doors and windows let the wind whistle through, no better than my house. I knocked on the door. It rattled. Avram was not good at fixing things, and he had no money to pay someone else to fix it.

Eva, his wife, opened the door. She had a bright smile. I noticed her light red hair sticking out from her headscarf. Her eyes were fiery with intelligence and life. I hadn’t seen many women, and to me she was beautiful. She noticed my discomfort but ignored it.

I had to pause to remind myself why I was there. “I’m Mortchra Izrael,” I said to her.

“Come in, come in. It is cold outside,” she said, pulling me in.

Avram was sitting by the table, his legs crossed, the light shining on a huge coat he was sewing. He didn’t look up but continued to work. “Sit down,” he said. “Eva will get you a glass of tea. Are you hungry? There’s a little bread left, and you can put a little schmaltz on it, can’t you Eva, or maybe a little bit of lekvar? What would you like, Mordechai?”

Eva had already made the tea and poured it into a glass in front of me. She put the bread and schmaltz on the table so quickly that I didn’t have time to say no, and it was a good thing because it was late, and I was hungry.

“I’m sorry I can’t stop to shake your hand,” Avram went on, “but Mogen David wants this coat tonight. It is the deal he made with me so I could get papers and leave before the draft soldiers come for me too. Imagine, they want an old man with a child to go. They probably want me to work as a tailor in the army. The idiots—it would be cheaper just to pay me a little money to work at home. Still, I must go now, like you. Eva is not happy,” he added, looking at his wife—who was not smiling.

“I won’t be much longer, and then I will deliver it. He has a big ceremony tomorrow, and he wants to look his best. They are opening the new shul with the money he donated. Nu? They’ll take from anyone!” He shrugged his shoulders. “Still, I shouldn’t be so proud—this will get me enough to feed us all for the whole trip.” Avram smiled, looking toward the other side of the room. I hadn’t noticed the little boy sleeping quietly in the corner until then.

“Have you really got everything ready?” I asked.

“Yes,” Avram said, with great calm and certainty. “Leave it to me.”  He got up and smoothed out the long coat. It looked splendid with the fur trim at the neck. Avram looked proud of his work.

“I will be back in a few minutes—it is only a short walk down to Mogen David’s house,” he said, carefully folding the coat so there would be no wrinkles. “Eva, give him something more to eat—he still looks hungry.” Avram walked out the door.

I felt uncomfortable sitting there with a beautiful woman who couldn’t be much older than I was, acting like my mother as she bustled around to find more for me to eat. I was hungry, but I didn’t want to act greedy. I also didn’t want to seem nervous or impolite, so when she offered me a bowl of mushroom-barley soup and bread, I ate as quietly as I could.

She sat down at the table with a tired, anxious sigh. “I’m so glad we will have someone to travel with. It makes me afraid, the long trip away from all we know. But I’m not sad to leave here. We have nothing, and my whole family is in Hungary. I have Yankele to look after too,” she said, turning to the baby. “When you become a mother, you have more to worry about.” She looked down at the toddler, who was fast asleep in the crib. He had his father’s nose but his mother’s mouth, the lips pink but not large.

I glanced up at her while I was eating but tried not to look into her eyes, afraid I would blush and embarrass her also.

MY FATHER’S FATHER is not a memoir. I never knew my grandfather. I knew my father had survived the Holocaust, but not how, that my grandfather had changed his name, gone to America, and returned, but not why, and that he was killed in the war, but not when or how. The rest I needed to imagine for my protagonist, Martin Jacobs: a discovered journal written by his grandfather, conversations with his father, and his own story, trying to make sense of the silences and injuries they had endured while coming to his own resolutions about survival, moral compromise, guilt, and the inherited consequences of repressed secrets. A poet friend and psychiatrist urged me to let my sons read it.

Martin Jacobs’ grandfather, Mordechai Izrael, flees from the Austro-Hungarian Empire’s draft in 1905 by escaping to America. Beaten, swindled, and discouraged in New York and Philadelphia, he is convinced by the widow of his friend to return with her to Hungary. He reluctantly becomes a rabbi. In 1944, as a member of the Jewish Council, he bargains with Nazis to save his family and many others. His son, Matthew, rejects the deal, leaves on his own, survives Dachau, and emigrates to America.

The secret that his grandfather has been alive for twenty years is revealed to a teenage Martin in a news bulletin in 1961 announcing that his grandfather Mordechai has been assassinated in Israel for collaboration with the Nazis. In 1996, Martin receives his grandfather’s handwritten Yiddish journal and confronts his father with it. Hearing his father’s story and his grandfather’s testament, Martin grapples with the pain, anger, and guilt of being a survivor. In the end, he affirms his identity as a child of the Holocaust.

The novel travels through their different points of view and ranges from 1996 to 1905, to 1961, to 1944, and then to 2018. It should appeal especially to Jewish audiences who have longed to know unspoken family secrets and have endured alienation from their origins.