Moshe

by Adrien Leduc

hers told Moshe they wanted to go alone.

  "Right...I'll uh...just finish packing up then. We'll meet out front in about fifteen minutes?

  Dinardo nodded. "Yeah."

  "Alright. See you in a bit."

  "Yup."

  "It was nice meeting you, Moshe."

  "Nice meeting you as well, Juliana."

  Moshe watched them exit the auditorium through the rear door, no doubt headed to the grove behind the school where it was well known couples could engage in kissing and light petting without adult interruption.

  Feeling left out, Moshe sighed as he finished packing up his violin. Why had Anna left without saying goodbye? The evening had begun with so much promise. The band had played their Christmas carols to perfection. Moshe had eaten a piece of non-kosher roast beef without being struck by a bolt of lightning. Anna seemed to have enjoyed his company. So how come it had ended with him feeling so alone and disappointed?

  Slinging his violin case over his shoulder, Moshe made his way out of the auditorium. There were parents picking fetching their children. Smiling mothers and fathers. Young men and women admiring each other’s fancy clothes.

  He turned out of the main corridor and made his way to the boys' bathroom at the far end. Having had to use the bathroom for nearly an hour, Moshe felt as though he was about to explode.

  Inside, he set his violin case on the counter and hurried to relieve himself at the urinal. Everything had been freshly cleaned and polished for the evening and he wondered whether his father had had to scrub and polish the toilets and urinals at the building he was responsible for cleaning.

  Once finished, Moshe made his way to the sink. However, at that precise moment, the bathroom door opened and in stepped four figures.

  Cooy. Carlson. The other two, he didn't recognize.

  "Well, well, well, if it isn't Mushy."

  Moshed tensed up and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he nervously waited for whatever might happen next.

  "Hey, cousin? Isn't Mushy just the best pal a guy could have?" Peter Carlson asked rhetorically, stepping forwards and slapping Moshe roughly on the back. Cooy merely shrugged, his body language indicating that the older boy was clearly in charge. Moshe stole a glance at the two boys he hadn't recognized. They stood in front of the door like sentry men, eliminating any chance of escape.

  "You know Jews are a pesky people, right? My old man's boss during the war was a Jew. While we were in Europe fighting for his people, he was working my dad and the rest of the men at the factory like dogs."

  Peter Carlson cracked his knuckles before continuing.

  "But you know what? One day my pops and some other fellows decided they’d had enough and they gave that ol' Jew a good thrashing and told him where to go," he said darkly, moving closer towards Moshe.

  "Needless to say, they never saw that hook-nosed shylock again."

  Moshe swallowed the knot in his throat and looked in the mirror at the boy standing behind him. Tall, and blonde with narrowed eyes, Peter Carlson was not a threat to be taken lightly.

  "So what do you say, Jew boy? Do we need to teach you a lesson?"

  Moshe shook his head, but the thin smile that danced across the face of Peter Carlson told him he thought otherwise.

  Outnumbered and outsized, he knew he was in trouble.

  - 10 -

  "What the hell happened, man? I've been waiting out front for half an hour! You’re lucky I found you!"

  Moshe didn't answer as he felt Dinardo grip him under the arms.

  "Stand up, man. What's the matter?"

  Where to begin? His side ached. His stomach felt like it had been churned into butter. He’d been lying in his own vomit.

  "Ouch!"

  Dinardo stopped. "What?"

  "My ribs...ah...they could be broken."

  "What? How? Moshe, man. What happened? Your shirt. It's all torn and you've got...is that...puke? You've got puke on your shirt. Did someone rough you up?"

  Moshe didn't answer and instead fixed his eyes on the drain hole in the tile floor. He was too ashamed to admit that he'd been beaten up yet again. How many times did it take a guy getting beat up before no one, not even guys like Dinardo, wanted to be friends with him?

  "Your face though," said Dinardo, grinning. "It doesn't look the worse for wear. Why, it's hardly got a scratch on it."

  That was on purpose. So no one can see what they’ve done. Carlson even said so.

  Moshe grimaced as the young Italian pulled him up far enough so that he could stand on his own. He must have felt Moshe swaying though, because he quickly pushed him towards the counter.

  "Here, lean on this."

  "Thanks," said Moshe, grabbing hold of the counter. He took a breath and his eyes drifted to the spot where he had placed his violin case earlier. What he saw made his heart began to pound. His violin. It was gone.

  "Easy does it. We're almost there."

  Moshe winced as he and Dinardo made their way up Somerset Street. "I need to sit down again."

  "But it's already ten thirty, man. Your mom's going to kill you! Mine too."

  Moshe grunted and pulled away from Dinardo, plopping himself down on a snow-covered bench.

  "Let's take the streetcar."

  "I told you," Moshe said through clenched teeth, "they took my money."

  Dinardo sighed, glanced up and down the street, and then sat down beside his injured friend.

  "How long we sittin' for?" he asked after nearly a minute had passed, snow beginning to fall.

  It had already snowed two inches that afternoon.

  "For as long as it takes for my side to stop aching," Moshe answered woefully as he massaged his torso.

  He felt a cold, wet snow flake land on his forehead and he brushed it away with the back of his sleeve.

  "Man, they really did a number on you. Sons of bitches.”

  Moshe bit his lip and closed his eyes. His body wasn't his main concern. His violin. The violin he'd been practicing on everyday for a month. The violin his father had saved every extra penny for. It was gone. Stolen.

  "Moshe."

  Dinardo's voice returned his attention to the present.

  "Come on. We gotta get home. We're gonna freeze out here. Look at this snow. It’s really startin’ to come down."

  Moshe nodded, watching vehicles slip and slide on the street in front of them.

  "Alright. But I need some help walking."

  "That's no problem," said Dinardo, rubbing his hands together as the snow began to fall harder. The tips of his fingers and the end of his nose were visibly red from the cold.

  "Alright. Help me up."

  "Yaaaarrrhhh. There ya go. Now let's get home. There's gonna be a blizzard in a minute."

  "I hope not."

  The boys continued their march up Somerset Street. Every now and again Dinardo would stop and wave to a passing vehicle in the hopes that the driver would offer them a ride home. But it was dark outside, and snowing heavily, and anyone still out at this hour was clearly not interested in offering a ride to two strangers.

  After ten minutes in which they’d only managed to gain two blocks, Moshe stopped. “I can’t walk any further,” he wheezed, panting and clutching his side.

  “Well, you’ve got to, man. We’ve still got eight blocks to go.”

  Moshe winced and moved gingerly so that he stood in the alcove of Herman’s Shoe Repair.

  “I can’t. I need to stop.”

  “I wish we could just smash one of these windows and use a telephone,” Dinardo muttered, motioning towards the line of stores beside them.

  Moshe nodded, but said nothing, the pain too severe to speak more than necessary..

  “Holy shit!”

  Moshe looked at his friend expectantly.

  “Lenny’s!”

  Failing to comprehend the meaning of Dinardo’s remark, Moshe’s face remained expressionless.

  “The gym! Lenny’s! He’ll help us! The gym’s two block
s from here. Can you make it?”

  Lenny’s? The boxing guy?

  “Is he still there…at this hour?” Moshe wheezed.

  “Yeah. He lives there. Has a room at the back.”

  While the thought of seeking medical attention at a boxing gym didn’t really appeal to him, Moshe couldn’t see that they had any other choice. His rib felt like it was on fire and every breath he took made it feel as though he was being stabbed.

  Moshe took a shallow breath and nodded. “Alright.”

  Dinardo grinned. “You’re a soldier, Silverstein.”

  Using Dinardo as a crutch, the two friends stepped out of the alcove and forged ahead through the swirling snow and blistering wind.

  “It’s lucky for you two that I didn’t go to my sister’s tonight,” said Lenny as he wrapped a second gauze around Moshe’s mid-section. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have been here. Man, get a load of that bruise!”

  Dinardo, standing several feet away, moved closer and looked to where the grey-haired boxer was pointing. He whistled when he saw the baseball-sized, purple bruise stamped on Moshe’s rib cage.

  “Who are these punks, anyways?” the old boxer asked as he dabbed at the bruise with a wet sponge.

  Moshe gave his friend a warning stare. He didn’t want this stranger knowing about James Cooy and Peter Carlson. Centretown was a close community and with Lenny being Jewish, anything could get back to his parents.

  “Just some guys from our school…” said Dinardo slowly, returning Moshe’s angry stare.

  “Well,” Lenny began, clicking his tongue, “it looks like they won this round.”

  “It was four on one,” said Dinardo, ignoring Moshe’s glare. “Plus, one of the guys is fourteen. Moshe didn’t have a chance.”

  Lenny shook his head in disgust as he finished wrapping Moshe’s gauze. “There’s no honour anymore. Take a breath, son.”

  Moshe inhaled.

  “Is that all you’ve got?”

  “Yeah...it hurts to breathe in deep...ouch!”

  “Well, you’ve more than likely got a cracked rib.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Not if you take it easy for a few weeks. Let it heal up.”

  “My parents can’t find out though.”

  Lenny chuckled softly. “I don’t see how that’s going to be possible, son.”

  Moshe looked at Dinardo, a hopeful expression on his face. The young Italian, seeing the urgency in his friend’s eyes, racked his brain for a solution. How to hide this from Marthe and Friedrich Silverstein?

  “He was hit by a streetcar!” Dinardo blurted after several seconds. “Thrown ten feet! Hit the pavement! Lucky to be alive!”

  Lenny clipped the excess gauze and gave Moshe a pat on the back, indicating he was finished.

  “That might work. But my question is, how come his parents can’t know the real reason for his injuries?”

  Moshe looked at the old boxer. His face, chiseled and pock-marked. Several missing teeth.

  “My father...he bought me a violin for my birthday…”

  “And these boys smashed it up?”

  Moshe felt his voice catch in his throat. But he wouldn’t cry. Not in the presence of the grizzled Lenny Katzman and his best friend.

  “No. But they took it. I don’t know what they plan to do with it.”

  “Hmm.”

  A moment of silence passed between them, Dinardo studying his knuckles and the boxer chewing on his thoughts.

  “You know...”

  The boys looked at Lenny.

  “I could teach you to defend yourself. To fight.”

  Moshe and Dinardo exchanged a glance.

  “Pasquale and his brother Paolo already train here. He’ll be the first to tell you that this place will make a man out of you.”

  Moshe looked at his friend for confirmation. Dinardo nodded solemnly.

  “Three, four times a week,” Lenny continued. “Two hour sessions. We’ll make a boxer out of you in no time.”

  “How much will it cost?”

  The old boxer took a breath and looked at Dinardo. “Pasquale. What do you and your brother pay? Five dollars a month?”

  “Yeah. Each.”

  “Alright then. Five dollars a month and the lessons are on me. Well, for the first few months anyway. Once we get to Spring I’ve got guys to train for the competitive circuit. But in the meantime, I can train you.”

  Five dollars a month. Training three or four times a week. He’d have to put his violin lessons on hold. Or could he do both? What about the extra money? Would his mother increase his allowance?

  “I’ll have to think about it, Mister Katzman.”

  “Oh, please. Call me Lenny.”

  Moshe nodded. “Alright…Lenny. You see, I take violin lessons three afternoons a week. And my parents already pay for those. So I don’t know if I have enough money for both.”

  Smiling, Lenny nodded as though he was hearing Moshe speak and watching his mouth move, but not listening to the words coming out of it.

  “You’ve gotta make a decision, son. What’s more important? Playing music or sticking up for yourself? From where I’m standing, it’s not like you can play the viola or whatever anyhow. State you’re in. Not to mention that those boys took your instrument. Your viola or violin or whatever it is.”

  Violin. And as much as he hated to admit it, this grey-haired, toothless boxer had a point.

  - 11 -

  Christmas break provided Moshe with a much needed opportunity to heal up. Fourteen days without books or bullies. Of course, it wasn’t as though he could enjoy the holiday as other kids could. For, upon learning of her son’s run-in with the streetcar, Marthe Silverstein had had him to the hospital for x-rays, the doctor’s (three times) for a check-up, and moreover, she insisted that he stay indoors, wrapped in blankets.

  Dinardo came by twice during the first week to see if Moshe could go tobogganing, but both times Marthe Silverstein sent him away, telling him that he’d have to wait until school resumed to see Moshe again.

  Friedrich had taken pity on his son being kept prisoner at home, but agreed with his wife that Moshe should rest up and avoid the cold. And so Moshe spent a great deal of time curled up on the couch, bored and lonely, listening to radio programs like The Happy Gang and Boston Blackie.

  Bored as he was, the time alone did provide him with a chance to reflect on Lenny Katzman’s proposal. The idea of being able to box and look like the hulking, chiseled men one saw advertised on posters downtown or in the newspapers, made him happy. He imagined himself as being six feet tall. His chest the width of a tree. Arms as thick as cinder blocks. No one would dare mess with him then.

  Other times, his conscience nagged at him.

  Did he really feel like fighting? Fighting. Violence. His parents had raised him to be a pacifist.

  “Live by the sword, die by the sword,” Friedrich Silverstein would often remark.

  “Fighting is for animals,” Marthe Silverstein would add.

  Humans were animals though, weren’t they? And like Blackie always said, wasn’t much of the world a crazy and lawless jungle? The war should have taught his parents that. One had to prepare one’s self. To live as a sheep among wolves was foolish, suicidal.

  By the end of the holidays, he’d arrived at a decision. Peter Carlson and James Cooy had stolen his violin. Peter Carlson and James Cooy had beaten him up time and time again. Peter Carlson and James Cooy had humiliated him. Peter Carlson and James Cooy needed to be dealt with.

  “You heard me. Fifty dollars and you can have your violin back, Mushy.”

  “I don’t have fifty dollars.”

  “Well, then, no violin for you.”

  Moshe looked at James Cooy. He was shocked that a person could be so cruel. Why him? What had he done? He couldn’t help that he was born Jewish.

  “Okay class,” Mrs. Braithwaite called from the front of the room. “Please turn to page sixteen in your readers. We’re on chapte
r three.”

  Cooy turned around in his desk and faced the front of the room, his back towards Moshe.

  “What if I fight you for it?”

  The pudgy boy turned around once more, a smirk on his face. “You? You wanna fight me?”

  Mrs. Braithwaite looked in their direction and Moshe lowered his voice to a near whisper.

  “Yes.”

  “Ha! I’ll kick the crap outta you!”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Well, let’s do it. After school. Today.”

  Moshe shook his head. “That’s no good. I need time to prepare.”

  Cooy looked at him suspiciously. “How much time?”

  He wanted his violin back as soon as possible. It was getting rather difficult making up excuses as to why he didn’t have it. A week then? Was that enough time? No. He’d need more than a week.

  “A month.”

  “A whole month?”

  “Take it as a compliment.”

  “Fine. February tenth. After school. In the grove.”

  “Fine. And you’d better bring my violin.”

  “I ain’t no Jew, boy. You can count on me to keep my word. You’d better do the same.”

  “A month? That’s it?”

  Moshe hated the expression on Dinardo’s face. “Yeah.”

  “Well, don’t wait to go to the gym. Go there straight away. After school. One month,” he repeated, shaking his head in bewilderment. “You’re crazy, man.”

  Was he crazy?

  “One, two, three. Harder. Hit harder. One, two, three. Good. That’s better. Again.”

  Moshe pounded away at the pads Lenny was holding.

  “One, two, three. Good. Right jab, left hook, right hook. One, two, three. Again.”

  It was his first lesson and he was beginning to feel shaky. “Lenny, I have to sit down. My blood sugar. I need some fruit juice.”

  “Sure thing, kid. It’s about time for a water break anyways,” the old boxer growled, dabbing at his face with a towel. “Take five.”

  Sweating profusely, his muscle shirt soaked with perspiration, Moshe nodded.

  This was going to be a long two hours…

  Skipping out on violin lessons with Mr. Lebowski and sneaking off to the gym three afternoons a week wasn’t difficult. For the first week at least. By week two however, Moshe began to worry. Sooner or later Mr. Lebowski would call his mother and the game would be up.

  “As long as this Lowski guy gets his money, does he care whether or not you stay for the lesson?” Dinardo asked one day after school as they leaned against their usual spot on the fence.

  “Lebowski. And no, I guess he wouldn’t care.”

  Though Moshe was aware that his violin teacher had grown rather fond of his playing ability and he wondered whether perhaps the old man would care.

  “The main problem is that I don’t have enough money to pay for violin and boxing lessons.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yeah.”

  “HEY MUSHY!”

  The two friends turned and looked to see who the voice belonged to.

  Cooy.

  “Has your mom bought your casket yet?”

  Moshe ignored the remark and gave the pudgy boy a cold stare.

  “Three weeks, Silverstein. Then you’re mine,” he added as he and his two nameless thugs walked past them.

  “So, I’m guessing boxing lessons win out then?” Dinardo asked as he watched them leave.

  Moshe gulped and nodded. He had no choice. Violin lessons would have to wait.

  His arms burned. Then turned to jello. Sweat poured from his face. His ears rang. His hands hurt. But Lenny kept him going.

  “One, two, three. Good. Much better. Again. One, two, three. Left jab, right hook, left jab.”

  Moshe hit the pads with speed and force, his confidence growing with each lesson and his conversation with