“Yippeee!” I shouted—I was so happy to see him—and as I did I gagged and stumbled, knocking into a guy to my left. The two of us flailed away with our arms for several yards, and then went down in a heap. But Izzie was picking up speed, muttering at Elijah, and churning his little legs as fast as they would go. As I lay on the track and watched him, I could hear in my head the words he was saying, and when he’d gone past the tape and one of the judges had motioned that he’d come in third, I jumped up and ran straight for him and we hugged each other and danced around like maniacs. “I knew I could count on that black bastard—” Izzie said. “I knew it! I knew it!”
We ran back to our group of guys and they surrounded Izzie, punching him around and telling him how great he was. We got a little scared a minute later when the guy I’d knocked down complained to the judges that our whole team should be disqualified, but they ruled that it was nobody’s fault, and Izzie’s third place stood. Elijah sauntered over to our group then and Mr. Gleicher gave him a big hello, telling him how glad he was to see him. Elijah didn’t say anything. He just sat down with the rest of the guys, as if he was one of us.
The broad jump was next, but Izzie and I didn’t even come in in the first five in either the standing or the running events and when the announcer said over the P.A. system that the senior relay teams should report to the starter’s table for the final event of the day, Louie told us that we were now in third place, eleven points behind East Midwood and eight points behind Temple Petah Tikvah. The relay counted for fifteen points, and when we realized that the guy who had won the hundred-yard dash was from East Midwood, we all felt we were done for.
That was when Izzie put his plan into action.
“I got a stomach ache,” Stan Reiss said to Mr. Gleicher. “I think you’re gonna have to get somebody else to run for me.”
Mr. Gleicher looked around. “You better pick one in a hurry,” I said, and Izzie, Marty, and I made as if we were leaving for the track. “My stomach hurts real bad,” Stan said.
“Okay,” Elijah said, standing up. “I’ll run for you—”
Izzie nodded toward our group of guys and we took our cue and cheered and started slapping Elijah on the back. Mr. Gleicher smiled at us and put his arm around Elijah’s shoulder.
“That’s very nice of you, Elijah,” he said. “But I’m afraid you’re not allowed—”
Izzie was ready. “Why not?” he asked. “You been telling us yourself how we should treat him like he was one of us.” He looked at Elijah and Elijah hung his head.
“It’s not that,” Mr. Gleicher began. “It’s—”
“All that stuff about prejudice and him being an honorary member of our class,” Izzie said. “Boy!” he exclaimed.
“You ain’t gonna let me run?” Elijah said to Mr. Gleicher.
Mr. Gleicher started to say something, but the P.A. announcer interrupted with a call for the Congregation Shaare Torah Relay Team, and we told Mr. Gleicher that he’d better hurry and decide on a substitute for Stan or we’d lose—and if we didn’t come in in the first three in the relay, we would finish fourth or fifth in the total scoring. That hadn’t ever happened since Mr. Gleicher had been coach. Izzie nodded to Elijah.
“Look,” Elijah said to Mr. Gleicher. “I want to be a Jewboy—” He lifted a chain from under his T-shirt and showed it around. It had at least a dozen Jewish stars on it, all different styles. Mezuzahs too. “Izzie been working with me, teaching me,” he said. “Honest, Mr. Gleicher. Izzie, he says that if you let me run with the team, that finish me off with the first training for being a Jewboy.” He whipped a yamulka out of his pocket—a white silk one—put it on his head, and then—just like that—began talking in Hebrew. “Baruch Atoh Adonai Shalom Shalom—” Mr. Gleicher looked confused. “Honest, I run real ma-hare, show you how much I wanna be a Jewboy. Please, Mr. Gleicher—” He began kissing his Jewish stars, one after the other. “Please let me. Aleph Bes Gimel Shalom. Please—” By this time Elijah had such a painful look in his eyes that even I was beginning to believe him. Then he started in about how Mr. Gleicher had to let him be Jewish to save him from his father. “Oh man,” he pleaded, “you just got to. I been studying so hard. Listen—Baruch Atoh Adonai Shalom Shalom—”
“Last call for the relay team from Shaare Torah—” came the announcement, and Izzie and Louie and I stormed Mr. Gleicher with the arguments we had ready, telling him that he himself had said Elijah was our brother, that color didn’t matter, that we should welcome him to our school, that he’d been with us for weeks now and had learned his prayers—
“Forget it,” Elijah said, pulling himself away from Mr. Gleicher. “He’s the same as all the rest. People always promise you—”
Then Mr. Gleicher was holding Elijah’s hand and running through the crowd of kids with him. It all happened so fast after that that to this day I’m not sure exactly what happened. Maybe the judge had a lot of respect for Mr. Gleicher, or maybe he felt sorry for Elijah, or got confused, or—who knows?—maybe Mr. Gleicher even swore on the Torah that Elijah was a Jew and a member of our class. All I know is the judge pinned a piece of paper with a number onto Elijah’s back and showed him where the anchor men were lined up. When the big guy from East Midwood said something about Elijah being Negro, Izzie just said, “What’s the matter, you stupid or something—you never heard of the black Jews? Boy, what kind of prejudiced Hebrew school do you go to?” and before we knew it the gun had sounded and Izzie had shot out ahead of the pack, running like a madman, his arms pumping, the baton clenched in his fist.
By some miracle he held on to a slight lead on the first leg of the race, but after he’d passed the baton to Marty we began to lose ground steadily. I was number three relay man, and when I began trotting in the passing zone, and took the baton in full stride from Marty, we were already in third place, about ten yards behind East Midwood. I gave it all I had, trying to make believe Elijah was in front of me, as if nobody else were on the track except us, with him laughing and calling me Jewboy—and I guess it helped, because when I reached Elijah for the last leg I had almost overtaken the number two man. “Watch me go, Jewboys,” Elijah said as I ran alongside him and slapped the baton into his hand. “I got Jewgas in my legs!”
The big guy from East Midwood was about fifteen yards ahead by now, but in no time at all Elijah was breezing past him, running free and easy, and laughing in the big guy’s face. He only came up to his chest, but he moved his legs across the cinders as if his toes hardly touched the track. The crowd was going wild and in the middle of the field you could see the kids from our school throwing their jackets and sneakers and stuff in the air. Even Mr. Gleicher was yelling and cheering, and when Elijah came to the last twenty yards or so, he did what he used to do with us—he ran backwards! We got worried for a second, because the guy from East Midwood chewed up the ground fast—but then Elijah straightened out the right way, and broke the tape about ten yards ahead of the other guy.
“Mazel tov!” Mr. Gleicher shouted, and when Elijah trotted back to us, smiling and proud, the yamulka still perched on the side of his head, we shouted it with him. “Mazel tov, Elijah! Mazel tov!” we screamed—laughing, happy. “Hurray for Elijah the Jewboy!” Izzie yelled, and we all hugged him and pounded him on the back and then Mr. Gleicher hoisted him onto his shoulders and limped around the track with us in a pack around him, giving Elijah Mazel tov’s and 2-4-6-8’s and every other cheer we could think of.
When Mr. Gleicher let Elijah down from his shoulders onto the grass, the two of them looked happier than any two guys I’d ever seen. “I run pretty good for a Jew, huh?” Elijah said. “We gonna get that big trophy now?” he asked. We told him we were but that they had to announce it first and give out individual medals. “Bet we could get a lot of money for that trophy—” he said, and he strutted around with us as if he owned the place. What he loved most was to see the looks on the faces of the kids from the other Hebrew schools when they’d come over to stare at
him and he’d rattle off the words Izzie had taught him. “What’s the matter?” Izzie kept asking them. “You stupid or something? You never learned about the black Jews?—What kind of crumby Hebrew school do you go to?”
While they were giving out the medals for the winners of races, Mr. Gleicher was called away by the director of Field Day, and they kept glancing at Elijah. Mr. Gleicher was getting angrier and angrier, and when our rabbi suddenly showed up in his black suit, trying to look important and get into the discussion, Mr. Gleicher became furious. You could tell that he and the rabbi didn’t get along well, and as the argument got more and more heated a group of people crowded around them. Then the rabbi pushed his way through the crowd and came in our direction.
“Uh-oh,” Elijah said. “Time to split—”
“But they’re gonna give out the trophy in a minute,” Izzie said.
“I knew my brother’d do it. Help me, guys. Help me.” He clutched at my arm. “Do something, Howie. Please. Oh Lord—I got to move, but I can’t. Oh Lord—”
Mr. Gleicher had finished arguing with the judge and he caught up to the rabbi and we heard him pleading with him. But the rabbi kept marching toward us. Over the P.A. system we heard the news: Congregation Shaare Torah had been disqualified, and the East Midwood Jewish Center was the winner of the Bar Kochba Trophy.
“No!” I shouted. We groaned and looked at each other helplessly. “No! Nol” I yelled again, and some of the guys joined me.
“If you’re up there, Lord, now’s the time to show your stuff,” Elijah said. The guys from East Midwood ran by us, laughing and screaming, and I swallowed hard to keep from crying. It didn’t help. Some tears came anyway, and the same thing happened to Izzie and Louie and the others. It didn’t even matter that the rabbi was standing in front of us. At that moment we couldn’t have cared less what he said or did.
“Help me, guys. I been your friend—” Elijah was saying as he crouched behind us.
And then, just as the rabbi was about to lecture us, this Negro man appeared, planting himself between us and the rabbi. He was a short man, about the same height as the rabbi and wearing a black suit just like him. The only difference was in their hats. The rabbi wore a black one, but the Negro man had on a crazy turban thing with capes and scarves flowing from it. Behind me I could hear Elijah muttering. The Negro man looked our way and I’d never seen eyes like his—the way they blazed at you from his jet-black face made the rabbi’s eyes seem harmless. There were jewels in his turban, and rings on his fingers. His neck bulged from his white shirt and there were two long scars that crisscrossed his right cheek. We moved back a step.
“You the Goldberg made my son do this?”
“I am not Goldberg, I am—” the rabbi began, but Mr. Gleicher stepped in front of him. “It was my fault,” he said.
“You a rabbi?”
“No, but—”
Then the Negro man shoved Mr. Gleicher aside. “The wrath of the Lord be upon you!” he proclaimed, and let go with an uppercut right to the rabbi’s chin. The rabbi fell back and Mr. Gleicher caught him. People were screaming everywhere, crowding around us, calling for the police.
“Now’s your chance,” Izzie said to Elijah. “Through the crowd—”
“You see the shot he give the rabbi?” Elijah said, and he was laughing again. “That’s my old man. I told you, didn’t I—?”
Elijah’s father came toward us and we shoved Elijah back, but not in time to keep his father from reaching through and grabbing. He got him by the chain and began pulling and you could see it begin to cut into Elijah’s neck, making the flesh show like raw steak.
“Now!” I said, and we all shoved back against Elijah’s father. Elijah screamed and then the chain snapped and the Jewish stars and the mezuzahs flew into the air. “Won that race,” I heard Elijah say. I saw some spots of blood on his T-shirt. “Won that race fair and square.”
His father pushed us away, but this time Elijah got his feet moving. He made his way through the crowd and streaked down the track. When he reached the trophy table, he snatched the big gold cup in full stride, then raced for the end of the field, past the handball courts. When he got to the exit, he stopped. He raised the Bar Kochba Trophy over his head, yelling at his father to try to catch him. We all cheered and ran toward the exit, tripping over each other on purpose, getting in his father’s way.
“Shalom, Elijah!” Louie yelled, and we all did the same. “Shalom, Elijah! Shaloml Shalom!”
Elijah waved the trophy over his head once more, then kissed it. “Shalom, Jewboys!” he yelled. “I see you around—” Then he took off out the exit, swinging the trophy at his side, running fast as lightning, and I think we all knew that that was the last time we would ever see him.
The Pass
ALL MORNING he had been sitting on the porch of his cottage, trying to decide whether or not he should kiss her when she came for him. The minute Dr. Klein had told him that he was giving him a pass to go out with his parents Saturday afternoon, the question had been in his mind. He had meant to ask the doctor, had almost done it, in fact, but then had reconsidered. “What do you want to do, Billy?” That would have been Dr. Klein’s reaction. Billy knew he would have thought it was a silly problem—and he knew too that if Dr. Klein had thought it was more than silly, the pass might have been taken away.
Still, he wished now that he had brought it up. He didn’t want to do the wrong thing again—the way he had last summer when they’d taken him to his Aunt Harriet’s. And only three months age, on his first pass since the previous summer, he had embarrassed them again. Nothing as bad as at Aunt Harriet’s, when he’d been the center of a big scene, because this time he hadn’t been allowed to visit anyone. Instead, they’d gone to a movie together, near the hospital. Afterwards, when they were at a Howard Johnson’s having sodas, his mother had met a friend, and although nothing was said, Billy knew they had been ashamed of him, of the way he looked. He had been on heavy medication at that time, and the longer his mother’s friend had stared at him, the harder it had been for him to keep his eyes open. He had tried, but after a while, he remembered, they had become too heavy.
“Wanna play ping-pong?”
It was Ira Gordon, a new boy at the hospital. Billy shook his head sideways.
“Boy, you’re all dressed up. Got a pass?”
Billy nodded. He did feel dressed up. Joan had ironed a shirt for him; Arthur—the boy who slept next to him—had loaned him a tie, and he had even used shampoo in the shower that morning. He wanted to look nice this time. Not like the last time, when his mother had said that she didn’t have to ask him what he’d been eating because his pants could serve as the menu. She had meant the criticism good-naturedly—as she had when she’d commented on the length of his hair; still, her remarks disturbed him.
“I wish I had a pass,” Ira said. “Where are you going?”
“To the beach. My parents belong to a beach club. On Long Island.”
Ira whistled. “Wow—I’d give anything to go swimming. I love to swim. I really do. I made junior lifesaver at camp two years ago. Don’t you love to swim?” Billy nodded. He wanted Ira to go away. “Sure you don’t wanna play ping-pong?” Billy was sure. Ira sat down in a chair opposite Billy. He kept rubbing his hands together. Billy tried not to look; he wanted to stay calm. “There’s never anything to do around here,” Ira said. “I can’t even leave this lousy cottage. Not unless an aide comes with me. Everybody’s watching the ball game. I don’t like ball games, do you?” Billy said he didn’t like ball games either, but he hardly heard what Ira said after this because he had already spotted his parents down the road, coming from the Administration Building.
His mother reached him first, his father a step or two behind, toting a big shopping bag. “My Billy! Dear—” Before he could do anything, before he had a chance to reply, she had leaned down toward him and her cheek had touched his own. He sniffed her perfume, started to rise, and his hps turned swiftly toward h
er cheek and pressed in on the skin. His eyes, wide open, looked at her ear, hidden behind wisps of grayish-gold hair, and as his lips stayed on her cheek he realized that her hps weren’t on his. Her arm was on his shoulder, though, and as he rose to a full standing position—he was about four inches taller than his mother—he touched his hand to her right shoulder. She broke away and took a step backwards. “How are you? It’s so good to see you, Billy. It’s been so long! Isn’t it wonderful? A whole afternoon at the beach, away from here—”
She noticed Ira, standing, staring at them.
“This is Ira Gordon, Mother,” Billy said. “He lives in my unit.”
Mrs. Fisher shook Ira’s hand. “Well, I’m always glad to meet Billy’s friends. How are you, Ira?”
“Are you really taking Billy to a beach club?” Ira asked. Mrs. Fisher nodded. “Well, I gotta see somebody,” Ira said. He turned and went into the cottage.
“Put it down, Oscar,” Mrs. Fisher said, glancing to her left. “There’s no need to carry it all the time—and come say hello to your son.”
Billy and his father shook hands.
“So, how’s my boy? All ready to go to the beach?”
Billy nodded. He turned to his mother. “Your hair looks very beautiful.”
“Why, thank you, Billy. Thank you.” She turned around so that he could see the back. “Do you really think so? The man at the beauty parlor who does my hair—he said he thought this little bit of gold in the gray would lend just the right touch. Do you really like it?”
“It’s very beautiful.”
“Isn’t he sweet, Oscar?”
Billy’s father shrugged.
“Your father—if I had my head shaved, he wouldn’t notice.” Mrs. Fisher laughed. “Oh well, come, Billy—let’s see what’s in the bag. All right? I do hope you like the things I’ve put together for you.”
He thanked her for the underwear, the new pair of Bermuda shorts, the Ban-Lon shirt, the hair tonic, the magazines, but he told her he wasn’t allowed to keep the fruit.
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